Memoir of Mania: Slim Jim, Smiles and the DMV

Slim Jim is a hall-of-famer in the mania department. SJ was the DEFINITION of manic. He never stopped talking--ever--and had a smile as big as the Grand Canyon. It was exhausting trying to keep up with him, but it was my job and so I jogged along. Did I mention he never stopped talking? He was the nicest, funniest guy around and he would have been delightful if he weren't so exhausting.

(Note the Slim Jim. His name was not him and he didn't eat Slim Jims....well, at least not that I know of. Think of the Slim Jim photo as a visual...of what, I'm not sure.)

Mania can lead to rather...shall I say intersting behavior....and usually shoots any form of inhibition and judgment right out the door. Slim Jim needed a new state I.D. That in itself is not interesting in the least. What is intersting are the stories that go with him.

I went to SJ's apartment--a crusty, yucky place where no human should have to live--and find the door unlocked. I walk in and find all four burners on the stove lit brightly. A blackened pan with some type of scorched bean product is lying on the floor. I look in the over--it's on at 45o degrees--and see SJ's pants in there! He comes bee-bopping into the room and announces that he is drying his jeans in his oven. Well, that certainly is not very safe, so I take the pants out and give him a lecture. He keeps smiling and talking. SJ can't recall why he had the burners on "but there they are and here I am, so I must have turned them on, yup!" he says. You can't stay mad at SJ. He beams down at me with that smile. I swear I can see all 32 of those pearly white teeth. I reminded him we were scheduled to go get his new I.D. He gets way excited and jumps around and sing-songs my name and just about throws himself down the rickety steps toward my car. He says his name over and over and over, for no known reason. He says it while I drive, he says it while we are in the parking lot. Yip yip yip yip! The words literally fall out of his mouth at break-neck speed.

So, we go in to the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) and find it--of course--packed. We will now have to stand in line. Great. Slim Jim will NOT be good at standing in line. He talks to everyone--in front of him, behind him, across the room from him. He says to the lady behind him, "I'm Slim Jim! Pick a number, any number! Pick a number from 1-100." The lady and I stare at each other. I shrug my shoulders and she says, "37." Slim Jim immediately drops to the ground and does 37 push-ups! Right in the DMV line. He certainly has now gained lots of attention. He pops back up, smiling and still talking all the while. He turns to another person and asks the same thing. Now, you think the person would know better than to pick a number, but he does--25. Slim Jim drops again to the ground and does a brisk set of 25 push-ups. He doesn't tire--he just keeps talking and smiling. We meet every single person in the place. I have to admit that it was the most fun I've ever had at the DMV.

Somehow, Slim Jim ended up in jail. Probably something to do with very poor judgment during his mania. The jail asked me to come see him as he wasn't taking his medication and wasn't cooperating with the jailers. He is asking for me by name and indicates he will cooperate if I am there. When they told me he was in isolation, I knew it wasn't good. They only put the really "crazy" ones in observation and they don't have any clothes on--they are as naked as the day they are born. I take a co-worker with me for backup and support. We walk in...it reeks of everything you don't want to ever smell--urine, poop, butt crack sweat, garbage, etc. We walk past the cells, in each a naked guy screaming obscenities at us. Fun. Slim Jim is in the last cell. I am not prepared for what I see. Poor Slim Jim is standing in the cell, looking terrified, covered with bits of food on his face and body, garbage shoved in his toilet and overflowing, sad, sad look on his face. I have never seen Slim Jim without a smile. I turn and look--there are SIX officers and a nurse accompanying me and my friend. What the hell do they need SIX guys for? Slim Jim recognizes me immediately and gives a smile. I tell him the police want him to get an injection of his psychiatric medication and I need him to cooperate. He melts like butter and says he most certainly will cooperate with me. The six men put on rubber gloves, snapping them into place. I give them a rude, "you're assholes" kind of look; one of them says, "we're gonna hafta take him down to give him that shot. He won't cooperate. You'll have to get out of the way." Piss on you, I think. Slim Jim isn't going to do anything that requires you morons to do anything but stand there. I get an idea--I will have SJ come to the bars so they won't have to open the cell--that way, they won't get near him. I tell him to back that ass of his right up to the bars and let them give him a shot. I'll be damned, he backs his ass right up to the bars and stands there as the nurse gives him an injection. I gave those six assholes the meanest look I could muster. "Told you he wouldn't be any problem," I snarl to them.

Slim Jim was eventually released from jail and went on his merry manic way. I never saw him again, I'm sad to say because he could always make me smile, even when backing his ass up to the bars of a jail cell. I look for him every now and then and always smile when visiting the DMV....how many people can say that?