Consequences of Flying Jicama

While I was out late that morning, I had Ms. Whiznee pour a powder mixture into a prepared solution, as part of an experiment I was doing at the time, I forget what it was for. All I knew is that I had no idea what would happen. But I didn't want to let the mix fester for more than five hours. I made it down to the basement just in time to witness a beautifully bright, chartreusely-teal explosion. Nothing was too terribly damaged, thank goodness, but I received a faceful of smoke and what I figured to be ashes or something.

"Ah, I'll clean this up later," I sighed to myself, going back upstairs. Oddly enough, I couldn't find my jicama or my lablab on the way up. Perhaps the most peculiar thing was that, as I fumbled to find my keys, I thought I heard voice that didn't belong to me nor my head (now, I didn't really hear voices in my head, I just liked to imagine I did) in my apartment. Cautiously I opened the door, mildly surprised to find my dull neighbors, along with what must've been the two men Ms. Whiznee described, standing expectantly in the entry.

"Evening all," I greeted them nervously. "What's going on here?"

"Connor," Sir Plywood began, clearing his throat, "we've been worried about you. Has everything been alright? I mean... anything unusual going on... up here?.." He tapped on his temple.

I laughed. "Nothing out of the ordinary, sir!"

"Then how do you explain all this?" Ms. Gato asked pointedly, gesturing to the apartment at large. I had a whole white room, white furniture, white everything, which I covered with splatter paint; my bookshelf looked like it had been gutted, its books scattered all over the floor; a few boxes lay askew around a Lego-Erector Set-Macaroni-hybrid structure I'd been working on in my spare time; finally my eyes came to rest on the jicama and lablab at Ms. Pinch's feet.

I shrugged. "My life, I guess is how I'd explain it." I gestured to the roots and packets of beans at her feet. "I see you brought my groceries up, ma'am. I take it they didn't assault you too terribly?"

"What does he mean?" one of the white men asked Ms. Pinch.

"He dropped them on me," she answered, her voice tightening, "while rushing down to his precious basement."

"I'm sorry, but I had to check on something."

"Does it have anything to do with the explosion we all heard, and the ashes on your face?" the Lady of the Banisters asked accusingly.

I ran my sleeve across my forehead casually. "It does, actually. It was quite something, really, just this great burst of chartreuse and teal...."

"What were you doing, Mr. Steely?" the Monsieur interjected.

"See, I was experimenting with some powders and this vinegar, mercury, and watermelon-juice mixture, I had no idea what it would do..."

"Then why did you mix them, if you had no idea what would happen?" one of the white-clad men inquired.

"Well," I chuckled matter-of-factly, "how else would I find out unless I tested it?"

"In the basement of a residential building?"

"See?" Ms. Pinch hissed more-than-audibly into the ear of one of the white-men. "He doesn't even know between right and wrong! He's crazy! He's insane! He's dangerous!"

"Dangerous?" I exclaimed. "Insane? I know I'm a bit crazier than most, but I wouldn't go so far as to say 'insane.' I don't think textbook lunatics would think their heads are screwed on correctly, would they?"

"Is it normal for them to be in denial?" the Monsieur asked, his eyes narrowing accusingly.

"Sometimes," grunted the other white-guy, taking a step towards me. "Mr. Steely, I'll have to ask you to come with us."

"But why? Where?" I stammered.

"The Institute," Sir Plywood answered coldly. "You've been worrying us, Connor, and we just want you to be safe, but you've proved yourself to be a danger to yourself and others."

"A-as in the mental one?!" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "I'm... I'm not crazy!" Gah, that's the last thing you say in this situation, Connor, I told myself. That's the cincher, there. I hastily added, "Not that kind of crazy!"

"Mr. Steely, calm yourself. You're not going to be committed just yet; one of our staff's going to run some tests, then we'll determine your status."

I swallowed. "I know this is supposed to calm me down," I muttered to myself, which was probably the stupidest thing I could've done at the moment, "but that's not stopping me from being scared out of my wits."

"He even talks to himself!" hissed Ms. Pinch. "You'd be stupid not to commit him!"

"Take it easy, ma'am, we'll just have to see." The two took their places on either side of me, eyeing me warily.

"Don't worry," I sighed, "I won't resist. But would I be able to grab a few things before we leave?"

"Only paper materials," the one on my right answered sternly. I scurried into my room and snatched my soft black leather scratch book, the one with old photographs of my folks, scraps of songs yet to be sung, rough sketches of my "next great inventions," random scribbles, anything that would come to my mind that begged to be written. I shuffled back into the great room, wishing I could disappear from everyone's harsh stares.

"Alright, lead on fellas." I tried to keep the note of defeat out of my voice, with limited success. Aw, don't freak now Connor. You won't be committed if the doc thinks you're fine. And you probably are. Besides, what's the worst that could happen?

The End

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