Good Kings Bad Kings

by Susan Nussbaum

  If you’re thinking I’m an idiot by now, you’re not thinking anything I didn’t think to myself a hundred—no, a million times. But I swear I thought this woman was for real. I had lots of people approach me before her, same deal, “Hey, I want to rep you, I can really help you, take my card, I’m going to hook you up,” and all of that, all the time. And I knew to be on my guard. I was taking my time, taking my time, until the right thing, the right offer. And I thought she was it.

  I finally packed up my duffel bag and left Daphne’s place. I doubt she even noticed. And that was the beginning of my life in the streets for real. I tried every way I could think of to raise the cash to get back home, but I couldn’t get any work. I passed a store window one day and saw this thin, beat-down-looking woman staring out at me and realized—she was me. And by that time I looked homeless. I sure did.

  My sister, Jackie, flew me back to Chicago. Sometimes I wake up and for a few seconds I think I’m still in New York. I swear I can feel the rumbling of the subway train in my body. I have to tell myself “I’m home” a couple times, just for my heart to slow down.

  But wow. I missed my band, I missed my church, my friends, my family. And Joanne, who is somewhere between the last two. Joanne is framily.

  I never called Joanne from New York. I couldn’t. I had too much pride. Or not enough or whatever it is, but I was just in survival mode then. I was, like, totally inside myself. I don’t think I said more than thirty words out loud for the whole two months I was homeless.

  When I see her, she’s racing down the hallway to meet me. I met up with her at this place she’s working now, a nursing home for disabled kids. A few blocks from where I grew up, in Englewood. We just hugged and kept on hugging. She looks great. She just looks really—she was a sight for sore eyes, okay? I am so serious.

  We walked over to a little bar I know not too far from her job. I’m still getting over that Joanne—my Joanne—has a job.

  We were sipping our drinks and talking about—just everything, and she says, “Are you working?” and I tell her, “Only thing I could find was picking up cable boxes for Comcast. I had to drive my own car—well, my nephew’s Ford—and the gas cost more than what Comcast was paying me. So it was cake for them but I had to quit.”

  And right then and there Joanne says she could probably get me a job working at the same place she was working at. She said, “If you don’t mind doing that kind of work.” Please. It wasn’t like I hadn’t done that kind of work before. Doing personal care for people. I did it for Joanne. That’s how we met in the first place. I said, “Hey, bring it on. When can I start?”

  It took about a week. They had to do a background check, which took a long minute, and I already had my CNA—certified nurse’s assistant—and there was a training they did which was ridiculous, but hey, whatever. I would’ve leapt through a flaming hula hoop if I needed to.

  I’ve been staying with two of my nieces and their five kids and we’re squeezed in pretty tight. But now I can find something affordable in the hood. I’ll probably need a fridge and a stove, but I can get those dirt cheap in the hood too. They’ll overcharge you on delivery—that’s where the fix goes in—but if I can find a nice place with a landlord who’ll cover some of that, I’ll be cool. I’ll need a mattress from somewhere, and a plate and whatever, but that’s no biggie. I cannot even imagine what it’ll feel like to be in my own place again. Alone. Quiet. I already know what I’m going to do the first night. I’m going to light a candle, lay back on my mattress, and relax. Just feel the peace. Breathe in and breathe out. Think about . . . nothing at all.

  Ricky Hernandez

  Yeah, so I was strolling through the place looking for Candy who’s one of the houseparents, to drop off her paycheck because it was by mistake put in my envelope. I’m on my way back from a buddy a mine’s anyway, I was picking up some weights of his he was trying to unload because he’s getting his floor sanded—long story—so it’s no big deal for me to stop and drop the check, is what I’m saying. Candy works nights, so it’s a little weird because I’m not usually in the place late like that. It was midnight. So I go on up to two and one of the guys who works up there on the boys’ side, you know, he’s a houseparent, guy named Jerry, skinny as hell, he’s a little bored and does that thing people do when they want you to stop and talk. They pin you down, you know? You know, they talk nonstop, never really ending a sentence so you got no choice but to stand there. I’m okay with that because these night gigs can get pretty lonely and when everyone around you is in bed asleep, you might find yourself nodding off along with them. So I let the guy go on, just let him free-associate for a while. Sometimes I’m listening, listening, blabbety-blab, you know, and sometimes I drift away. He mostly goes on about the money, how shitty it is, how hard he’s got to work, and all of that. Then he’s off on this thing about women, and who he’s fucking or who he wants to fuck, or what he likes, or whatever. I’m like, okay. Hey, I like talking about sex as much as the next guy. And you know when you’re with another guy you’re gonna say some things you wouldn’t want to say around a woman. That’s just the way it is. I prefer talking about sex with a woman, personally. Because just talking about it—like you’re just having a conversation—that’s a turn-on. That’s all foreplay, and anytime that happens is good. I don’t care if it don’t lead nowhere, it’s still good. But talking to guys about sex—totally different thing. Guys are raw. One time—I was nineteen—I’m fast asleep over at a buddy’s house and I open my eyes and there’s a hooker, you know, giving me a blow job. My buddy’s standing there laughing. I’m sure as hell not going to stop her—hey, I’m not going to stop any woman from giving me a blow job. Plus it was my birthday present, so whatever. But what I was going to say is, I don’t have this “all females are hookers” mentality, whereas some guys are, you know, they’re definitely not cool in that area. This Jerry guy, who I’m now noticing has some real aggressive breath on him, is all “cunt” and “slit” and “bustdown” and I’m starting to, you know, to edge away from him, looking to make my getaway, and I say, “Okay, uh-huh, yeah, see you when I see you”—but the guy won’t shut up, so finally I say, “Look, man, I gotta be on my way,” and I start walking and he’s still talking and half the way down the hall I can hear him talking about some girl and she’s this and that and how he likes to fuck her or whatever but, like, it was raw. It was raw. I’m torn between stopping and telling him he shouldn’t be talking trash with kids around who might hear you, and just getting the fuck away. Then he breaks off from what he’s saying and says, “See you later. I gotta bird.”

  Creep, you know?

  I was thinking I oughta tell Joanne about this Jerry character. I remember I was thinking that. But we got off on this tangent like we sometimes do. I guess I told her like the dummy I am about that hooker / blow job experience I had way back when. She says, “So you would never turn down a blow job?” and I say, “No guy is gonna turn down a derb.” She says “A derb? Are you kidding me?” I say, “Yeah, a derb, a blow job. Same deal.” So she says, “So even someone who is being paid to have sex with you—you’re fine with that.” And I’m like, “Why not? She’s getting paid good money.” She says, “So even if this woman’s pimp forces her to either suck your dick or get the crap beat out of her, that’s okay with you? Because women love sucking off strange men’s cocks, so it’s worth it for her?” So I say, “You don’t know she had a pimp.” Then she says, “What about the women and girls and boys who get kidnapped off the streets of Ukraine or Mexico or the Philippines and forced into sex slavery? You would be just fine if a slave gave you a blow job?” So I say, “I’m not hiring anyone to give me a blow job! It was this thing that happened when I was nineteen!” She says, “But you said you could never stop anyone from giving you a blow job. Excuse me, a ‘derb.’ ” I say, “When did I say that?” She says, “You said you’d never stop anyone from giving you a blow job.” I say, “I’m just saying I like blow jobs.” So now instea
d of this conversation going in the direction I hoped, she gets into this thing about women and children being forced into sex slavery. She shakes her head and says, “You’d let Hitler give you a blow job?” So I say, “Yeah, I’d love Hitler to give me a BJ. Why not?” And then I could see her turn her head down and try not to laugh and she says, “It would be fun for you to look down and see that little mustache going up and down, up and down, huh?” And I say, “Ooh, you’re getting me hot,” and she looked at me and rolled her eyes, and she is damn cute when she does that. Maybe she’d kill me for saying this, but that whole conversation? It was a turn-on for me.

  Only thing is, I never told her about Jerry the sex fiend. It’s probably no big deal. Guys like that are all talk for the most part. You might not pick him out for Houseparent of the Year, but you know. Can’t fire a guy for talking, right? He’s got the right not to remain silent.

  Mia Oviedo

  The firs’ time he come I was sleeping. He pull open my eyes and I don’t know what is happening. I say, “What you doing?” I wan’ to say, “Stop doing it,” but he put something in my mouth. He put something like a towel in there real hard and hold his han’ over my mouth and the thing he put in there, in my mouth, it push in my throat and I can’t breathe. I make a noise and he tell me something real bad, real . . . bad in my ear real close so nobody hear. I know something bad going to happen. He talking to me and I don’t understan’ what he say because he talking so fas’ in my ear and I don’t want to know what he say and I so scare you can’t belief it. He smell bad. He smell like, he smell like, something bad, something—it make me sick. It make me sick! Help! I can’t breathe! I know what he want to do! “Please no, no,” I say. “I don’t want to—don’t, don’t, I don’ want—stop it, no lo hagas, déjame. ¡Déjame! ¡Me estás lastimando! Déjame, por favor, por favor. No más, no más.”

  He stop it then. He looking at the door. His hand still on my mouth. He whisper at me. He mad at me.

  I no tell. I say, “No le voy ha decir a nadie, sí, sí, no le voy ha decir a nadie. I not going to tell. I not going to tell nobody.”

  And then Jerry let go of me and he go away.

  When I cry I trying not to make no noise. But I still very scare and I keep awake after that. I keep awake all night and when it not so much dark no more I close my eyes but it don’t matter because he inside my eyes.

  Jimmie, she is new, come to help me to get dress in the morning an’ she see I throw up in my bed but she not mad. She is very nice. She say am I sick and I say to her I not sick, I ate a bad thing, and she saying do you feeling better and I say I feeling better. She wash me and she say, “You got your period? There’s a little blood here,” and I not sure what to say. I say, “I don’t know.” Jimmie say, “Do you want me to put a pad on you?” I say, “Yeah, okay.” Jimmie say, “Didn’t you just have your period?” and I say, “I don’t think,” and Jimmie say, “Is only a few spots but maybe you wanna stop by the infirmary, okay?” I say, “Yeah, okay.”

  I pray alla the time that he don’t come back. I don’t tell nobody what he do so he won’t be mad. When I am in the bed and it get dark I see him there, he watching from the closet. He sitting on the top. On the top of the closet. Like he be sitting on the top and at firs’ you don’t see him so good because is so dark but then you see him like a big bird holding on with his claws and he watching. Oh my goodness, I so scare then. I want to scream when I see the big bird but I don’t want to make no noise. I not sleeping till the sun come in and make the big bird go away.

  Las’ night he come back. I hear shoes walking outside the door and I so scare that he coming and nobody hear him. Not Fantasia, not Candy, not nobody. Candy the houseparent don’t hear him and no one hearing him but me. Fantasia in the bed nex’ to me. She sleep too hard. Nothing waking her up.

  He sneak in my room and put his han’ over my mouth. He say I better not to say nothing or he put something big in my mouth and he laugh. He say am I gonna be a good girl and I say yeah, yeah, I a good girl but I don’t say it, I jus’ nodding. He take away his hand then and I don’t say nothing. I a good girl.

  He whisper a lot of things. I pray for God to take me, please, God, I want to die. He put his face close and he say, “I gonna eff you. You want me to eff you,” and all bad things like that and he putting his tongue in my mouth. No, no, no lo hagas, no lo hagas, and he put his hand on my—you know, and my legs. I want him to stop. I screaming and screaming but again his hand on my mouth very strong on my mouth and I can’t breathe and I can’t do nothing. He do the bad thing to me. Oh, me estás lastimando, no Papi, no más. ¡No más! ¡Por favor no más! He say don’t tell. ¡No le voy ha decir a nadie! He say nobody gonna belief me. They never belief me. He say, “Snitches get stitches.” Snitches get stitches.

  He say, “I like it when you call me Papi.”

  Today I don’t feel so good. My coochie hurt real bad. I never telling. I swear God.

  Teddy wan’ to eat breakfast at my table. I don’t wanna eat nothing and I don’t wanna talk and I want for Teddy to stop. He laughing all the time like something so funny. Like he know about me. Like he know. Teddy just laugh and laugh with his friends. I ask for Toya please I gotta go to the bathroom please and she take me. I keep my head down so nobody see my face. I thinking, “Why he say I call him Papi?”

  Joanne Madsen

  Mrs. Phoebe says we get audited every year and the services the kids receive have to be in the database. There’s also the possibility of a surprise inspection by the state although she says that’s very unlikely because ILLC is so well managed. My immediate task is to enter everything on record starting from now and working backward to 2000. That’s over ten years of three- or four-inch-thick files per criplet.

  The paperwork in the files is often illegibly handwritten, in pencil sometimes, has stains of unknown origin, or never made sense in the first place. Some forms were used for a few years and discontinued. Others were invented along the way. There’s no consistency to how they’re filled out—some people write three paragraphs and some write three words. Besides histories, the forms are supposed to record the health care the kids receive, the amount of medical supplies each kid uses, doctor appointments, counseling sessions, release-of-information forms, hospital stays, number of recreation hours spent, transportation provided. Number of pickles eaten, amount of air breathed, blinks per hour. I’m in the belly of the beast.

  Mrs. Phoebe says they are changing over to a better system where the houseparents will input data onto computers themselves. She says all this will happen in about six months, but they have to get up to date. I ask who will train the staff in the use of the database and she says, “I thought you would do that.” I’m a dead man.

  After a few hours of typing in all this minutiae my neck starts aching and my eyes get blurry whenever I look away from the computer screen. My pupils have dilated to the exact circumference needed to stare at black letters on a white screen. Looking down a hallway or at someone’s face is actually painful.

  I have to tilt. My wheelchair has a miraculous tilt mechanism. I press a button and it tilts back. You can tilt back so far you’re actually looking at the ceiling. You can’t imagine the practical applications this has. Besides the obvious, which is comfort. Take the dentist, for instance. It’s bad enough to have to go to the dentist, but imagine having to ask him to help lift you out of your wheelchair and into the dentist chair. I mean, really. Inevitably one of your shoes falls off during the process and your clothes get all smashed up and then you get two or three hygienists in there apologizing way more than is necessary. Now all I have to do is tilt and cringe.

  After days and weeks of nothing but forms and numbers, you’ll start to notice how certain forms you wouldn’t expect to see all that often seem to pop up quite a bit. And some forms you’d predict you’d see all the time you rarely see at all. For example, out of approximately eighty kids, how many times do they end up in the hospital in a seven-month period? Not just t
he ER but full admission. A few? Ten? Try thirty-two full admissions in a seven-month period. Those are documented instances of the ILLC doctor on call—Dr. Caviolini—referring a child for a hospital stay. About nine infections and eight pressure sores. Sixteen trips for what appear to be several CTs or MRIs and various other tests per kid. One girl died from MRSA, that superbug the hospitals are freaked about because it’s almost antibiotic resistant. That’s a lot—a lot of serious health problems. I haven’t been in an emergency room or admitted to a hospital in years. And I am really disabled. Really disabled. In theory, at least, they’re supposed to keep these kids healthy.

  At about five thirty I go down the hall to the accessible bathroom that I share with the girls. None of the staff bathrooms have accessible stalls, of course. At ILLC, all crips are children, including me, apparently. Mrs. Phoebe even pats me on the head from time to time. I’ve tried to object, but it happens really fast, like a drive-by patting.

  Most of the kids are in the cafeteria at the moment, so I have the bathroom more or less to myself. There’s a girl about ten years old who has just finished spraying her hair with what smells like bug repellent and is now leaving.

  “Hi, Cleo, bye, Cleo,” I call to her.

  “Bye, Jane,” she says. Most of them don’t know my name yet. But they’re getting closer.

  Ricky drives me home about twice a week. He comes by my office at six o’clock. Sometimes we go to Mr. Beef and sit in the ILLC bus eating and talking. Tonight we’re on our way to a place called La Fonda in Pilsen.

  I’m taking a few swallows of beer when he says, “Want to come to my nephew’s birthday party?”

  It takes all my self-control to refrain from a spit-take. I’m unprepared for the family thing to rear its ugly head so soon. I’m 90 percent sure the invitation means no more or less than any of Ricky’s questions—his conversation is relatively free of subtext. In any case, there’s no way I’m going. Where there’s a birthday party, there is family, and you never know how someone’s family is going to react. To the disability.