I am a quitter.
The classrooms resemble those found in the public sector; student work on the walls, coats hung up on hallway coat racks, and teachers' desks stacked with work. The teachers here are the most normal of the employees. They all carry permanent scowls, worried brows, and are generally unfriendly. That's understandable. Burnout here comes swiftly. I walk by them and jaunt upstairs to Accounting.
Usually getting my check is a lot like Button-Button Who's Got The Button? A typical payday goes like this:
"We don't have your check, Personnel does."
I go to Personnel and am told, "We don't have your check try your bosses office."
He isn't in so I go back to Accounting and plan to raise a ruckus until a new check is issued.
The accounting office is incredibly disorganized. The staff sits behind strangely arranged room dividers and does who knows what. Paper is stacked everywhere and a portable radio plays an oldies station. I find the woman in charge and begin the game.
"Hello?"
"Hello. How are you feeling?"
"Fine. May I have my check?"
"I don't know if we have it. Let me see."
She steps behind a divider and kneels before a small safe. She spins the dial and removes a manila envelope. She flips through a stack of paper and locates my check.
"Here you go."
I examine the check to make sure it's the proper amount, thank her, and leave.
I pass the nurse’s station. There are several adult clients sitting on a hall couch waiting to be examined. Their counselor, a flaming young man yells "Leave your shoes off!"
The nurses that work here have the disposition of spoiled milk. That wasn't always the case. When I first started there was a friendly, pleasant black nurse who brightened the place. She once told me this joke:
Q: What's the difference between an oral thermometer and an anal thermometer?
A: The taste.
I walk through the cafeteria making an effort not to disrupt the clients' futile chore of vacuuming the carpet encrusted with fallen food. A mural on the back wall depicts a Special Olympics event circa 1970. This brings to mind an incident in which the mural was yanked from the wall and thrown through one of the glass doors. I had to calm the distressed client. I followed his dash to the back of the kitchen. I found him crouched down behind boxes of rotting bread.
There's a slight breeze tickling the tree branches in the courtyard. A tall, drooling boy clings to the chain-link fence and stares at the activity across the street. A drug deal is made. The boy fixes on these people, oblivious to the slide, swings, and merry-go-round behind him.
I walk through the parking lot and pass the workshops and maintenance area.
I was constantly on these bone-headed mechanics about the condition of the vans. I had to schedule each dorm's usage of the vans for outings, and was continually told of their poor condition. Before my accident I was informed that the transmissions were screaming and the brakes were soft. The mechanics spend more time working on their own cars than on the vans. I'm definitely not going to miss dealing with these peanut brains.
Here are the dorms. I walk through the small courtyard past the cement fountain with no water, and the lawn decoration Christmas wise men that peer at a cement step, contemplating the absent Christ child.
My office is a large room in the long-term men's dorm. It used to be in one of the offices next to accounting, but my boss said they needed another therapy room and that I'd understand.
I step inside the dorm and find some of the guys that live here. Why aren't they at work?
"Hey Harold, you're lookin' good."
Harold is a bundle of nervous energy. He's always moving. When he stands he shifts from foot to foot, and when he's glad he rubs his hands rapidly together. He's schizophrenic. He's also manic-depressive. When he's up he has an intense grin and when he's down he sits in a corner of his room and curses and cries.
"Home? Home?"
This means he wants to come home with me.
"Now we've been through this before... "
"I know."
He hangs his head and I make my way to my office.
"I've been good. I've been no problem."
Harold follows me.
"I know you have. Where's your counselor?"
"She's gone."
I pick up the phone on my desk and dial the main office.
"She called me a bitch.”
Before this new girl, the counselor who worked with the long-term men was a big man. He was a good guy who kept me informed of what was going on with the other counselors. Unfortunately he had to quit to go home to California. His brother is dying. He told me his brother gets a can of paint and sprays it onto a sock and sniffs the fumes all day. Because of this his brother began eating ants and cigarette butts. Before he left he said all his brother would do was curl nude on his bed, twitching and babbling.
"I'm so good to you."
"You sure are Harold."
I sit at my desk and decide what I need to pack. It won't be much, just my personal belongings. Most of the other stuff in my office constitutes official documentation and paperwork and needs to stay.
Harold sits in one of the chairs and begins to talk to himself, flipping his wrists to the points he's making.
For the most part I think this place is viewed as a form of storage.
I look at a certificate that reads: 'This facility is authorized and licensed to engage in business as a residential care facility, for developmentally disabled chapter VIII-2 in accord with the conditions of the laws and regulations of The Department of Revenue and The Department of Health.'
This means nothing to me and I turn and catch a phrase Harold mutters.
Heebie jeebies.
Having spent the morning and noon hour at work gathering my stuff and saying good-bye I arrive downtown way past the lunch time crunch.
Before my wife and me were serious I would stand in the doorway of the closed May D & F when I was downtown and lose myself in thoughts of dress, undress, and lives imagined. Once a short girl using a pay phone across the street took an interest in me while making her call, and after hanging up, came over and inquired as to what I was doing.
We smiled at one another and I tried to think of clever answers to her questions. She had a cute nose and brown eyes. Her hair was permed curly and she smelled freshly powdered. We chatted for a while and she invited me to join her shopping.
That girl is now my wife.
I find my doorway, but there isn't much to see. Across the street I see a tall skinhead reach in his pocket, pull out a condiment packet like those at fast food restaurants, open it, and squirt it on the shoulder of a woman without her noticing. A nicely dressed young man sporting the same hair cut as the skinhead stops the woman and points out the ketchup, offering tissues to wipe off the mess.
As the woman cleans herself the other skinhead comes running, snatches the woman’s purse, and both guys run away. The woman screams and I run to her aid, only to realize that catching them is impossible.
They're too quick.
I tell the woman I'll call the police. She follows me to a pay phone and stands by crying.
A cop writes down our story and assures the woman that the police will do their best. This doesn't comfort her.
"Ketchup is very big around here," he explains. "They're getting people as they kneel down at St. Patrick's's up the street. While you're saying your 'Hail Marys' you get hit with ketchup and they're walking out the door with your handbag."
Church robberies.
Wonderful.
Easter is less than a week away, so on my third day of retirement my wife has scheduled for me to drive across town and pick up holiday goodies. We live close to Target, Super K-Mart, the mall, and several grocery stores. Still, the supplies required have to be bought at a specific store across town.
I'm only about eight blocks away from the store, but I'm stuck in traffic. I turn off
the radio and contemplate what to do. I spy a convenience store to my right and decide to pull in there.
I step out, locking my door and an old guy stands behind my car eyeballing its smashed condition. He shakes his head and shuffles along. I push my hands deep into my front pockets and jaywalk through the stopped cars.
On the outer perimeter of the big park up ahead there's an old house. The house looks like one that I often visit in my dreams. I decide to give it a look and veer across the park's pathway.
The house seems as old as the one in my dreams but it is brighter. The house I dream about is dark.
The park grass is starting to green and squirrels scurry and gather small pieces of paper. I bend to pick up the larger garbage and toss it in newly lined trashcans.
On the far side of the park there's a group of women, and as I step closer and bring them into focus I realize that they are topless.
I stop walking and take in the view provided at this distance: a vague assortment of exposed chests.
What should I do?
I don't want to appear lecherous, yet I'm curious. Why are these women standing about in public bare-breasted?
I decide to walk over and ask them.
"Excuse me?"
I stand a few yards back from the crowd.
"Yes?" A few women respond and turn their attention to me. I strain to keep eye contact.
"I hope you don't consider me rude, but what exactly is this about?"
A mousy blonde with pointy breasts and several brunettes with medium-sized frontages step closer.
"We're protesting a state law that allows men, but not women, to remove their shirts in public."
"I see... "
"You don't approve?" A black-haired woman, eavesdropping, tears herself away from a conversation and joins the group talking to me. Her breasts are oddly sized. The left one rests up higher.
"Do you find this threatening?" she asks.
The mousy blonde laughs.
"I think it would be more effective if you pursed this through legal channels. You know, propose some sort of law or something."
One of the brunettes answers.
"We've tried that."
Another brunette says, "We couldn't even get one representative to introduce our bill."
More of the crowd joins us.
I look at them and feel dizzy. The strain to maintain an air of respectability and not give in to my urge to examine every pair of bosoms is becoming most difficult.
"Well, good luck. If this ever comes to a vote you've got my support. I need to move along now before my wife sees me talking to you all on the evening news."
The women laugh and I leave.
Wow.
After dinner the little one and I do the dishes and my wife watches.
"I called on my lunch break and spoke with Daddy today. He suggested we should get together next week and discuss how to properly invest our accident settlement."
I rinse off a plate.
"I thought we were going to an investment counselor."
"Do you know any?"
"No."
"Well, then what do you have against meeting with my father?"
Our daughter looks up from drying a pan as if she anticipates an argument.
"Nothing."
I turn and face her.
"Good. I'll call him later."
I return to my task and hand the little one a plate.
"I still haven't gotten use to the idea of being well off."
My wife speaks then stands and pours herself a cup of tea.
"I mean, it hasn't really changed anything except you're not working."
"What are you getting at?"
I try not to sound threatened, but she can tell I may have taken her the wrong way.
"Nothing. It's just that what are we gonna do with all the money?"
"I dunno. Let's buy some stuff."
"I want some lipstick and perfume!"
My wife quickly responds to her daughter.
"Definitely not."
I hold my tongue and scrub some burnt food from a spatula.
"Why"
"Because you're too young, dear. Little girls don't wear that."
I look up and my wife hints at me for support.
I speak.
"You're not getting lipstick and that's that."
She stomps a foot.
"Young lady, curb that temper."
My wife speaks firmly and her daughter turns from her and dries some silverware.
“Am I understood?"
The little one speaks softly.
"Yes."
I unplug the drain and rinse the soapsuds from the sink.
Easter morning.
I roll over and hear our daughter poking around the house in search of dyed eggs. I sit up and grin. My wife turns on her back and pushes her scraggly wine-colored hair away from her mouth. Several Bordeaux strands stick to her freckled cheeks as she wakes. She stretches and pats the bed, yawning. I rub her back under a flannel nightshirt. I reach overand wipe the persistent hair strands away from her cheek. For a split second she appears child-like to me in a deja vu mist.
I've seen this girl when I was a boy.
We put on our robes and go to the living room and find our daughter reaching under the sofa, capturing an orange egg. She puts the egg down and comes over and greets us. My wife kneels down and they hug.
"Happy Easter, Mommy."
"Happy Easter, Sweetheart."
I lean over and give my daughter a quick kiss.
"Happy Easter, Daddy."
"Happy Easter."
She hops in anticipation of returning to her search, but waits for permission that this is okay. My wife and I sit on the couch.
"Looks like there's still lots of eggs to find."
The little one seizes her cue and resumes her search.
We hear a squeal of delight from the laundry room and she runs upstairs with her basket.
"What did the Easter bunny bring you?"
"Candy and a baby Thumper."
She pulls out the stuffed Disney rabbit and gives it a hug.
"What a pretty basket. Look at the lovely bow."
My wife reaches over and runs her finger along the silk ribbon tied to the basket's handle and pokes around the candy.
"And all this candy. Are you going to let Mommy and Daddy try some?"
"I can't read this."
She hands a box over to me.
"That's because this is Swedish."
"Oh... is that where the Easter bunny is from?"
My wife answers.
"The Easter Bunny is from all over. I bet he brought you candy from Sweden because he thinks you're special."
Our daughter looks uneasily at the boxes and I make an effort to keep her excited.
"You'd better get crackin'. There's still a lot of eggs left to find."
She hangs onto Thumper and dashes away.
"Didn't seem too impressed with the candy."
"You know her, honey, she always likes things the same. The boxes just caught her off guard."
She receives my consolation half-heartedly. Her expensive candy didn't quite get the fanfare she anticipated.
After a half-hour the little one is still four eggs short of finding all the ones hidden. My wife and I help look and strain our brains to remember where she stashed them all, finally retrieving them from a coat pocket, from inside Mr. Coffee's brown plastic filter compartment, from inside a galosh, and from inside a cup in the cupboard.
It's the second Monday of May and the weathermen are talking about summer. They can say what they want, but I've learned that weathermen are always wrong. Take an umbrella if it is forecasted to be nice. Make sure you have sunscreen if rain is predicted. That's just the way it works.
My attitude hasn't been the best lately. I've been restless and moody. My new schedule has me getting up with my wife, making breakfast for our daughter and myself, driving the little one to school, and c
oming home and watching the last forty-five minutes of the local talk show.
I turn off the television just before it slips into banality and spend the rest of the morning doing household chores. I don't mind keeping the house because it has stopped my wife's hints about me getting another job and freed our weekends, allowing us to go out and do things as a family.
Derek Henkel - The Tender Fire.txt Page 2
