Emerson

The Table of Friendship

There are people who are recognized by others as “different” as soon as they open their mouths if not before. Emerson was one of those. As far as I can tell, the problem with such people is that they do not tune in well to what is expected by others if they are to have smooth social interaction with them. It isn’t just a matter of being different. I’m probably as different as they come, but if I put my mind, to it I can be perceived as just another ordinary person. Emerson couldn’t.

Emerson was the son of the minister of the local Presbyterian church. He was a competant pianist and was learning to play the organ. He was very smart and did well in school.

He was one year older than I was. I knew him in high school – when he was a senior and I was a junior. I was his only friend.

We would hang out in his father’s church. There, among other things, we practiced walking on our hands. He was slightly more skilled than I was. There was a piano at the church on which Emerson showed me pieces that he had memorized. He could play Flight Of The Bumblebee with a speed that was amazing to me. I really enjoyed listening to it. He also showed me on the church organ what he was learning in his organ lessons. There is a composition that he played that was called Sunken Cathedral that I liked a lot. It was full of dramatic chords and as he played I could see this huge cathedral sinking into the sea.

We shared a lot of interests. If it was marginal, fringe, or a little strange we were probably into it. Hypnosis. Alien life. UFOs. Ghosts. Sex and speculations about what happens after death were among our favorite topics. We tried to hypnotize each other, but without a lot of success. I think the problem was that neither of us experienced the other as having enough authority.

On occasions we would sleep over, but I didn’t much like that. He was quite developed physically and was not very attractive to me. I could tell that he wanted us to play around a bit and it was always a strain to prevent events from moving in that direction.

Emerson enrolled in a local college while I was still a senior in high school.

I guess the isolation that he experienced during that year was too much for him. I could tell from his letters that he was not doing well. For example he reorganized his dorm room so that all the furniture created a barrier that was an obstacle in the way of anyone who might want to visit him. For some reason he did not have a roommate. Inside this barrier he put two chairs at a small table which he called “the Table of Friendship.” It was obvious that he was desperate for companionship.

It was not long before I received notice from his parents that he had been admitted to the psychiatric ward at the city General Hospital.

The psychiatric ward was in the basement. Pipes for the heating system ran along the ceiling. It was obvious that this area had never been intended as a medical ward. The smell that pervaded the area was a strong mixture of urine, vomit and whatever chemical it was that they used as an antiseptic.

Emerson was glad to see me. After updating me on the events that led to his coming here, he returned to the topic that was of central interest to him. He had invented – or at least made the plans for – a spaceship that could take us to wherever we might want to go in the universe. It was propelled by light. He showed me the pictures he had drawn of it. It looked pretty unlikely to me but I didn’t spend time or effort arguing about it.

I found the whole experience very depressing and I left as soon as I felt I could without hurting his feelings. I didn’t arrange for regular visits so I lost contact with him during the next few months. Then one day while I was in the driveway of our house, Emerson came by. He was walking and was alone. I was genuinely happy to see him. I asked for a run down on what had happened since we last saw each other. He was very positive about the direction of his life. They were giving him some medication that got rid of all his visions about making spaceships – which I thought was probably to the good. But lots of other things were also gone. He had no interest in any of the things we used to talk about and was no longer pursuing his music. He was going to become a businessman.

Gone were the Flight of the Bumblebee and the Sunken Cathedral . . . and my friend. As I saw it, the doctors had killed him.