Frost Meets a Psycho.

Tonight I was playing a gig with my band at an Irish pub, and between sets I stepped outside onto the patio for a beer and a cigar with Kisch. A red-haired woman in her 30s pulled up a chair next to me and said, "Don't take this the wrong way, but you're [my real name], right?" Kisch laughs. I'm surprised, because nobody addresses me with that name except my parents and police officers. Everybody calls me Frost. I haven't gone by my real name in over 12 years. I acknowledge that she is correct, strange as it might be.

"I saw your band was playing tonight, and I had seen you before, but I had to look you up online. Once I studied your pictures I was pretty sure I had the right guy."

It takes a lot to freak me out, but this came pretty close to the mark. She pulled closer, got a grave look on her face, and said, "Okay, I'm just drunk enough to say this..." Uh oh. Here it comes. I'm already nervous, lady... now you're setting off alarm bells. She introduces herself... We'll call her "Rachael", but she looks at me like I'm supposed to know her. "I wanted to say something at your last show, but I had to be sure it was you before I said anything. We met in the psych ward, at Fairview Riverside Hospital. Remember?"

A long pause. Time seemed to freeze while that line sunk in.......

AWKKKKKKWARD!!!!!

My eyes narrow, and I start searching through my old memory tapes. I actually was put in a mental hospital when I was 15 because my parents thought I was a disobedient child. I would commit such atrocities as hanging out with friends they had never met, and they suspected I was doing all kinds of drugs. In reality, I was one of the cleanest kids in school, and I ran with one of the cleanest crowds. My social life wasn't the problem... it was my parents that drove me batty. They would nag me about everything, and often ground me for no legitimate reason. I took to leaving the house, unannounced, and going for long walks for hours on end. Sometimes days. I wasn't running away. I'd always come home. I just wanted some time to be alone. Some privacy. All of that ended the day my parents caught up to me and locked me up in an institution for rehabilitation and programming. They were friggin' shocked to learn that I tested clean for all drugs and alcohol during my admission.

I spent the next few months in the hospital, locked away with some truly insane people who really belonged there. I was depressed, to be sure, but not suicidal or prone to fits of rage like the other people there... No, I was quiet. Well behaved. Logical. The doctors said my problems were probably hidden behind some kind of mental "wall" and decided to keep me under observation for a few more weeks. I was also in outpatient "therapy" for quite some time, and subjected to a myriad of unnecessary medications. In all honesty, there's little I remember about that experience, nor care to.

So who is Rachael? I just vaguely remember a short, scrawny, red-head, 12 year-old eccentric who talked way too much. The woman sitting next to me had long hair, was in her 30s, and evidently had a disturbingly sharp memory. I sat up in my chair and adjusted my hat.

"Yeah, you were in the first cell on the left, and your roommate was Eric." she said, without a beat. I loosened my collar, and my eyes got wider.

"That was 19 years ago." I muttered. Kisch couldn't stop laughing.

"Remember Bill, and April, and Angie? Those were some good times. I still run into some of them once in a while. Bill is still a huge Metallica freak, only about 5 times bigger. Remember that day you two were playing music? You were on a keyboard, and he was on an electric guitar."

I started to sweat. Kisch was having difficulty containing myself.

"I actually married Bill's brother. We're divorced, now. I remember you told me that the meaning of life was '42'. I didn't get it until about 5 years later when I read the book. You were always so funny!"

I began scoping out possible escape routes. Who the hell remembers details of a mere acquaintance from nearly two decades ago? I sure as hell don't! This is fucking SCARY.

"You really don't remember me? I called you once in a while, for like, 3 years. Your brother, Nolan, would always answer."

My eyes grow wide, and I scoot my chair back up against the patio wall. Make her stop. Please make her stop.

"Your phone number was XXX-9994." she recited it flawlessly.

I literally curled up in a fetal position on my patio chair and turned white as a ghost. Kish let out a howl, and was slapping the table, practically wiping tears from his eyes. This is freakier than a David Blaine street magic trick. WHO THE HELL IS this person!?! That's it. I've had enough. I'm done! Tank! I need an exit!

By some miracle, my girlfriend stepped onto the patio and announced, "I'm leaving." Praise God in Heaven! I leaped to my feet and ran from the table. I gave her a big hug.

Later, Kisch and I were driving back, and I was still in shock. How the hell did that mental patient recognize me, and I don't remember her AT ALL!?! Photographic memory is one thing, but I was truly disturbed by that psycho. That's a couple levels BEYOND being a stalker. My mouth was still agape. What a shitty way to end the evening.

Kisch just says, "From where I was sitting, it was hilarious. You should've seen the look on your face."