As good as it gets.

The elevator lurched to a stop and the door slowly opened. My destination, the twentieth floor, had arrived very slowly -ding after ding until the number twenty was dimly illuminated on the yellowed number panel. The doors clanked and hesitantly opened to reveal that the elevator floor, for which I was standing on, was not even with my destined floor. I had to step up, out of the elevator, to securely plant my black boot on the worn, carpeted floor.

Like a scrolled map to a treasure, numbers with arrows pointed in various directions. 2100-2119, to the left. 2119-2300 to the right. I quickly did the math in my head, inserting the apartment number I had been given into the equation, and decided like a fifth grader which set of numbers it fell in-between. To the left.

The long hall seemed to get smaller in the distance. Like a maze in Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, I saw myself getting bigger, and the hall becoming smaller, as I strolled into the distance looking for the X on my map.

The front door of his apartment was already cracked, for he was expecting us. Through the crack created by the patient, I could see the kitchen counter tops and the rotting food imbedding itself into the Formica counter tops. I heard shuffling inside and someone speaking very softly. I knocked on the door politely, as the figure eclipsed my view of the kitchen, and began speaking.

"I can't void," he said looking down at the dirty carpet.

"I can't void," he reiterated.

He held his unbuttoned blue jeans with one hand and continuously tapped his finger and thumb together with his other, as if he were measuring time while conducting a symphony. His mustache had food from previous days, his shirt was buttoned awkwardly and as though he had dressed in the dark. He wore a belt, but it was interlaced sporadically through the loops. His slip-on New Balance house shoes were worn at the heels and it was obvious that many miles had rubbed certain areas more than others.

"I...I...I...can't...I can't...I can't void." He timed his speech as if sitting in front of a metronome. His finger's still kept the intrinsic beat in his chaotic mind.

"I wouldn't have called. But I think I need a catheter. Can you do that?"

"No sir," I responded, "I am unable to do that. But I would be more than happy to take you somewhere where they can."

He glanced up at me with his eyes without moving his head, then continued to scan the filthy carpet from left to right.

"Grab your things and we'll go," I said.

He shuffled some papers on the glass counter top. I saw discontinuance notices stacked atop overdue bills. He searched his mind for everything he might need and began collecting those items. He stuffed papers, prescriptions, pieces of food, and other small trinkets into the pockets of his black pea coat that was draped behind his back, on his elbows, like a shawl.

As he collected everything -picking it up, putting it down, then picking it up and putting it into his pocket, I looked around the his apartment.

A wood bookshelf stretching from floor to ceiling encompassed the dining room and living room. Books, thousands of books, were precisely placed on the shelving. The wide ones side-by-side and decreasing in size from the left to the right. Paperbacks lined one shelf, large books, another. Alphabetized, the American History books were his passports to another world. Where one saw a wall, he saw a window. Those books were his friends, and regardless of how many times he took one down, put it back, and took one down again to read, they never judged him.

Along the opposing walls, about eyelevel, were small little shelves displaying hours and hours of his tedious work. Small-scaled models of ancient arenas made from plastic where sitting prestigiously. I expected to see miniature Gladiators fighting one another in the precise re-creations.

And on the wall, in the hall were his degrees. Bachelors from California, Masters from Colorado, Doctorate from Florida. Idealogical dissertations sat stacked upon one another on an end table.

We exited his apartment and he tried to quell all the regular impulses he has when leaving his apartment. He closed, opened, closed, opened, and then locked the front door. His fingers had stopped the rhythm he was counting in his head, but his respirations increased methodically like a back-up singer in a band.

"Thank you for being nice to me," he whispered as he sat in the ambulance. "Have you ever seen As Good As It Gets, with Jack Nicholson?" he asked.

"Yes, I have. Kind of a sad movie." I responded as I seat belted him in.

"I didn't like it. It portrayed a negative image of people with O.C.D. That's what I have." His knee was know bouncing up and down like a jackhammer on the ambulance floor. "I have rituals that I need to do."

I asked if he didn't mind sharing them and he quickly became uncomfortable. I apologized, "I didn't mean to insult you," I said.

"That's okay. You've been very nice to me. Thank you. I can't void and I believe I need a catheter."

As we neared our destination he briefly looked up at me, still refusing to make eye contact, and said, "My biggest fear is that people will think I'm stupid. I don't want people to believe I'm stupid."

I looked at him, locked his eyes with mine and said, "Me too."