I didn't even notice the fresh scar across his throat until he lifted his chin to show me.
"Oh my God Sammy!" I said.
"Ya well. It looks worse than it is." he somberly replied. Then added, "They're giving me shock treatments now."
Those words confused me for a moment. "What?" I wondered out loud. "They still do that?"
Sam smirked then said, "Oh it's not that bad. They have it down pat now. It is a very targeted therapy. They can pinpoint a precise location and send a low currency right to it. I get it done once a week. Walk in there like I own the place now. Shit, there's business men and housewives. Old ladies." He paused to catch his breath.
My mind drifted away as he shared his story with me. I could clearly visualize the scene on the side of the road. Charlie was trying to hitchhike from Vancouver to Calgary and had only one hundred miles to go. But he was desperate, hungry and exhausted, frantically waving his thumb up and down like he was using a hand pump.
His dream was to start a new life, away from the downtown East side where he had learned the arts of street survival. Drug addicted and depressed, he set off to find himself a new world.
It was in his most hopeless moment, he pulled out his knife with his left hand. Without thinking it through any further, he placed the blade on top of his jugular vein. His stuck out his right thumb confidently. "Somebody will stop now." he whispered.
The traffic hardly took notice. Some of the cars actually honked as they flew past him. He stood there for the longest time along the shoulder of the Trans-Canada in that grim position. Tears formed in his eyes as he considered his fate. The, a white pick-up truck slowed down as it approached him. Sam tried to stare into the driver's eyes but it was the passenger that startled him. "Do it! Do it you fuckin' bum!".
And he did. A few seconds later, his arm dropped and the bloody knife rolled out of his hand. He could feel his shirt getting wet. Soon he was down on his knees.
"It makes me feels lighter." Sam started speaking louder.
"What?" I asked, now out of my daydream.
"The zaps. They make me feel lighter." he stated.
Makes him feel lighter? I considered that for a moment. I guess it would. You fry enough brain cells, after time, there'll be less and less of them to load up with thought and memories. They may as well still be performing lobotomies on the insane. I thought to myself but out loud, "They still do that?"
"Do what?" Sam answered.
"Lobotomies on people." I asked.
Sam shrugged, "I don't know."