Out Cold ddm-3

by Tom Schreck

  "So, what's keeping you from getting involved with her again?"

  "Well, after I got out, I fucked around with the drinking, you know the whole bit and now the mother has a restraining order on me." He looked over his shoulder and back, and wiped the corner of his eyes before he spoke again.

  "Duff, I love that girl, and I know the kind of man I've been, but I want to be in her life. I want a chance. A chance I know I probably don't deserve." He sniffed real hard, hung his head, and cursed.

  I sat silently, pretending to be naturally therapeutic. That sounds better than being naturally without-a-fucking-clue what to say next.

  "Duff, I've been good with the AA. I've been tryin', I've really been fuckin' tryin'…" He stopped, sniffed, wiped his eyes and looked away to try to hide it.

  "There are channels you can go through with family courts. You could get a lawyer," I said.

  "I tried that shit, but who's going to give me a break? I'm a fuck up. I know that."

  This might be the space where you think a super competent counselin' guy might say something along the lines of 'Don't give up! The system will help you out!' I've worked in that system. It won't help you out, especially if you're Sparky and you're a drunk, a firebug, and a guy with a history. That's the truth and if you're in the real world you know it's the truth. Still, I kind of felt like I played out the therapeutic silence thing, so I found myself saying, "You can stay with it, man. Work the system and don't give up. Don't let it make you drink," I said, like an asshole. There's something about being a counselor that forces bullshit out of your mouth even when you don't want it to.

  "It's tough Duff, I feel like drinking. I'll tell you, but not being able to see Kristy would be just an excuse. I know."

  "I guess it's an acceptance thing," I said. One of those things I said instead of saying: 'It sounds like you're shit out of luck to me.'

  "What's the ex's name. I never hear you mention her."

  "Paula Bentley, she's a Crawford girl; we met at McDonough High. She lives out in Vorhees Park and works at the high school as a school nurse. She's all right-the whole shit's my fault."

  "Yeah, I'm sorry, Sparky. I'm not sure what you can do except wait it out."

  "Yeah, I know, Duff."

  Later we talked about AA and what it means to get a sponsor. I let Sparky know it's best to find someone he could relate to, who has at least five years clean and who isn't a woman. The Sparkman nodded and acted like he gave a shit, but I knew he got stuck on seeing his daughter. It got me thinking guys who have to quit drinking don't have the luxury of taking little mental vacations like I do when I visit AJ's. The booze causes more trouble than the little vacays and it just doesn't work for them. Consequently, they're left with having to think their thoughts and figure shit out.

  That didn't sound like any picnic and it made me wonder if I'd be stuck thinking about Mr. Aberman with his pants around his ankles misusing his wife's cooking oil.

  Thank God I could drink.

  I finished up with Sparky and had kind of shit feeling. I know things don't get better just because a guy gets better, but it seemed like Sparky could use a break. Maybe it just wasn't to be.

  12

  I called Crawford Medical Center and found out Karl hadn't gone AMA. A quick call to Rudy informed me he suspected even if Karl had wanted to split he probably wouldn't be up for it. He also went on to say the guy got more depressed and barely spoke to anyone-even about conspiracy theories. Trying to figure out how to cheer up a guy who believed everyone was out to get him was tough. I figured I'd pop in on him so he'd have someone to talk to, seeing as I was about the only guy in his life. He didn't trust me, but I think he had begun to feel he was letting his guard down with me, even if it was just a little bit. Whether that assumption was correct or not, I just wasn't sure, but I felt like I had to go check him. I didn't want to get to the hospital right at the confusion of dinnertime and shift change, so I headed home for an hour or so to check on Al and to grab something to eat.

  When I came in the door Al had climbed up on the back of the chair arguing with the sparrows again. His excitement over seeing me threw off his equilibrium and though he tried to get the last word in with the sparrow, his split attention twisted him up and he fell over backward. This time he had a soft landing into the seat of the chair and just sort of slumped off of the chair on to the floor. He ran over to me and jumped up and yelled his enthusiasm and affection for me as I tried to make it through the house.

  I cracked open a Schlitz, hit the remote, and eased back on to my couch to watch a little TV. My arm rested on the plain wood of the arm. I noticed bite marks on the wood, though not many. Apparently, Al didn't need to add wood fiber to his diet at this time.

  CNN was still breaking down the 'Massacre at the People of God Church' and profiled their leader Rukhaber. They went over his history as an Iraqi vet and his career as a 'private contractor' in a private security force. The news people discussed the role of private security in relation to the army. The best I could figure, they were mercenaries doing pretty much the same thing soldiers did, only for a lot more money. At some point Rukhaber had a falling out with his employers and turned into the fanatical, nutjob, church guy. Al sat at my feet staring at me without blinking. He hummed progressively louder in a way I've come to know builds to a crescendo-the kind of bark that goes through your head like an ice pick. I hated that bark and did whatever I could to circumvent its occurrence. The Schlitz was cold and the couch felt good, but no amount of denial could prevent the oncoming barking, so I knew time had come to give Al what he wanted. The building urgency from Al meant he wanted either to eat or walk. The fact of the matter was he always wanted to eat, but sometimes he needed to walk. 'Walk' is actually just a polite euphemism for taking a shit, but society kind of frowns on the use of that terminology in social conversation. Nonetheless, Al's walks often looked like crawls where he slowly sniffed the ground for an hour looking for the exact right spot to leave his fecal calling card. Al put in his day planner ever morning, with an A2 priority next to it. Eating got an A1 for first priority, while A3 penciled in his twenty-two hours of daily sleep. The rest of the task list items were minor activities centered on annoying me.

  So, despite how comforting the Schlitz-couch continuum, it was time to let Al lead me down Route 9R in search of the ultimate canine crapping experience. I got up from the couch, which signaled to my friend a walk's eminence. I put on my sneakers and he went off, not being able to control his glee at the thought of taking a crap in tall grass. When I got the leash it sent him over the top, and he jumped up and kicked me in the nuts. I don't like getting kicked in the nuts.

  I doubled over in pain and repeatedly yelled the word 'fuck' which I believe Al mistook for 'walk' This got him even more excited and he jumped up and headed butted me which sent a thick throb through my cranium. I followed that action with more 'fucks' and Al got even more revved up. Before I could get the leash fastened Al took a leak on the carpet in front of the door.

  I love the company and unconditional love of a pet.

  Al waddled his way down 9R busily searching for the exact ideal spot to do his thing. His waddling got more pronounced and the telltale back arch seemed to indicate something, but he wasn't quite ready. It took another half mile before he went all the way and left a fifteen-pound prize on the side of the road. I did my best to imitate a Sea World deep-diving showman by not breathing. I didn't time my exhalation correctly and my respiratory system forced me to do a gigantic inhalation. I snorted like I was in the VIP room of Studio 54 in '77. Al's essence filled my sinus cavities until my body rejected it and I went into a coughing spell. Al ignored me and lay down next to it and closed his eyes. The whole curved back, muscle contraction thing involved in this bodily act had made him sleepy.

  I wasn't ready to stand in the funk watching Al go into REM, so I began to walk, pulling him. I don't know if you've ever taken an 85-pound Basset out for a drag, but it isn't a lot of fun.
I've always thought they should add it as an event in that bizarre 'World Strongest Man' competition you see on ESPN late at night. It could be put right after they make the Bulgarian guy carry an AMC Gremlin on his back while he walks through molasses. They'd have to cover the basset in Vaseline or something to prevent road burn' or put him in a spandex suit' but I'm sure they could work it out.

  Al began to come to about twenty yards into our drag. He stopped and did the tornado-basset thing to clear his jowls and than reluctantly joined me in the walk. Because there are no sidewalks and because there aren't many humans inhabiting the region' I reasoned it was permissible for me to leave Al's biodegradable contribution to the eco system in its natural state and not pick it up.

  That, and the fact I found it disgusting.

  We made it back to the Blue. I grabbed the keys to the Caddy and went to head out to the medical center. Al beat me to the door and got in between me and the knob. When I'd go to grab the knob he'd jump up and knock my hand away from it. This was his subtle way of letting me know he wanted to come along.

  I knew better than to fight with Al, so I opened the passenger side of the El Dorado and hoisted him up. His tail wagged; he knew he had conned me into giving him what he wanted. He gave me a look that half said, 'Thank you Duffy, you're a kind and benevolent master' and 'Duffy, you're a sap.'

  Shortly after he proceeded to commence drooling on the orange velour of my passenger seat. He started a fresh spot, of course, because it just isn't any fun drooling into an existing and crunchy old drool spot. Other than the drool oozing from Al's mouth he remained motionless on the trip.

  We pulled into the medical center parking lot. I cracked a couple of the windows and headed to the entrance. Al did not accept this move. He began to bark in rapid-fire progression, then alternated the bark riot with long Ahoooos. People started to stare and a security guard began to walk toward me, so I headed back to the car and got him out. He cheerfully plopped down on the pavement and looked up at me as if to say, 'What next?'

  Next was how to get Al into the hospital and up to Karl's room. I had been caught trying to pass Al off as a therapy dog at a nursing home. Suffice it to say I didn't convince anyone there, and there were probably posters of him and me all over nursing stations in Crawford. I decided to take my chances. We headed in the main entrance past the reception desk. At the desk sat a woman of maximum density, wearing a headset and a thin, but very visible, black mustache and a dress resembling something you might throw over your boat to protect it in the winter.

  Ironically, a big sign hung next to her desk. It said 'Snack Attack Collection Site: Bring in Canned Meat!' I knew it was for the soldier thing, but it was an odd juxtaposition of messages next to this particular receptionist.

  "Oh, a new therapy dog! Isn't he precious!" she yelled to us across the desk.

  My therapy dog is a sap for affection and charged the receptionist with a forceful gusto that broke him free from my grasp.

  "Oh, what a sweet boy. You're a good boy!" She said. Al stood on his two back legs, his front paws resting on the receptionist's ample bosom, licking her face. She had her eyes closed and was taking it all in.

  It was like a car wreck and I couldn't not watch.

  "What's his name. He's gorgeous!"

  "His name is Al," I said. Al dropped down to all fours. "He's a good boy."

  Al had worked his way in between the woman's thighs. She tried unobtrusively, to nudge him away, but he resisted and stuck his nose right between her legs.

  It was a socially awkward moment.

  "Al is a basset hound." I heard myself say. The receptionist looked at me, strained to push Al's nose away.

  "Basset hounds are scent hounds and they are bred for hunting and tracking small animals like rabbits, gophers, or woodchucks." I had no idea why I went on like this, but I felt I had to say something.

  Al sneezed and the receptionist yelped

  He went right back to where he was.

  I reached in with the leash to try to get him hooked up again but the positioning of her thighs and Al made it impossible. Al sneezed again.

  This time I got him hooked up. I pulled as hard as I could and got him out of there. I didn't get a chance to say goodbye. The rest of the walk to Karl's room was mostly uneventful. Al pranced along at my side, getting smiles from the cute nurses, who seemed appreciative of his volunteerism as a therapy dog. Al started to pant partly from the exercise, but also from the sheer joy of interaction in the world. It was Al's world and the rest of us just lived it.

  Karl was sitting up, staring at the TV when we came in. He didn't turn our way when we entered. I let Al walk over to him and surprise him. Al was good in new situations, and he was cautious in this new environment filled with new smells, lights, and gauges.

  "Whoa, looky here. Hey there hound dog!" Karl snapped out of his trance and bent over to rub Al's ears. "Hey fella, what's happening, my man!" A full moment or two before Karl noticed me in the room.

  "Hey Duffy, who's this?"

  "That's Al," I explained to Karl it was short for his hard to pronounce Muslim name.

  "Hey man, Assalaamu alaykeum! My brother," Karl said rubbing Al behind the ears.

  "Ahooo, Ahooo, Ahooo," Al said.

  "Why does he have a Muslim name?"

  "He was in the Nation of Islam security force as a man trailer and bomb sniffer, but he got asked to leave on account of hygiene issues," I said.

  "That's it Al-stick it to the man!" Al jumped up on Karl's lap and started to lap at his face. Karl smiled from ear to ear. I had never seen him so happy.

  "Karl, how are you feeling?" I asked him.

  "Great, now. I love dogs, man. They're pure, you know. They ain't about fuckin' with you and manipulating you with some silent agenda."

  I thought about Al eating my couch, kicking me in the nuts, and waking me up every morning at four a.m. for his breakfast. It didn't seem all that pure of heart to me.

  "Good boy, good boy," Karl said.

  Al growled.

  "What's a matter, what did I do Duff?"

  "He doesn't like being called 'boy'. Comes from back in his Muslim days."

  "Oh. Sorry my brother. Good dog, good dog!" Al went back to licking his face.

  I wanted to talk to Karl and didn't know how to broach it, but I had never seen him in such a good mood. I didn't want to waste it.

  "Karl, who beat you up this time? What happened?" I said. He kept playing with Al and began to talk without looking at me.

  "Whatever happens man? I was in the park minding my own business when I get grabbed from behind and a knife is put to my neck. The next thing I know its lights out and I'm in here."

  "Were you going on talking to people about conspiracies and that shit or were you really minding your own business?"

  "The conspiracies ain't shit. That's what they want you to think. Look at all this shit here." He pointed to all the medical equipment. "Who's paying for it? I sure as hell ain't. So who's paying for it? Who paid for it to be here for a guy like me to use?

  Who benefits? Follow the money, Duffy."

  "That's the kind of shit. Were you yelling that in the park and getting on people's nerves?"

  "It's too bad if it gets on their nerves; they need to be enlightened."

  "Karl-people hate to hear this kind of shit. That's what keeps you getting your ass kicked-Don't you see?"

  "And I suppose you just want to sit back and let shit happen. Just like this massacre bullshit. Massacre at People of God. What a crock!"

  "Now, right there-cut that shit out. You keep saying this ambiguous shit and then acting like you knew it all along. Did you know anything about this before it happened?"

  "How could you not know? This Rukhaber, you'll find out sooner or later he was CIA, FBI, Secret Service, or something. Then whoever claims that will get discredited, caught with child porn or they'll just disappear. Watch-"

  "What the hell are you talking about Karl?"

&nb
sp; "It's like the black man. Every time we get a black hero they seemingly fuck it up. King, Malcolm X, Ali-you name them. If they're not homogenized like Michael Jordan they get destroyed. That's why you get fools like Sharpton as spokesmen. It's an automatic discredit."

  "Karl…you've predicted, at least sort of, two events. Do you know they're going to happen?"

  "Duffy, Duffy-I'm a whack job, how would I know?" He went back to playing with Al's ears. Al went back to ahoooing.

  "So tell me what's happening next?" I stared right at him. He shrugged and smiled a crooked smile.

  "Let's see, we've had the act of God with a fire, we had the bogeyman getting blown up… hmmm…let me see. I'd guess it's about time for some sort of poison scare. You know, something shows up in the water, some senator gets some white powder, some bad Tylenol…that gets the ignorant masses petrified." Al laid on his belly all spread out and snoring. I didn't have any idea what Karl raved on about, and I thought, maybe, I really had gotten hit on the head too much. CNN showed a collage of Rukhaber's photos on the screen. It ended with him in his desert khakis in a shot from Iraq.

  Karl laughed out loud.

  13

  I got to the office the next morning and checked out Karl's file. The only information in it was the info I had put in it, which, by the way, meant there wasn't anything in it at all except names and addresses. Karl had refused to give me much personal stuff, because of his New World Order bullshit. I knew his folks were dead, he lived at the Westview Apartments-or at least said he lived there, and he had been born thirty miles away in Vorhees Park.

  I checked with Trina, but nothing had shown up from the VA. The prospect of getting some worthwhile info on Karl didn't look bright. I didn't really care, clinically, about getting information, because all it tended to do was make a file really fat. We had plenty of records weighing twenty pounds because of the amount of useless counseling the client's had had over the course of their lives. It didn't really improve their treatment outlook much.