by Tom Schreck
This seemed more than that. I’ve stayed unmarried but have had enough relationships of varying lengths to recognize the signs. It hasn’t been a particularly pretty love history for me-my relationships usually follow the same arc. First, the woman gets charmed with the fact that she’s met an adult male who is physically fit and able to speak using words with more than one syllable. During this phase, sex occurs freely and often and googly eyes are made during tender moments in which the woman usually voices her joy of just spending time with me.
That phase, which can last from several hours to almost a month, but seldom more than that, is replaced with the second phase. In the second phase, the object of my affection begins to exhibit tendencies that make me believe that she may not be quite as enamored as I thought she might be. This stage manifests itself in symptomatology such as a tendency to find fault in my hobbies, especially my devotion to boxing, a dislike for my choice of restaurants, and then, most telling, the postponement of any coital activity.
My reaction, which has been tested over more trials than I care to admit, is to deny that such symptomatology exists. Then I try to convince myself that the said object of my affection is just going through a phase.
The third and usually final phase is when my partner returns to the psychotic diagnosis that she somehow had been able to mask during our brief love affair. The psychosis can manifest itself in schizophrenic thinking, rage disorders, or complex paranoia. During this time all sexual activity ceases and the relationship ultimately implodes, followed by the request of the now psychotic partner that the two of us remain friends.
Lisa had begun to enter the second phase or was indeed battling an extended period of pre-, active-, or post-menstrual difficulty. On one of our evenings out having drinks after attending the movies, I made the mistake of asking her if she was “puffy,” my special code for menstrual-cycle-induced dysphoria. That may have been my first mistake, but it certainly wasn’t going to be my last.
“Duffy,” Lisa had addressed me with the tone you might reserve for someone who farted at a tea party, “I’m not sure you’re ready for intimacy at all.”
“I thought I was pretty ready last Saturday night, if I do say so myself,” I said with an exaggerated wink and a loving punch to her upper arm.
“Uh… that’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Lisa rolled her eyes, hunched her shoulders, and sipped her Chardonnay while turning away from me.
It was one of those unanswerable digs that a woman throws out when she wants to righteously make a statement. The fact that the statement makes no sense is beside the point. The point is, I’m an asshole, unfit for the righteous pursuit of intimacy, who has the nerve to want to have fun and enjoy sex once in a while.
She hasn’t returned my phone calls since that date and I’m not sure what happened. I’d like to say that it doesn’t bother me and try to pull off the flip “can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em” deal, but I can’t. I like Lisa, I respect her, and I think we could go someplace. I don’t get what I did wrong or what I need to do to make it better. The way she’s been acting, it could be something she just snaps out of, but something inside made me doubt it.
Anyway, her message was a simple “Duffy, please call me.” It had a weird feeling to it, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I have always talked to Trina at work about my various relationships, and right from the start she didn’t approve of Lisa. Trina made it clear that I put up with way too much goofy shit with Lisa. In fact, Trina almost always thought that the women I got involved with were way too needy and that I should choose more carefully. That always sounded good, but when it came to dating women, it’s not like they do a full disclosure when you first meet them. When I first meet them they’re always attractive, interesting, and engaging, and it usually takes time before the psychotic behavior starts. Then I’m left with trying to figure out if their wackiness is an aberration or if they really are funny-farm certifiable. Inevitably they should be getting their mail delivered to One Funny Farm Circle, Wack-job, USA.
The third call was from Walanda. She was using one of her two weekly calls to contact me from jail. She was not doing well.
“Duffy, get me out of here, they’re goin’ kill me. He has people in here… they’re goin’ kill me. Duffy, you gotta get me out of here!”
She was holding back tears and half shouting in that weird way that people sometimes do on the phone when they’re trying to control the volume of their yells.
Al whimpered when he heard Walanda’s voice.
Before she hung up, she paused and, as an afterthought, said, “Remember, don’t give Allah-King no pork.”
No doubt Walanda felt she was in trouble-the difficult thing was trying to get a handle on whether it was real or brought on by withdrawal from the lack of psychotropics, both legal and illicit, in her system. Whether or not the danger was real or imagined, her anxiety certainly was authentic. One thing I’ve learned over the years of working with people like Walanda is that reality has very little to do with emotion. Right or wrong, true or false-Walanda was hurting and hurting bad.
Her short-legged, overgrown sausage continued to whimper for a few minutes after the phone call. After a minute or two the whimpering must’ve exhausted him, because he laid down on his back with all four paws pointing straight up and went to sleep.
Even though Walanda was nuts, it didn’t necessarily mean she was imagining the danger. Still, she was coming off crack and who knows what else and probably wasn’t taking her antipsychotic medication. It would be a few days before the jail doctor would see her and prescribe her Haldol, and then a few days after that the medication would work again. The stress of being taken out of her environment, losing Al, the situation with her stepdaughter-real or imagined-and being in jail were all sufficient to put her over the edge.
Just the same, I called Kelley to see if he could help. He wasn’t in, but I knew where I could find him. I put Al’s new leash on him and we headed for AJ’s. AJ’s is a grill on the West Side, in the middle of the city’s industrial section. It was a speakeasy during prohibition, and I think that was the last time that any of the AJs had put a dime into the place. The bar has been passed down three generations to its current proprietor, the one and only Andrew Jursczak III. The place reeked of stale beer, cigar smoke, and the poor hygiene of the people who frequented the place. Kelley hung out there a lot when he was off duty.
AJ’s is a dive, which is why I like it. I parked right in front of the entrance, told Al I’d be back, and headed in. As I closed my door and walked around the car, I could hear Al’s protest. I did my best to ignore him, that is, if you can ignore the baritone woofing of a hound fixated on getting your attention.
The place is long and thin with a bar capable of holding maybe eighteen patrons, and there are a half-dozen tables set close to the wall that no one ever sits in. The walls feature old-time beer signs, not because AJ III thought they were trendy, but because AJ’s grandfather got them for free in the forties.
The regulars, or the Fearsome Foursome as I called them, were present. There was TC, a lifetime state worker, sipping a draft of Genny with a back of B amp;B. TC’s view of the world consisted of figuring the best way to expend the least amount of effort in life and maximize the greatest amount of pleasure. There was Jerry Number One, a contractor, drinking a draft of Bud. Jerry Number One told the filthiest and least funny jokes that you never wanted to hear. Next to him was Jerry Number Two, who didn’t work and took one too many acid trips, drinking his signature Cosmopolitan. Lastly, there was Rocco, a retired construction worker and a WWII vet with a scotch on the rocks in front of him. He had spent the war in Okinawa and often referred to the hand-to-hand combat he learned from the “Japs.” Age hadn’t mellowed Rocco, and at seventy-five he still hated everything and everybody, mostly because things were perfect in his day and now they completely sucked. The Foursome sat in the four seats directly behind the stick, in the same order from left to right eve
ry night.
Kelley was sitting to the left of TC with a seat in between the two of them, turned in the opposite direction toward the TV, half paying attention to the Yankee game. AJ always had the Yanks on with the TV sound turned down and a radio turned on to catch the play-by-play. I took the stool between him and TC. AJ opened a bottle of Schlitz and slid it in front of me without me asking. They kept Schlitz at AJ’s just for me.
“What’s up, Duff?” Kelley said.
“Ahh, you know,” I said. “Still in the business of saving lives.”
“God bless you, man,” Kelley said.
Kelley was the kind of guy that didn’t make a lot of small talk and, though he was good guy, you kind of got the message when he wanted to get a few beers in him and zone out while watching a game on the TV. Just the same, I needed his help tonight.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“You just did,” Kelley said.
“Seriously…,” I said.
“Go ahead,” Kelley said.
“Walanda left a message on my machine,” I said. “She was hysterical about somebody trying to kill her in jail.”
“Yeah?” he said. Kelley took a pull off his Coors Light and watched Jeter lead off the inning with a single between third and short.
“Well, should I be worried?” I said. “Do you think she’s just being nuts?”
Kelley put his beer down and swung his stool partially around.
“Look, Duff, you and me have different relationships with these people.” Kelley took a sip from his bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t want to see anyone get hurt, so don’t get me wrong, but I can’t spend a lot of time playing these things out in my head. That’s for you guys. She’s in jail because she broke the law, and I helped get her there. The long and the short of it is, jail is often a dangerous place and Walanda is crazy. Just because she’s crazy doesn’t mean she’s not in danger.”
“I think I got ya,” I said.
“Regardless of whether she’s in danger or not, there ain’t nothing you can do about it,” Kelley said.
I decided to leave it alone. I bought Kel his next round and let him get lost in the game. Meanwhile, the Foursome were locked in a heated debate about the important subject of why we have daylight-savings time.
“It’s because the farmers need the sunlight,” said Jerry Number One.
“Tell me one thing,” said Rocco. “How the hell does turning the clocks back give them more sunlight?”
“It’s simple,” said Jerry Number One. “It’s because they get sunlight earlier in the day instead of having to wait.”
“Why don’t they just get up earlier?” asked Jerry Number Two.
“They do,” said TC.
As fascinated as I was with the topic, I decided to get going and headed out the front door toward the Eldorado. From the front of AJ’s, I could see Al sitting up on the passenger seat happily chewing on one of my eight-tracks. It was the soundtrack to Paradise, Hawaiian Style, which was going to be hard to replace.
5
“Hey Duff-how can you tell when a Polack’s been using your computer?” Sam said. I did my best to ignore him.
“There’s Wite-Out all over your screen!” Sam laughed.
“Mornin’ Sam,” I said.
I was trying to catch up on my notes, which was mostly the equivalent to dabbling in fiction. Notes are supposed to be written in D-A-P format, which stands for Data, Assessment, and Plan. The idea is to make each session with a client sound strategic and planned so that if a third party, like an insurance company, picked up your files they could understand the direction your client’s life was going. Unfortunately, the lives of most people, let alone the people who find themselves in need of our services, rarely work out in neat, organized ways.
Take, for example, the session I did with Eli when he came back to treatment following the unfortunate Slurpee machine/public nudity incident. In our session behind closed doors, this is actually how it went:
Eli: “I was so trashed that the towel-headed woman looked like Diana Ross to me. Somehow I convinced myself that Mr. Endou was Barry Gordy and I know Mr. Motown gotta be into some kink.”
Me: “But Eli-they don’t look even slightly black, they work in a Mobil station, and she had on one of those Pakistani outfits. Besides all that, they said ‘no.’”
Eli: “To me it was just one of Diana’s funky outfits and I thought she was playing hard to get.”
Me: “Whatever, Eli-it’s pretty clear you ought to lay off the Olde English.”
Eli: “Fuck yeah-nothin’ but fuckin’ trouble.”
In my notes, that session appears:
D: Client discussed self-defeating behavior patterns related to alcohol use involving poor relationship boundaries.
A: Client struggles with personal relationships and uses alcohol to facilitate social interactions.
P: Client to identify alternative means of making social contact without alcohol.
Notes like this make it seem like Eli is chock full of insight and I am the ultimate conduit to him seeking enlightenment. It’s not easy being a professional in the business of saving lives.
I had seventy-five records with a ton of these notes, a few treatment plans, and treatment plan updates to do. It was boring and, as far as I was concerned, it didn’t really serve a whole lot of purpose, except for the anal retentive of the world. Unfortunately, my boss was captain of the all-anal all-star team. My guess was the Michelin Woman’s sphincter was so tight it would be easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it would be for a raisin to pass through the entire length of her digestive tract. My apologies to the biblical scholars of the world; I sure wish I didn’t think in such visual terms.
With the crazy phone call I got last night, I thought it would be a good idea to call and set up a session with Walanda in jail. The red tape that you had to go through to set up an in-jail appointment was a nightmare, and it would take two days to get an approved time. I called to get the ball rolling and was told Thursday afternoon about two p.m. would work. There was no point in trying to call her-I wouldn’t reach her, but if I did and she accepted, that would take up one of her two weekly phone calls. I had learned over the years that it was proper jailhouse etiquette to let the inmates call you, and even though Walanda had left a message for me, I should still wait for her to call me again. On Thursday I’d see her and it wouldn’t count against her phone calls.
I got through five or six records and I just couldn’t do it anymore. I know that’s what gets me in trouble, but I can’t bring myself to do shit that doesn’t matter. The threat of getting in trouble will only motivate me so much and fortunately, I had afternoon sessions. I’d rather spend time talking to the clients than writing about them.
One o’clock was Martha Stewart-not the one you’re thinking of. This Martha Stewart was a stack of flapjacks over three hundred pounds and had a history of (surprise!) compulsive behavior. The compulsive behavior included not only eating, but also obsessive sexual activity. In fact, I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone who had more sex with more people than Martha. Her issue, she told me, is that she just never felt fulfilled. She kept a running classified in the adult section of MetroCrawford, the local alternative magazine, letting the folks who were so inclined know that she was a BBW searching for fulfillment. Apparently, there was no shortage of men willing to lend a big, beautiful woman a hand when it came to her pursuit of fulfillment.
At two p.m., I had a session with Clogger McGraw. Clogger got his nickname from an unfortunate bathroom incident at a crowded party. Suffice it to say, Clogger conspicuously interrupted the natural flow of things at this gigantic house bash and was forever stuck with this incredibly visual moniker. Clog at one time was a talented navy pilot who spent his days landing F-something-or-others on aircraft carriers. Unfortunately, this activity was the most fun for the Clogman when he was stoned out of his mind. Amazingly, Clogger made it ou
t of the service with an honorable discharge. The real trouble began when he flew his single engine plane upside down under a Thruway overpass.
Never a detail man, Clogger did it a quarter of a mile from a state police barracks. After the stunt, he noticed he was dangerously low on fuel and landed the plane in the right-hand lane of I-87, just south of the New Paltz exit. Clogs still had a joint going when a trooper pulled his plane over, and they got off on the wrong foot when Clogger refused to turn down the Dead on his custom plane stereo. When the trooper tried to give him a Breathalyzer, Clogger took an exaggerated inhalation on it and thanked the officer for the bong hit. He was laughing so hard when the trooper handcuffed him that he strained an abdominal muscle.
Clogger was a trip, but he rarely showed up for sessions. He recently got his wings back on a provisional basis and he was making his money flying a plane that pulled a message behind it. Most recently he was advertising a car dealership by flying the plane past Yankee Stadium during their big weekend home stands. The Clogmeister had even developed his own following. After a few games of making the pass in his little single engine, he got bored, and boredom often led to trouble for Clog. In this case, it seemed to be harmless or at least mostly harmless.
Instead of just flying by with the sign, Clogger started to do a series of acrobatic rolls through the sky. He planned it so it would occur at the end of the bottom of the fifth inning. It got to be a favorite with the crowd and Steinbrenner, ever the businessman, even got an exemption for Clogger to fly closer to the stadium. Pretty soon after that, the Yankee radio announcers also got into the act. Now, at the end of the fifth, they went to a commercial late so John Sterling, the announcer famous for saying, “Yankees win, thhhhhhhhhhhe Yankees win!” at the end of games could announce Clogger. He would announce Clog’s arrival and then after Clog did his roll, Sterling would say, “Clogger cannnnnnns it!” It got so popular that Steinbrenner had Sterling do it over the PA, in addition to the live radio broadcast. It was pure Clogger. Being a big Yankees fan myself, I had always wanted to see the Stadium from Clogger’s view and the Clogster agreed to let me be his copilot someday. I made him promise to stay off the Thruway on the way home.
