The downstairs corridor stinks of rancid milk, with just a hint of
dog doo. One of the rooms looks like a thrift store exploded in
it—hundreds of random pairs of glasses and AM/FM portable
radios, old cassettes, and Lou Bega CDs. Overturned drawers spew
garbage, the remnants of a confused exodus. The smell in this room is
different; this is what crazy smells like. It is immediately
clear: Paranoid schizophrenics are not worried about cleanliness.
Upstairs, in the rec areas of the evacuated mental-health home, a
party is raging. A “funk” band is playing in one room, and not five
seconds after I enter, a bro jumps on my head in an awkward
attempt to crowd surf. Another guy is freak dancing with his lady. She
is looking for her drink; he picks up two cups and begins to mix them
around in his hands. “Which one?” he asks. She points. As he hands her
the cup, he fumbles and spills it down the front of her shirt. He is a
deer looking into headlights. She grabs her coat and storms off.
The dwellers of this creepy, outdated mausoleum are serving drinks
out of a control booth, where meds were probably dispensed. They tell
me they know of four people who died here. I tell them I’ve been
looking around in the mess left downstairs, trying to get inside the
mind of a man who is mentally ill. Their faces turn sour. They tell me
to wash my hands. JEFF KIRBY
Want to show The Stranger what’s behind door #3… with a
sledgehammer? E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to
partycrasher@thestranger.com.