“No.”
“Some of us are and some of us aren’t. He is.” He looked at the man who was playing the imaginary piano. “Do you play checkers?”
“Not very well.”
“Good. We eat pretty soon now. Anything you want to know, just ask me.”
“How do you get out of here? Wait, I don’t mean that for a gag, or anything. Seriously, what’s the procedure?”
“You go in front of the board once a month. They ask you questions and decide if you go or stay. Sometimes they stick needles in you. What you down for?”
“Down for? What do you mean?”
“Feeble-minded, manic-depressive, dementia praecox, involutional melancholia—”
“Oh. Paranoia, I guess.”
“That’s bad. Then they stick needles in you.” A bell rang somewhere.