'That's what you want, isn't it? That's what they've all wanted since I enlisted. Keeps me in the program.'
'The program?'
'Oh, you don't know about the program, ha! When did they get you?'
I didn't remember getting into the program. I did remember Karl was just about due for a psych consult and I thought maybe we could put him number one with a bullet on the waiting list.
'Karl, how's your drug use been lately?' I said, temporarily trying to steer the session away from all things conspiratorial.
'The drugs have kept me a slave at times, but it's a slavery I welcome compared to the other choices,' Karl said.
'What does that mean, Karl? The part about slavery?'
'As long as you're hooked they can control you. Shit, why do they introduce you to the stuff? It's just another way for the man to get you under his thumb.'
'But Karl, it's your choice to use drugs, isn't it?'
'It is now, but it wasn't then,' Karl said and punctuated it with a sneer.
'Huh?'
'Never mind, Dombrowski,' Karl looked me straight in the eye. 'Never mind.'
My advanced psychological training, which amounted to my junior college diploma from an online school of higher learning, told me I should continue to provide unconditional positive regard to my client by moving to a subject we mutually agreed would be more beneficial.
That and the fact the current line of conversation drove me up the fucking wall.
'How's life at the Mission?' I asked, inquiring about Karl's department of social services financed living situation.
'It's great because I left.'
'Why? Does that mean you're out on the street?'
'I like the street. They can't keep such a close eye on you when you don't have an address. The man likes it when you have an address.'
'Yeah, but isn't there something to be said for warmth, shelter, and three squares a day?'
'It's August, it gets a little cool at night, but it's worth the freedom.'
It's sessions like this that make me question the overall utility of human services. I wasn't sure what exactly I did for old Karl except piss him off and make him more suspicious. I also wasn't sure what kept him coming, but I hazard the guess even Karl, despite all his talk, liked his monthly DSS check.
'Have you formed any positive relationships in the last week?' I hated asking cliched human services questions, but Karl had me kind of stymied.
'Positive relationships,' Karl smiled out of one corner of his mouth. 'Counselor, Dombrowski, do tell me what makes a relationship positive.'
'You know, uh…relationships marked by…' He'd caught me spouting bullshit and he knew it. So did I. An awkward silence hung and Karl gave me a self-satisfied smile while I squirmed with really nothing of substance to say. Finally, he broke the silence.
'Do you know about the fires? Or, are you going to play dumb?'
'What fires?'
'Yep, I knew you'd play dumb.'
I looked at Karl and kind of squinted, which made my head throb a bit. I really wasn't up for another go around.
'You know Karl, we've probably covered enough for today,' I said.
'What ever you say commandant-I know better than to disobey. I remember what you did last time I did.' I didn't.
I walked Karl out and went to see Trina about getting Karl in for a psych session with Dr. Meade as soon as possible. Trina stood at the file cabinet, up on her tiptoes, trying to water her spider plant. She wore a pair of 501's and the denim hugged every turn her body took. Her stretching to take care of her plant gave me an extra treat for which I offered the good Lord gratitude. She had the radio on the FM classic rock station.
'Trina can we get Karl into to see Meade ASAP?' She recoiled from her watering position.
'ASAP is six weeks.'
'Oh, come on-really?'
'You can get him in for a med review Thursday, but for only fifteen minutes.'
We only had Meade, the shrink, one day a week. It wasn't enough, but that was the world of non-profit human services in Crawford, New York.
'I'll take the med review.'
'Med reviews are not to be used as a substitute for therapeutic psych visits,' I heard from over my shoulder.
'Good morning, Claudia,' I said to the Michelin Woman. Claudia Michelin, the clinical director and my nemesis who lived for the bureaucratic paperwork I detested. She had been trying to fire my ass for the last six years and had come close plenty of times.
'Trina, don't schedule Karl in med review spot. Give him the next available therapeutic session,' Claudia said. Claudia, nearly six feet tall, with a black perm was a rice cake shy of 250 lbs, hence, my private nickname 'The Michelin Woman.'
She turned and headed toward her office. Trina rolled her brown eyes at me and I shrugged my shoulders, which made my head throb again.
'You all right?' Trina said.
'Yeah, why?'
'You just wobbled.'
'Wobbled? I didn't wobble.'
'You wobbled.'
'Bullshit.'
I didn't feel much like arguing about my gait, especially as the throbbing returned, so I turned to head toward my cubicle, when Clapton's Layla faded out, and the radio news came on.
'Six dead, twenty more hospitalized in a fire at ROTC training camp believed to be deliberately set…'
3
I started to think Karl might be on to something. Then I realized everyday there's a fire someplace, and mentioning a fire might occur somewhere in the world-with no other reference point what so ever-didn't exactly put Karl on par with Nostradamus.
I headed to the 'Y' for a quick workout and to blow off some steam. Still stiff from last week's work, but I knew if I got a workout in, the body would start to loosen up a bit. I had my sweats on and went through the process of wrapping my hands when the throbbing around my temples went up a gear. It didn't hurt a lot, but I did notice it. After a minute or two it subsided, or at least I thought it did.
The Crawford 'Y', built in the 1920's, remained an old time 'Y'. No aquamarine colored exercise machines, no tanning beds, and generally a complete absence of fad type stuff. On the other hand it had no shortage of the sort of stuff that made old time YMCAs creepy. It had too many guys in the health club who just spent too much time in the nude, walking around and doing nothing else. I'm not sure where they read watching TV with your nutbag on a vinyl couch for two hours qualified as good cardio work, but no shortage of guys who did just it every single day.
The Y also featured the dying breed of handball players. The same six or eight guys who played every day for the last 90 years and appeared to hate one another. The white hoop players and the younger black hoop players who, without really anyone saying anything, segregated themselves into two different court like at Selma, Alabama in the mid-60s. They played two styles of ball. On those rare occasions when the games somehow got integrated
