The two lives of Barton Crick

A confidential informant provided Constable Crick with the crucial piece of information he needed to bring down a gang plaguing his community for a long time. The nondescript building in the old warehouse district was surrounded by heavily armed men sufficient in numbers to breach the building and arrest those responsible. It was decided they would quietly enter through different sides of the building because of the dangerous nature of these particular criminals and their penchant for violence. Most of all they wanted to bring their leader, Archibald Prentiss to justice, alive if possible. Things didn’t go as planned. Shots rang out and chaos ensued. The remaining men stationed outside stormed the building and got into the fray.  Barton Crick was one of those men.  He wanted Archibald all to himself because of his blatant disregard of the law. It was personal and Crick always got his man. As soon as Crick entered the interior he saw his quarry climbing a metal ladder leading to a catwalk above the floor.  Archibald was not being pursued by any of his men because they were engaged in the violent gun battle. Though shots were whizzing around him, he holstered his weapon and began to climb the ladder in hot pursuit. The older Archibald was no physical match for the younger Crick was closing the gap between them. His men had the situation under control and the arrests were occurring on the floor below. Now he had his man trapped at the end of the catwalk with nowhere else to run. Archibald wasn’t finished yet, and with a tip of his hat in Cricks' direction (as if bidding him adieu), leapt through the window behind him, falling 35 feet into the cold waters below. Crick swore under his breath and called for his men to search for Archibald along the river banks.  The sweet hands of justice would have to wait yet again.

Later that evening, as his head hit the pillow, he thought of Archibald and understood his foe was a clever criminal, but in the end, he would pay for his crimes.

Barton Crick possessed an active imagination ever since he was a little boy. At first he thought they were just wonderful dreams of an imaginary place in another world. His parents were amused by his tales when he was awake, but after a while they became quite concerned with his mental health. He really had it good in those younger years, the best of both worlds as they say, but that all changed with the concern his parents had. He learned to keep his worlds separate as an endless stream of doctors began to invade his waking world. Those doctors would come and go as they tried to cure him of this affliction. He was diagnosed as bi-polar; schizophrenic; psychotic, and finally dual personality. With each doctor that came and went, so did the medications they prescribed to keep his other world at bay. The medications didn’t work on him of course because he didn’t have a mental condition but, a temporal one. This kind of condition didn’t require a PhD, it required a quantum physicist. 

Each night when he went to sleep, he would transport his waking self to this other realm, leaving his body behind as a place mark like you would fold a corner of an unfinished paper novel. If it wasn’t for the other world and its wonder and promise, then this worlds troubles would have been a little hard to deal with. 

Sometimes he wished he could sleep forever in this world so he could be in the other all of the time. In this world he couldn’t be himself because the medications altered his energy to the point he was nothing more than a 160 pound paperweight.  After a while, his parents had him committed to the Billings Hospital for the mentally ill. That was fine with him, because he could sleep more. The problem was the more he slept here, the more ambitious his doctors became in their desire to curing his malaise. The Group therapy sessions as well as the intense individual sessions with psychiatrists was wearing him down to the point that he was starting to believe his alter ego and the world it inhabited, was all in his sick mind. He was no longer the boy with fanciful dreams, but a thirty year old man with serious mental health issues.  In his youthful days it was easy to discount adults because honestly, how could they know what was in his mind? But, as an adult, he saw things in a different and logical light. The alter ego, as they called it, smells; tastes; loves; cries and does everything else associated with normalcy. How could he make them understand it was reality? The quick answer is he could not.

He needed to sleep. Archibald was still at large, or at least he was when he laid his head to sleep in that world. The only thing keeping him away from sleep was standing in line to ingest what was dispensed from a little paper cup. While he waited, it dawned on him that Archibald had just lost his base of operations and most of his ill gotten gain in the raid, so he would be off his game. Depending on how many men he lost, he would be desperate to regain them. Barton knew his next move, and once asleep, he would flip into that world to be where he needed to be. It was strange because in the other place, he really had the most to lose. His wife and child resided with him by the purple lake called Epsilon in the house that was built with his own two hands. He coveted this life that was so rich in everything he lacked in this one. You would think he would have chosen a safer profession there, but he was incapable of complacency because complacency was his identity here. He had the ability to fight for what was true and just, and had the reputation anyone here would be envious of. Not once had he given thought to the consequences of dying in the other perfect world. What would happen here? Perhaps he should be a little more careful instead of running around warehouses with bullets flying all around. It never occurred to him before then. 

The line was going slowly, but he eventually found himself standing on the other side of the dispensing window when the nurse looked up at him from her sheet. “Ah, Mr. Crick”, she said (like a snake hissing prior to striking its prey). “It looks like we have a change in medication for you today, now that your new doctor has reviewed your charts.” She hissed.

“I don’t have a new doctor.”  Barton countered.

“Yesterday you didn’t, but today, you do!”  She hissed again.

She tapped the sheet with her sausage like fingers as if saying her paper does not lie. 

“It would appear your current treatment regimen has not improved your condition sufficiently so a new doctor has been brought in. He is quite an impressive man, very clever you know? He has all the answers. The good news is in an hour, you will get to meet him in person.  His new treatment regimen is contrary to everything you have experienced since your arrival.” She proclaimed proudly.

“I am telling you, I do not have a new doctor and I must go to sleep soon, I do not want to have a session with someone when I should be sleeping.” He said pleadingly.

He had no choice as two burly aids standing on each side of him loomed in case of resistance. He took the pills, downed them, then padded back to the common room and waited. It didn’t take long, as all of the other patients on his unit were systematically herded into their rooms like compliant cattle to the slaughter house. Each and every one of the patients was going to sleep and apparently he was not.

An hour later, the same two goons who convinced him to take his medicine were there to escort him to meet the new and clever doctor. While padding his way through the mazelike corridors he noticed that his new medication was having a different effect on him. He didn’t feel the normal drowsiness that quickly followed his ingestion of medication. In fact he felt energized, edgy and very alert. It was this type of affect that would counter his ability to sleep. Dread crept in with the realization his doctor’s treatment was meant to keep him from sleeping.

He approached the door of his new doctor which was emblazoned with the name:

Archibald Prentiss, PhD

Very clever indeed. Barton thought as he entered.