Chapter 5: The Oldest Lie in the World

18+ / Explicit content.

I was sitting in Santa Monica, staring wistfully at the ocean. Was this it? After all my studies? My internship?

Everything had gone to hell in a handbasket. I’d have to go back to Finland. I’d noticed a new Maserati outside Jessica’s house this morning. I had nothing. A boy becomes a man when he has a steady job. My visa was expiring in three weeks. I had failed to prove myself.

The ocean was calm. Seagulls circled in the sky. I had a crazy idea. I’d write a love story. I’d been awarded best scriptwriter in school. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? Why had I stopped writing? Maybe my depression had made it feel too hard. Not that the depression had gone away. It was time that was running out. 

I’d sell my manuscript. I’d be rich, famous. I’d get a work permit. I’d sweep Jessica off her feet with my new car and my success. It was the solution to all my problems. I felt like I’d finally found the easy way out. I couldn’t even remember the last time I saw a movie with a brilliant script. Ninety-six percent of movies pretty much suck.

I called Ramon, told him I wouldn’t be coming to work anymore. Thanked him for his help. As for Niklas, I wanted nothing to do with him anymore. It was my turn to show him. Soon he’d be the one eating humble pie. He’d be begging me for attention for a change. Then I called Ryan and told him I was busy at work. Ryan had never said anything shitty about me. We’d never even had an argument. But I had to concentrate on my work. I wouldn’t have time to see anyone in the next two weeks. I just had to figure out the details. What would I write about? It would have to be a love story either way.

I closed my bedroom door, opened the windows. Smoked my pipe, marijuana mixed with cocaine. I looked for inspiration in music. Metallica, Led Zeppelin, Nirvana. Then I opened my laptop and started typing. It felt surprisingly good. My room was starting to look like Hemingway’s childhood home. I’d make history here. The small, dreary room would turn into an apartment of my very own soon. I’d invite Ryan and Jessica over for a barbecue. Peter and Isaac would sit in my living room for a change. I’d serve beer and chicken breasts. We’d have hash brownies for dessert and smoke pot. 

I got up late in the mornings. Made sure Norma wasn’t in the kitchen. I didn’t want to see her. I was getting more fucked up every day. My only human contact was with my drug dealer. I was completely broke. The dealer agreed to front me. I wanted heroin, cocaine and marijuana. Then I burrowed back into my room. 

This was my last chance to show everyone what I was made of. Sometimes memories of my elementary school days went through my head. The moment my beanie was dipped in the urinal and put back on my head. Or when they spat in my mouth. Hit my head against a hardened snowbank. Crying or yelling just made things worse. Why didn’t the teachers help? 

I banged on the keyboard with all my might. With every keystroke, I thought of names of people who had oppressed me. You’re the ones forcing me into this room. Now I’m beating you assholes out of my system once and for all. I’ll show you all. Every single one of you who took advantage of me. Used me for slave labor with the promise of a job. Led me on for a whole year. Did you ever consider how it felt for me? Working for free? Didn’t even bother to reply to my email about more gigs. A fee of $270 for a shoot is nothing to your agency. For me it meant holding on to some human dignity. I was just an invisible clown to you. Time to turn the tables. I can hardly wait. And the tables will turn, by force if necessary.

I picked up a pizza once a day. Sometimes, I dreamed of success. That was the important thing, after all. Still, I couldn’t think too much about it. My manuscript wasn’t ready yet. It had to be perfect. The paintings on the wall seemed to speak to me. They forced me back to my computer again and again. The house seemed to whisper secrets at me. I looked out of the small window in my room. The house across the street looked sharp. The sprinklers on the lawn rotated serenely. Fog was rising from the ground. The air felt humid. The universe was sending me signs from the future. I didn’t need a fortune teller to see what was coming.

I hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, though I had been to the gym the day before. I couldn’t lift, though. I’d smoked two huge joints before going. I was getting paranoid. I felt something evil lurking in the house. Maybe it was Norma’s brother. He wanted to tell me stories about his time as a fireman. They’d make a good movie, apparently. “Then you can buy me a cabin by the lake.” I told him I was working on a manuscript of my own. He belittled me, taunted me. Some people feel so important when they’re putting someone else down. What did Isaac call them again? Right, we all know at least one jerk with a small mind and a small… 

But the writing felt easy and that was all that mattered. I wasn’t sure how my story would end. A brilliant ending was the most important part of any manuscript. The audience should still be thinking about it on the way home. The beginning and the end were the only things that mattered. The middle could be weaker. You could fix almost anything with a magical ending.

The drug dealer arrived at our agreed location. A short walk from my place. The black car pulled up, I got in the front seat.

“Is that chopper tailing you?” 

There was a helicopter in the sky.

“No, there’s been a traffic accident. You seen Kian lately?”

“No, why?” 

“You don’t look so good. How you doing?”

When a drug dealer tells you you don’t look too good, you know something’s not right. He happily took my money though.

“Stop twitching! You’re making me paranoid, too.”

“Are you sure it’s not tailing you?” 

The helicopter was flying toward us.

“Shit, I’m not sure about anything anymore. I’ll drive you home.”

“No, I’ll walk.”

I slammed the car door and ran away like a madman. I could hear the sound of the helicopter overhead. Once I got home, I hid the drugs in a shoe box. I was convinced the chopper was looking for my drug dealer. I went to the kitchen to grab myself a Snickers ice cream bar. Took a deep breath.

I had fallen in love with Led Zeppelin. Their music was magical. Like my manuscript. I didn’t know what the connection was, but I felt it very strongly. Sometimes I sat on the bed and listened to “Stairway to Heaven” ten times in a row.

I’d heard that Jimmy Page used to tell people he didn’t know who wrote the song. He’d been sitting in front of the fireplace when he saw the shadow of a small woman. In the morning, the lyrics were scribbled into a small notebook. Bled onto the empty page from the veins of demons. 

I never double-checked what I’d written the night before. I just kept writing, like a competitive golfer. He’s just trying to get the ball in the hole. He’s not thinking about the landscape the ball is flying over. All I needed to do was aim at the hole. Money and success. After that, love and life would be easy. All the pain and bitterness would come to an end.

Sometimes I felt like the painting on my bedroom wall was listening to me. It was painted in vivid colors. A sailboat in a storm. Every time I got anxious, I smoked a load of heroin. Then I felt safe again. I was the Hulk, crack was my vitamin. I was growing in strength with each passing day.

I was sitting in a park between The Grove and Garden Avenue, watching young girls in sweatpants walking their dogs. My Macbook in my lap. I liked the yellow condos on the corner of Third Street. Apparently they had a gated pool area and two-story apartments. That would be a nice place to live. I’d buy a one-bedroom apartment there. 

In the evenings I prayed to God. This was his chance to prove his existence and help me. I promised I’d help others in return. He had seen my suffering. The prison walls would crumble into dust. I was certain God was on my side. I had suffered enough. More than enough. I’d absolutely help others, if only he would make my dream come true first.

I was done. My fingers stopped at 117 pages. There it was. My story. I felt relieved. All I had to do was sell it now. That would be the easy part. I wasn’t totally sure what the story was about. There were so many layers. It was genius, that much I knew. The main plot was about a man who would die if he couldn’t write. He hid behind the different stories. People thought he was a genius. The stories were his fortress. Everybody envied him, even though he was sad inside. Every failure in his life was a new bestseller for him. I wanted to read through my manuscript in peace. I’d been under the influence of drugs the whole time, after all.

I rolled a joint. Headed to the upstairs balcony to smoke it. Norma’s station wagon was gone. The sun burned my skin. I was back in daylight and out of my dusky room. 

I started reading the manuscript carefully. The writer had created a new Harry Potter-like phenomenon. His wife was more interested in the book’s sales numbers than the inner landscape of her husband. This caused the writer to turn to drink. He himself didn’t value his novels. He decided to get a divorce. Retire in peace to a villa in Spain. That’s where he fell madly in love with a waitress and decided to write one more novel. His new book changed the world. It made him a legend. It was about a boy who had discovered the oldest lie in the world. I was the boy. The lie was that God had sent Jesus to Hell. We had nailed our Saviour violently to the cross. We were in Hell! 

What had I come up with? I looked at the Led Zeppelin album cover. Did they know what I knew? They’d grown tired of making music, it was too heavy. I did a big line of cocaine. God had finally helped me. My prayers had been answered. I’d written something groundbreaking. I realized there were too many evil spirits in the house. They were trying to kill me. I had to save this ingenious manuscript. Had to tell the whole world what we’d done. We had created Hell. We had to save the world while we still could. I was in deep shock. How had I managed to write something that would change the way people thought all over the world?

I packed everything I owned into my car. Records, clothes. Jumped behind the wheel. The evil spirits couldn’t stop me. I was stronger. I went to an internet café. Sent a copy of the manuscript to Niklas. Asked him to sell it. I wanted a million dollars for it. I told him I’d escape the demons in the meantime. He was to call me when he had the money. He could direct the movie, all I wanted was the money.

I went to the Shamrock tattoo shop on Sunset Boulevard. A familiar place. I wanted a tattoo of a cross on my wrist. I could finally feel God’s presence. He hadn’t abandoned me when I was a child, after all. The pieces of the puzzle were finally falling into place. I was entering paradise. The Hollywood Hills, above everyone else. The tattoo artist refused to tattoo me. Said I was in a compromised state. Told me to come back tomorrow. I told him to fuck off. I didn’t have time to wait until tomorrow. My head would explode, any fucking second now.

“Don’t you see what I’m trying to solve here? It’s not a fucking crossword, man!”

“Go away! Try the place next door!”

“You’ve made the biggest mistake of your life. You refused service to a very important person! 

I slammed the car door. Drove back and forth down Sunset Boulevard. Sang along to the music. I didn’t know where I was going. The car window popped down by itself. I couldn’t get it back up, the button didn’t work. It was a sign from God. Hang in there, just a little longer. Your friends will sort things out. At that moment, I felt a strange vibration in my body. I looked out of the window. The world looked like a beautiful movie. I was finally in heaven. 

My phone rang, I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to talk to anybody. Tom was calling for the seventh time. I dug my cell out of the pocket of my green cargo shorts.

“Emil! Where the fuck are you?”

“Santa Monica right now. I’m getting gas. And fixing the car window.”

The gas station owner could tell I wasn’t well. He used that to his advantage and billed me $376 for fixing the window. The original quote had been for $110.

“Wait right there! Do you hear me!”

“Yeah, but Tom, did you know we’re in Hell?”

“Let’s talk about it in a minute.”

Tom pulled up to the gas station in a white Range Rover. I was trying to have a smoke next to the car. The gas station attendant threw a fit. Tom snatched the cigarette out of my hand.

“OK, Emil. We’re gonna go to that diner across the street and eat something.”

Tom ordered two burger meals and a large Coke. I didn’t touch the food. Just a sip of the soda.

“You don’t look too good. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. You have the money?”

“What money?”

“I gave you guys clear instructions. Did you read the book?”

“Emil, eat something.”

“I haven’t eaten for days.”

“Why’s all your stuff in the car?”

“I can move now. Look, the window exploded by itself!”

“Emil, do you have any money?”

“Twenty bucks maybe.”

“Let’s go to a hotel. It’s on me.”

Tom took two hundred dollars out of his wallet.

“Here’s some money for food.”

“I can’t take that.”

“Just take it. Emil, I’m sorry I gave you shit when you were over at my place.”

“That’s OK.”

Tom picked out a small hotel in Santa Monica, close to the beach. First we went to the supermarket. Tom bought me chips, sandwiches, deodorant and juice. I wanted a six-pack of Mexican beer. Tom paid for it grudgingly. He told me he’d come by around eight in the morning. He said something about getting his father to find me a job. He also told me that the girl from his place had asked for my phone number several times. He was sorry he hadn’t told me before.

“Tom, this is much bigger than that.”

Tom didn’t understand what I was talking about. I tried to show him my manuscript on my laptop. It was in Finnish. Tom couldn’t understand a word of Finnish. Before he left, he wanted to make sure I was going to sleep.

“You’ll feel better in the morning if you get some sleep.”

Tom raided my backpack. Poured a couple of cocaine baggies down the toilet. I couldn’t stop him.

“Are you sure you’ll be fine until morning?”

“Of course.”

Tom wasn’t sure what was going on with me. He was very anxious. He probably thought I had taken too many drugs way too quickly. He believed things would be better in the morning. He gave me a hug and tucked me in.

I woke up in the hotel bed in the middle of the night, feeling wide awake. I took a sip from an unopened whisky bottle. Tom hadn’t taken that one out of the bag. Then I drank two beers. I found them under the bed. Tom had tried to hide them. 

I got dressed. Walked toward the parking garage. Eventually I found my car. I drove the black Jeep all over the dark, narrow lanes of Santa Monica. I was too excited about the future. Tom came back to the hotel in the morning. I told him I’d gotten back to the room twenty minutes before.

“Where were you?”

He saw the paper cup from The Coffee Bean.

“You got a coffee?”

“I drove around all night.”

Tom looked at me in shock. Listened to me talk for a while. Then he said he was getting something from his car. A moment later he came back. He told me he was buying me a plane ticket to Finland. It was clear he had spoken to my parents. Not that I realized it at the time. Tom was genuinely concerned about me and didn’t know what to do.

“Fuck off!”

“You’re not well. You’ll be back. I don’t know how to help you. I’ll get you to Finland.”

Tom was texting on his phone. Speaking anxiously into my phone.

“Fuck it, I guess we’re going to the hospital.” 

“What are you talking about? Let’s concentrate on the book. Where is it?”

“Niklas has it. I still don’t speak any Finnish. And Niklas is in Sweden shooting an ad.”

I didn’t get Tom. I thought he was being stupid.

“This is Hell. Don’t you get it? We’re all in Hell.”

Tom was breaking out in a cold sweat, walking in circles around the room. Then he took his cell out of his jacket pocket.

“I have to make some calls. I’ll be right back. Will you promise to stay here?”

“Where the fuck am I gonna go?”

Tom took away my car keys. 

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m low on gas.”

“I’m just making sure.”

After Tom was gone, I went to lie down on the bed. Opened a packet of chips. Mumbled to myself that Tom didn’t have a clue. My mom called my cell.

“Kimmo from the Finnish embassy is coming over. Be nice.”

“Maybe he’ll get it.”

I wasn’t in the mood to talk to my mom. The call lasted all of thirty seconds.

After several knocks, I opened the hotel room door. A man in his late fifties stepped in. He was wearing brown cowboy boots, jeans and a casual button-up shirt. Kimmo shook my hand politely. I told him how to fix the whole world. I had the antidote to every problem out there.

“Everything’s fucked up, see? First, we’re gonna get everyone a job.”

Kimmo looked at me with concern. I was almost foaming at the mouth, my hand flailing up and down.

“It’s been really hard, I feel like people aren’t getting me. Nobody believed Jesus at first, either.”

“Emil, we should go see a doctor.”

“Are they gonna believe me then?”

“I don’t know. I’ll come with you.”

“Don’t they believe me… Man, they still don’t believe me.”

We started walking toward the parking garage. Kimmo told me to get my passport from the back seat of my car.

“Are they trying to steal it? Don’t they believe me? Are they gonna kill me? Isn’t the world ready for the truth? And where’s my manuscript? Where’s my laptop?”

I was talking like a robot. I dug a wad of A4s out of the glove box. I’d printed out my book in the café earlier that morning. I showed it off to Kimmo proudly. Kimmo took a pen out of his jacket pocket and started crossing out paragraphs.

“Emil, this needs some changes. You’re on the wrong side, you see?”

“What?”

“You’re going in the wrong direction. But we can change that. We’ll get through this together.”

Years later, I realized that Kimmo could immediately see what was going on. He wanted to help. But let’s get back to the moment.

I sat in the passenger seat of Kimmo’s car. Watched the palm trees go by. For the first time, the leaves looked scary sharp. My heart slowed with fear. I was drenched in sweat. Kimmo looked at me with kind, calm eyes. He changed the subject to sports.

We arrived at the local hospital. I was shaking with terror. I looked around. There were demons everywhere. In the mirrors, in the paintings, in the carpeted floor. The nurse, the students had infiltrated the place to read my mind. They’d still be talking about the historical figure they’d seen here long after my death. They were witnessing a historical moment today. I was taken to see a doctor in a cramped room.

“How are you feeling? What drugs have you taken?”

“All of them. There’s no point in being sober here in Hell. What did you think of my book?”

“I’m focusing on you right now.”

The doctor wasn’t sure what to do.

“I was listening to Led Zeppelin… the demons came in through the music.”

“Where’s your ID?”

“Kimmo has my passport. And my book is on my laptop. People are trying to destroy it, we need to hide it. They don’t understand that the world is ready for this.”

“Listen to me. You don’t have insurance. I have to send you to a public hospital first. Then we’ll take things from there.”

“Everything’s all about money again. Fuck this place. I’m going out for a beer, and then I’ll buy three hookers. That’ll make me feel better.”

The doctor was shaking his head, half amused, half serious. Two male nurses came in and escorted me into the corridor. Kimmo and Tom were in the lobby.

“Tom, where are they taking me? They’re gonna kill me! People need to know.”

“We don’t know yet. It’ll all be all right.”

Tom leaned against Kimmo anxiously.

“I wanna go to your place. All I need is a glass of water.”

I felt like a king. A minute later, I felt sick. The loop kept repeating over and over.

“We’ll follow you to the hospital.”

I refused to go with the nurses. They injected me with a sedative against my will. Strapped me to a gurney. I tried to fight it, to yell, but I didn’t have the strength. Bit by bit, the rage turned into hysterical sobbing. Tom looked on in shock until he turned his head away. He couldn’t watch for one more second. Kimmo took me by the hand.

“Everything’s gonna be OK, Emil. Everything’s gonna be OK.”

I open my eyes. I’m lying in an ambulance. I try to tear at my straps, struggling in terror. They give me another shot. I beg them to let me go home.

“Please don’t take me away. I’m not a bad person.”

I’m crying and screaming in fear. The nurses’ faces get blurrier and blurrier.

The next thing I remember is a room where a doctor is asking me about my drug use. I tell him I’ve used cocaine, heroin and marijuana. In the same breath, I ask him why they’ve brought me here.

“Is this part of the manuscript?”

The doctor offers me his white coat.

“Do you want to wear the cloak of God?”

“No, I’m gonna make do with my own t-shirt.”

I was escorted to a large room with about fifteen other patients. Everyone was sitting in a black armchair. In the evenings, the chairs were lowered into a reclining position. It meant you sat in the chair during the day and slept in it at night. 

I noticed I was the only white patient in the room. As far as I knew, I was in South Central. The room was like a concrete bunker. Cold and bleak. A windowless rat trap. The scene was ten times worse than the Los Angeles slum. These people were too unstable for society to let them sleep under bridges. They would run in front of cars. They were likely to scratch more than just their own skin. That was probably the line you had to cross to get locked up here. 

They gave us pills every three hours. I thought the doctors were trying to feed me poison. The world wasn’t ready for the truth, so they had to kill me. The doctors strapped me down and injected me with medication. I cried myself to sleep that night. I didn’t understand why they wanted to examine me. Did they want to make sure I wasn’t scamming people? Or did they still want to kill me? The demons on the walls didn’t answer me, no matter how much I begged. I couldn’t tell which scenario was the truth and which was the voice of the demons on the white walls.

In the morning, a nurse turned on the TV while the doctors measured out the pills. The TV showed long lines of cars. The news talked about huge traffic jams on the freeways. The real reason was probably Thanksgiving. People were going to see their families. But for me, everything was becoming clear. People had arrived from all corners of the land to see if the rumors were true. Jesus had risen from the dead to cast judgment on the Earth. They were holding him in a mental hospital to test him first. I needed to pass the tests. After that, I could tell everyone the good news. How had I been endowed with such a huge responsibility?

I always knew I had it in me to write something brilliant. It’s just that I ended up creating something too good. The most revolutionary thing since the Bible. I hadn’t asked for a crown as heavy as this. A higher power had chosen me for this task.

There’s a line in Eminem’s “Not Afraid”. A lying king looking to be crowned, but instead gets something else right between the eyes… But the allegory was lost on me at the time.

Tom and Kimmo came to see me in the morning. We sat in the same room as all the other patients.

“Get me the fuck out of here!”

I collapsed into hysterical tears. Tom put his arms around me.

“Once you get through this, you’ll be stronger than any of us.”

“What am I doing here? Where am I? Fuck you, Tom. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

“It’s just your insurance. We’ll transfer you to a private hospital, but it’ll take a couple of days. You just have to be strong.”

“Tom, did you read the manuscript yet? Do you get it now?”

“You have friends.”

I burst into tears again.

“I’m not sick. You’re all crazy.”

I tried to explain to Kimmo that we had to talk quietly. People might be secretly listening. Not everybody was happy with my book. Kimmo told me about different cities I could visit. He’d brought along a picture book of the most exotic destinations in the world. Looking at the photos calmed me down a little. White sandy beaches, palm trees, a turquoise ocean.

“Emil, look how beautiful nature is.”

I spent my days lying in my chair. We were allowed out for an hour every day. I used to ask the nurses for cigarettes, which I then secretly stubbed out on my palm. It made me feel alive. It’s hard to explain, but every time a cigarette burned a hole into my skin, the pain made me aware of my surroundings. And that calmed me down. 

The TV in the room was usually on. I watched the shows. All of them were still talking about me. The whole world was a conspiracy theory. No one wanted to hear the truth about what we had done to our planet. The only soul who had solved the puzzle had been committed to a mental hospital. Experts were offering their insights on talk shows. Had Jesus really come back? What would happen on the day they released him? I was furious. Crazy people were allowed to walk the streets and cause destruction. I prayed I wouldn’t be crucified by mankind. That was a mistake they’d already made once before. The presidents and popes would soon congregate to discuss whether the world was still the same. Why did I have to be the one to save the whole planet?

The food in the hospital was awful. I was afraid it was poisoned. I’d try a spoonful here and there, then stop and realize the next potato might be the one to kill me. I was emaciated. My beard had grown long and frizzy. I was a shadow of what I used to be. In my mind, this was simply a phase I had to go through. I was on my way to becoming superman. No one would ever fuck with me again. 

Tom told me my dad was coming to town tomorrow. That made me feel even worse. I told Tom I didn’t want to see him until they arranged a mansion for me to live in. Tom was shocked by my condition. I think he was wondering whether this was it. Emil had disappeared. He had a concerned conversation with the nurses, then came back. I don’t know what Tom saw when he looked me in the eye. It was like a scene from the worst horror movie ever made. And there was no end in sight.

“Is my dad worried about the credit card bill?”

“No, he’s worried about you.”

After a half-hour conversation, I started to believe my dad’s arrival might be a good thing. I paced the hospital corridors. The pain was hideous. I can’t even find the words. It was on a level with being fed to piranhas. The only difference was that they didn’t eat me alive. They just left me floating in the water, bloody and in pain. The pain was inside my head. I wouldn’t wish that kind of suffering on my worst enemy. I didn’t dare focus my gaze on a single object because I believed they’d all been intentionally brought out to mess with me. I looked for secret codes in the toilet roll.

I was throwing up in the bathroom. Only water came out. I was on my knees in front of the toilet bowl. There was a doctor beside me. I grabbed his hand. He was a little startled. I begged him for relief, but none came. The doctor saw my angel tattoo. He told me he’d seen an angel once.

“What?”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

I didn’t understand a word. This man was someone who got what I was trying to do. He believed I could break open the gates of Hell.

“You’ll become a healer one day. I’m sure of it.”

I looked the doctor deep in the eyes. He looked back at me with empathy. I remember the moment like it was yesterday. The doctor seemed pleased with what he saw. My pain, lying on the floor. And I don’t mean he got off on my suffering. He was a male doctor, close to retirement. He had seen things, experienced life. He knew how to put two and two together.

My dad stepped into the room with Tom. I took Tom’s hand, even though my dad was right next to me. Dad’s hand felt scary. He had never understood me. He tried to tell me everything would be all right. Even his gaze felt distant.

After a week of throwing up, crying, and burning my skin with cigarettes, I smelled like a rotten mushroom. The place had a single shower for all the patients, and no one was forced to use it. Tom, Kimmo and my dad managed to convince the doctors to send me to a private hospital.

We took a cab straight to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Instant change of scenery, ha. A bleak mental hospital for a five-star hotel. Tom and my dad forced me to take a shower. Dressed me in a button-up shirt. I was too tired to talk on the way over. I avoided looking at the billboards on the side of the road. They were all erected for me, after all. And I didn’t even understand half of them. At least the BMW ad was clear. Los Angeles was giving me a new car. So my book had at least been published in California. The city wanted to give me a small token of their appreciation. Coca-Cola wanted to be part of the book’s production too.

Tom had booked a table at a luxurious, atmospheric restaurant. It was only a short walk from the hotel. Dad and Tom thought a chill night out might calm me down, since the public hospital had been so shocking. Maybe a nice steak, a Coke, a chat in a safe environment would bring me back to Earth for a while. The four of us had dinner. My dad and Tom were sweating. I suggested to Tom that we should smoke some pot to calm my dad, Kimmo and Tom down a little. Tom burst out laughing.

“At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

“Tom, the chef’s not trying to poison me, is he? The world isn’t ready for the truth. There are all these cameras here.”

I was starting to get scared and paranoid.

“Let’s lower our voices. Why do I have to fight alone?”

Tom looked at my dad. “Let’s take him now.” We finished our steaks. Dad sent the dessert menu back to the kitchen. Tom ordered a long black private limo.

“Are we going to a party? Are they throwing me a party after all?”

The limo drove to UCLA Hospital as quickly as possible.

My dad was shocked to see me in this state. Would his son ever recover? Was this it? I had turned into a self-destructive addict, in too deep for anyone to reach me or understand me anymore. Dad squeezed my hand. Tears welled up in my eyes.

We were sitting in the hospital café. Behind closed doors. A thousand thoughts were running through my head. I couldn’t make sense of anything. It was my turn to see the doctor. Dad took me by the hand again. I realized the party was turning into yet another hospital visit.

“Don’t tell the doctors you’ve been taking drugs. For insurance reasons. This is one of the most expensive facilities around.”

My heart felt like it had been shot with rusty arrows.

Two kind-seeming Jewish doctors were interviewing me.

“How are you feeling?”

“Awful?”

“Have you taken any hormones?”

Apparently my muscles hadn’t completely atrophied yet. I chuckled.

“Never. But a fuckload of drugs, yeah. Could you commit my dad? I feel like he needs it more than I do.”

“I understand. You don’t want to see him right now.”

“What the fuck am I doing here? The book, what did you think of the book?”

The doctors looked at me with sympathy. They kept the conversation short. One of them went out to tell my dad that his son wanted to go into care alone. “Your son’s not ready to return to Finland.” At first, the doctors had considered I might fly to Finland with my dad. But I don’t think anyone would have let me board a plane, even though they talked about it. I myself didn’t want to go to Finland because my book project was still incomplete.

My dad booked a flight to Helsinki Airport. Before he left, he brought me the coolest Jordan tracksuit I had ever seen, a Livestrong bracelet, a blue UCLA college hoodie, a pile of boxers and a new book. But that night I looked for hidden codes inside the book. Maybe they had hidden something in there that I should know? It wasn’t my dad’s fault if they had. Dad promised to come back in two weeks.

The quality of care at UCLA was better. I played pool with the nurses during the day. In the evenings, we watched the latest movies in the break room. I had multiple panic attacks. The narrow corridors separating our bedrooms from each other kept closing in on me. They medicated me every three to four hours.

One morning, I was locked in a padded cell. I’d resisted taking my meds. I looked at the black padding on the walls. Kneeled on the floor and prayed to God. Took off my glasses and broke them in half. Alone in the room, I yelled, “I wanna see the world like everybody else!” There was no response.

Sometimes I held a Bible in my lap as I lay on the couch. I don’t even remember where I got it from. One of the patients, a beautiful young addict, told me to let go of the Bible. “Don’t read that.” 

My pain was indescribable. I was inside a horror movie. The pen on the table was whispering secrets to me. Had it been brought over for contract negotiations? The nurses kept trying to interfere with my train of thought. No one understood me. 

I still had an iPod in my backpack. I went and sat on the bed in my room. Put on “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd. Finally someone who understood what I was going through.

All my friends visited me, one after the other. Tom’s wife baked me cookies. That made me tear up. Kian showed a whole new side of himself. He visited me every day, brought little gifts.

Ryan had come over straight from work. He was wearing a dark suit. I was in my sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, eating popcorn. I didn’t know how to start the conversation. My gaze wandered over the other patients. I was comparing myself to them. I felt insignificant, admiring Ryan’s dark blue suit.

“I’d like to be like you.”

“What, a 5’11” fatso?”

“You’re a good guy.”

“So are you. And no one ever comes to talk to me when we’re out. They always talk to you.” 

“I don’t want them. Should I call Jessica?”

Ryan burst out laughing. “Fuck no. Not right now. Trust me.”

For the first time in a long time, a dimple appeared on my cheek…

Every now and then, I made it back to Earth for brief moments. With my friends beside me. Of course in about two hours’ time, I’d be convinced again that the world was one big fucking conspiracy. A higher power had chosen me for an important mission, even if it was starting to feel impossible. The Devil kept putting up obstacles.

“You think I’m ever gonna get better?”

“Of course.”

“Then we can have a joint and listen to Dave Matthews Band.”

Ryan burst out laughing again. “Fuck me! I think I’m done with that stuff.” 

I think Ryan had had a bit of a scare. Something like this could actually happen?

We took out a chessboard. Focused on the game. Ryan kept eating my pawns on every move. After ten minutes, I flipped the board over.

“This is bullshit. I can’t do this.”

“Don’t give up now. And I mean, please never give up.”

Ryan picked the pawns up from the floor. I found it impossible to concentrate on the game. My head was full of chemicals. Occasionally, I had the thought that maybe the game was about something else entirely. Maybe they were filming and analyzing the game all over the world. The only way to squash the thoughts was to flip the board. But I couldn’t tell that to Ryan. We went back to the round tables. A nurse came over to complain that we were laughing too hard.

“You’re bothering the other patients.”

We laughed even harder.

“What, are we just supposed to cry in here? Cry and cry, all day long!”

“Emil, come on. But yeah, it’s pretty messed up.”

Ryan looked at his watch. Two hours had gone by fast.

I had fewer nightmares that night. Only woke up twice. Ryan’s sense of humor, his dirty jokes, they calmed me down. He told me he always knew I was crazy. “Good crazy.” And now it was official. Medically certified… I told Ryan I’d get him some tasty hospital cake if he brought me some pot.

My mom called the hospital every day. Consoled me. Niklas told me that Vesa-Matti Loiri, Mika Waltari and many other Finnish legends had gone through similar things. He said he’d tried to find out for my mom just how many creative people had been in a mental hospital. 

“These things make you stronger.” 

I found that hard to believe. I was wearing trousers that were five sizes too big for me. There was a wristband on my arm with my name and patient ID on it. Niklas still wasn’t back in Los Angeles, so he couldn’t come by to visit me. But he often called me at the hospital. The calls were under a minute long. That was the official advice.

On weekday mornings, we had two hours of group therapy. There were tissues on the table. We sat in a circle. I always sat quietly, listening to the others’ problems. Divorces, violent men, getting fired, the death of a loved one… On Wednesday morning, I opened my mouth. I told them I’d been raped when I was 11 years old. 

“I’ve been dead ever since.” 

I took the pack of tissues and threw it furiously against the wall. I looked at the other patients’ faces. I couldn’t see their eyes. The walls of the room were caving in. The ceiling was closing in on me. I grabbed the table for support. A nurse took a hold of me. It was hard to breathe. 

The nurse took me to a balcony protected by a thick metal grid. It was there so nobody could jump. He gave me a pink pill. I washed it down with water. Looked down at the street. The café’s outdoor seating area was filling up. I dreamed about sitting down there. The psychiatrist came up to me.

“You were brave today.”

“When?”

“Just now. I can sense when there’s something special about a patient.”

“What?”

“The good ones always make it.”

“Why am I doomed?”

“You’re not doomed. You’ve been knocked out, but it’s only the second round.”

“What do you think about love?”

“I have a wife and two kids. I love them.”

“Do you believe in love?”

“Of course. What would be the point otherwise?”

“Maybe there is no point. No one can love me the way I am. Who’s gonna want a man who has a complex about sex? How was the Lakers game, by the way?”

I changed the subject on the fly. I didn’t have a clue whether the Lakers had played or not. The moments when I was free of paranoia were getting longer and longer. But the real world wasn’t the same after my confession. Partly it added to the pain, since the demons always had a way of bringing me back to la-la land. And the problem kind of grew because both worlds were now turning into one and the same Hell.

As I sat down on the side of the bed that evening, I noticed someone had taken the laces out of my red Converse. I didn’t get why anyone would steal someone’s shoelaces. Obviously, the doctors were worried I might try to kill myself. Not that I could see that at the time. I blamed my roommate.

I was crying and shaking in the corner of the couch across from the pool table. A male patient, a little older than me, embraced me. He told me his story. He had been a lawyer in Tokyo. Got addicted to drugs. Lost his job and his wife. 

We got along well. He never burst into tears, but he had bad withdrawals and panic attacks. The doctors forced us both into a room with former alcoholics. They told us how much their lives had improved after they stopped drinking. They had loads of dark stories from their past.

“I don’t have a drug problem. But will you read my book?”

They soon discovered it was pointless talking to me. I couldn’t understand why I was being compared to an alcoholic. The lawyer next to me stared at the walls. He understood me better than the doctors. The whole thing was like a sitcom. The lawyer even suggested we all have a beer together. Take it easy. 

“Maybe we could even understand each other?” 

The former alcoholics didn’t find it funny. The lawyer added fuel to the fire. 

“When was the last time you laughed? When you were drunk? How about that thing with your wife, which one of you cheated?” 

The atmosphere in the room turned menacing in the space of a second. 

The lawyer was the furthest thing from a mean guy. He always supported others in group therapy. He just didn’t have a filter. Our lecturers got up. 

“You can’t help people who don’t wanna be helped.” 

The two of us stayed behind in the room. The lawyer drew a pussy on the chalkboard. 

“Well, this was fucked up.”

We cracked up. Felt like we were tough guys for a second. After we left the room, they had our pills waiting for us. 

“And lift your tongue.” 

Two nurses made sure we took our medicine. The lawyer liked the pills, though. He asked for more every day. They didn’t give him any. I tried to give mine to him. The doctors made sure I failed.

The evening snack was always the highlight of my day. They gave me popcorn and other goodies. That’s when we also had to fill in our meal preferences for the next day. I never read through the options, I just ticked whatever box as quickly as I could. Sometimes I was surprised with twice as much food as I could eat. I gave away my extra pastries to the other patients. Afterward, I found out that my treatment cost twenty-nine thousand dollars. My insurance company would’ve been grateful if I’d had the sense to read the menu.

Sometimes Tom’s wife came to see me on her own. I didn’t let myself cry around her. I explained to Katie that I believed the Earth was actually Hell.

“Then why would an innocent child be born into this world?”

“Maybe that’s exactly why.”

“Emil. There are many good things in this world. You’ll see.”

We usually talked about women, about love. Tom had told Katie about my childhood trauma. I think that was the reason she kept helping me. I told Katie she’d be a fool if she didn’t marry Tom. She always laughed. I told Tom the same thing, obviously. Many years later, Tom and Katie got married. No thanks to me, probably.

After sunset, Tom suddenly made a confession. His mother had been raped as an adult. She had been in a mental hospital ever since. Despite multiple attempts, she had never fully recovered. This had happened years ago. She hadn’t received the help she needed in time. She was unlikely to ever recover. Tom had seen a second chance in me. I didn’t understand that. Tom genuinely wanted me to get well. He missed work meetings to visit me. 

Afterward, I found out that Tom had taken my breakdown hard. It had brought up difficult memories for him. Tom helped me even though we weren’t close. Niklas couldn’t come see me in the hospital because he wasn’t in the country at the time. I’m sure he’d have been there for me. He had a good heart beneath a tough exterior. He partly blamed himself for what happened to me.

My delusions got the better of me again. I’d refused to take my meds in the morning. Told the other patients to do the same.

“These doctors are fucking crazy.”

All the nurses got mad at me. I told an older male patient I was getting a house with a pool soon. He could come and live in my spare room. He stared at me with his glazed eyes and thanked me profusely. Tom came to the hospital straight from work. He was angry. He grabbed my arm and pulled me aside.

“Goddammit, Emil! If you don’t take your meds, I won’t come and see you ever again. And no one else will either.”

I tried to explain.

“Don’t you see? You have to read my book.”

He was fuming.

“You could stay like that forever.”

Tom didn’t stay to listen to my explanations. He just left. I looked fearfully through the glass door. My emotional support person’s leather jacket disappeared around the corner.

I went up to the nearest nurse and asked for my medicine. Washed the pills down with orange juice. 

I used the hospital phone to call Tom that evening. I told him I’d taken the pills. They’d confiscated my own phone a long time ago. I’d called 911 on my first day there and asked for emergency assistance. I hadn’t seen my phone since. Tom promised to come visit me with Katie tomorrow.

Kimmo from the Finnish Embassy came to see me often. His wife baked me all sorts of goodies too. He had bought me a painting. It was a boat, floating on the streets. A flood had submerged the houses. I kept the painting on the windowsill of my room. I didn’t understand its meaning yet.

Kimmo played the guitar. He brought it with him once. Sat down in the armchair in my room. Played it for me. In that moment, I understood the meaning of music for the first time. There was no need for lyrics. The guitar strings told me exactly what I needed to hear. My mind grew calm, and I focused only on the music. That moment was one of the most meaningful experiences of my life. In the middle of the worst pain imaginable, I could just focus on the music. I forgot everything around me. Closed my eyes and pictured myself sitting by the sea in Italy.

I had a long and heated argument with a nurse. I wanted to walk across the road, get a black coffee from Starbucks. Apparently, I couldn’t. I was in a closed ward. I couldn’t get my head around it.

“One fucking coffee.”

There was a basketball court and park benches on the hospital grounds. My ward was on the thirteenth floor. I watched the cars in traffic through the metal grid. The café was across the street. It was my dream. I had to get there. I wanted to take my time deciding what kind of coffee I wanted to order. Sometimes I told the nurses to go fuck themselves. I was convinced a walk to the café would cure me. After a bad meltdown, they gave me a handful of multicolored pills instead of a coffee.

Rick was a slightly stocky nurse in his late forties. We would sit together in the dining room in the evenings, shooting the shit. He’d brought me a safety razor from home. Rick was a good example of the kind of nurse some of them were. The ones who genuinely cared about a stranger in need of help. I shaved my beard in the bathroom. It took me ten minutes to mop up the hair. 

We talked a lot about life and death that night. Rick told me artists were always fascinated by dark things. I explained that all I wanted was to sort out my life. We talked until midnight. Rick’s next shift was on Wednesday. We’d continue our conversation then. Rick even considered taking me to Starbucks for coffee. He managed to convince me that drinking coffee at eight in the evening wasn’t such a great idea.

In reality, the sleeping pills made sure I was passed out in ten minutes. The fact that Rick even considered going to Starbucks with me was enough. It made me feel less paranoid. The walls stopped caving in for a second. I actually believe Rick would have taken me to the coffee shop if it hadn’t been so late.

The next morning, I was pulling on my socks when I noticed my Converse laces were back. I instantly walked to the kitchen and told the cook, who I also got along with. My shoelaces were back!

“See?”

He couldn’t keep a straight face. Then he high-fived me. I think I laughed a little myself. That same night, Tom told me he’d come straight from a meeting with Fred Durst, the Limp Bizkit singer. Apparently his Converse were missing laces as well.

“You’re just fashion forward.”

I shot Tom a sharp look.

“I’ll never be without shoelaces again.”

After a chat with the doctors, I found out I was being sent to Finland. I wasn’t well enough to go back to work. I explained there wasn’t any work in this shithole anyway. Then I tried to insist they give me back my computer so I could sell my manuscript.

They were sending over a Professor Ranan from Finland. I was looking forward to his arrival, as the hospital was getting to me more and more every day. Ranan would accompany me on my flight home. From the way my mom talked, I gathered I wasn’t allowed to fly on my own. I don’t even think I had enough capacity for a cab. The news about going home hit me hard. I couldn’t see why I had to go. What would happen to my book?

It was Sunday. I was sitting on the side of my bed, crying alone. I was in extreme pain, but I still didn’t like taking sedatives. Ranan would arrive on Tuesday. I’d have to fight against losing my mind for two more days. The demons were still inside my head. The nurses had taken my iPod away on Friday. They suspected Metallica was upsetting me even more.

Ranan stepped into the lounge area of the hospital. He was a tall gentleman in his seventies, wearing a checkered shirt and gray slacks. A hospital access pass around his neck. He sat down next to me. My pulse began to stabilize.

“No one gets me. I wrote a story and then everything went to shit. No one’s ever understood me. I’ve tried so many times.”

“Would you like a coffee?”

“The kitchen’s in the other room.”

“We’ll have a walk and then sit on the patio and have a coffee.”

“I’m not allowed to leave the hospital.”

“You are now.”

“For real?”

I felt like a backpack full of rocks had been lifted from my shoulders. The nurses gave Ranan a doubtful look. Ranan noticed the nurses’ attitude. 

“Come on then. Where’s this boy’s coat? Bring it over, now.”

A moment later, we were walking down the narrow streets of Westwood. I immediately felt safe next to Ranan. He had an indescribable charisma about him. Seeing palm trees and people made me feel peaceful. We walked past several nice-looking restaurants. Ranan wanted to pick our spot carefully. Eventually he chose a humble café run by two Mexicans. 

Ranan bought me a coffee and a donut. He asked about my parents. He knew my dad was the CEO of a large hotel chain. Ranan cleverly probed into my childhood and life values without asking directly. I explained to him how fucked up everything was. Ranan said something I’ll never forget.

“I’m not comparing you to Mozart, but Mozart composed while deaf. People kept asking him what he saw when he looked at sheet music. Mozart said the notes flew on the streets. Your situation is somewhat similar. You’ve been composing while deaf.”

I didn’t understand a word.

“This is the best coffee I’ve ever tasted!”

My exclamation brought a kindly look to Ranan’s face. 

“You know, the worst of the pain is probably behind you by now.”

That’s where Ranan turned out to be wrong, unfortunately.

On the way back to the hospital, we passed by several fancy restaurants. Ranan pointed at each swanky place with his finger.

“That’s where we should have gone. Or that one, that looks great.”

“Where we went was OK too.”

“See, this may all turn into valuable insight later.”

I didn’t understand Ranan. Nor did I know how to ask him to elaborate. I doubt I’d have gotten a straight answer even if I had.

Next, we went to a big supermarket. Ranan promised to lend me money so I could buy deodorant, cologne and a new movie on DVD. I could take the DVD back to Finland with me. Ranan suggested Shakespeare in Love, but I picked the latest season of Entourage. When I picked out an Armani cologne, Ranan took it out of my hand and gave me a bottle of regular Old Spice instead. He told me it was just as good.

All my friends were around me. My plane would leave for Helsinki in six hours. I hugged them all, one by one. Explained that I’d be back in two weeks. Tom told me they might come and visit Helsinki as well. For the first time, I had a hunch that everything had gone to shit.

A nurse came up to Ranan and told him the hospital couldn’t give out any free medication to tide me over on the way home. The meds for the trip would cost more than a thousand dollars. I suggested we call my dad. He could pay for them. Ranan’s answer scared me.

“We won’t need them.”

“What if I go crazy again?”

“You’re not crazy, Emil. It’s complicated.” Ranan turned to the nurses. “Do tell your president what a wonderful healthcare system you have.”

The nurses were amused by the comment.

“We all feel the same way.”

“What about the meds?” I was getting anxious and starting to sweat. But I felt so safe next to Ranan that I managed to avoid a panic attack.

“We’ll eat well on the plane, Emil.”

A male Jewish doctor came up to us. He talked to Ranan in a language I couldn’t make heads or tails of. Neither could the nurses, honestly. The doctor treated Ranan with respect. 

A bunch of the nurses came around to give me a hug and wish me a good journey home. I was welcome to visit the hospital anytime. I thought to myself, I’m never coming back here, not even if they paid me millions to do it. Even the nurse who’d locked me in a padded cell came to shake my hand. I was overwhelmed with terror at his approach. Ranan could tell something was up. He saw something in the nurse that he didn’t like, either. He snapped, “Who are you!” The nurse was thrown off. He slithered away like a snake.