Back at the office at least by Trina noticed my absence.
'Where the hell have you been?' Trina said when I set foot in the door.
'The hospital,' I said.
'Thank God. It's about time you got that head thing checked out.'
'I visited Karl. What head thing?'
'C'mon, Duff.'
'I'm serious-what head thing?'
'You're wobbling around, complaining of head aches, you lose things, and you repeat yourself.'
'C'mon…'
Trina just looked at me. Our eyes locked for just a couple seconds longer than usual. I couldn't say for sure, but I thought she welled up a little. She shook her head in disgust.
'Why?'
'Why, what?'
'Why do you insist on doing something that hurts you so,' She looked away.
'Because I can't sing or dance…'
'It's not funny-and aren't you supposed to be getting married? I mean, doesn't that change anything for you?' Trina busied herself with stuff around her desk. I got the message women are so good at sending, that the interaction was over. Back at my cubicle the voice mail left me four messages. Two from the Department of Social Services, most probably looking for some documentation I hadn't sent them, and one from the probation department also probably looking for documentation. There was also one from the Veteran's Administration medical records department. I called the VA
'Medical records,' the voice droned.
'Yes, I'm returning a call. My name is Duffy Dombrowski. I had requested the record of Karl Greene. I'm a counselor at Jewish Unified Services in Crawford, New York,' I said as officially as I could muster.
'The file you requested is currently under review at another site and there will be a delay in getting it to you.'
'Isn't there a copy you can send or a summary?'
'We don't keep copies, sir.'
'Can you just send me the discharge summary?'
'The discharge summary is with the chart, sir.'
'Can't they send me a summary?'
'They don't do that, sir.'
'Well, when can I expect the chart?'
'I have no way of knowing, sir.'
So it went, a shining example of government efficiency. I looked in my appointment book. I saw my first appointment of the day was with 'Sparky'. I look forward to meeting with him because he was really trying, and it is energizing to do that kind of work. I mean Eli was great and I felt for the Abermans because they were chronically unhappy, but honestly, they weren't going to change. Eli liked getting high and running the streets. It was what he was into, and playing the clinic so he would get his welfare check was part of it. He wasn't mean or obnoxious about it, but I knew the role I played with Eli.
The Abermans somehow either enjoyed-that seems too strong a word-maybe they bonded to being unhappy. Mr. Aberman is stupid enough to keep his porn stash out in the open and he uses his wife's status olive oil for lubricant. If I was Freudian trained, I could make some sort of inference about the role of Mrs. Aberman's olive oil, but the more I thought about it, the more the mental image of Mr. Aberman in his cold, dank garage rubbin' one out started to bother me. I guess my point is, if you don't want your wife finding your stroke mags, hide them better like the rest of us do. Don't put them in Tupperware with the extra extra virgin olive oil on top. I think Mr. Aberman sent a message and I think the message said something along the lines of 'I resent having sex every solstice, and so you'll feel bad, I'm heading out to the power tools to grease up my tool…and by the way I'm using the goddamn overpriced oil you buy instead of the generic!'
I had difficulty shaking the visual associated with Mr. Aberman and became worried a particular mental image would be stuck in my consciousness forever. Thank God, Trina buzzed me to let me know Sparky arrived.
I met Sparky in the multi-purpose room. I could tell right away something wasn't right. Rail thin and fidgety to begin with, but today somehow he ramped it up a notch. The circles around his eyes darkened and when he blew into the room so did the smell of cigarettes. It hit me like a jab, almost like Sparky himself morphed into one giant cig.
'Duff,' Sparky looked over his shoulder and then at me. 'I need a favor.'
'Shoot, Spark.'
'I ain't never told you this.' He snapped his gum, looked over his shoulder and back again. 'I got a kid.'
'Yeah?'
'Yeah, a five-year-old little girl. I ain't never married her mother, but I used to stay in touch until I went in the joint.'
'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.
