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 every 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
