'One of the guys got rolled in the park and I came to see him. Can you tell me what room he's in?'
'I'm glad I got a half million dollars in medical school loans. It qualifies me to be Duffy Dombrowski's personal receptionist,' he said. 'Give me the name.'
'Karl Greene.'
Rudy got out of whatever screen he was in and shifted to another. He exhaled heavily and muttered a few 'Come ons' to the slow hard drive.
'He left AMA,' Rudy said when he found the name.
'What's that mean?' I said.
'Against Medical Advice. He split even though we told him not to.'
' Hmm…'
'Look kid, I love you to death and would love to chat with you all morning but can I get back to work?'
'Yeah…sure.'
Rudy turned toward the computer and exhaled again. I stood there thinking.
Rudy stopped typing for a second and turned toward me again.
'Hey, kid, I almost forgot. Do you know any fancy caterers?
I mean who does the clinic use when they got a big deal fundraiser?'
'Caterer? What's going on, you stepping up from Dom's Sub World?'
'Well, sort of. Marie and I have been talking, and I want to throw a shindig at the house. I'm having a pool put in too,' Rudy said in a different tone. Marie was Rudy's one that got away. She didn't like Rudy's devotion to the medical profession and tendency to overwork.
'Well, well, well…' I said.
'Well, well, well up your ass.' Rudy spun around to the monitor again. I took it that he didn't want to take shit for Marie.
'I'll ask at the clinic,' I said.
'Yeah, great,' he said without turning around. I headed out.
It was after ten when I got to the clinic. The Michelin Woman stood in the reception area hanging up a poster from the state about training on compulsive Internet porn addiction.
'You're more than an hour late, Duffy,' She said, making sure the poster hung straight.
'I was at the medical center checking on Karl. He got beat up last night.'
'We've spoken before about you becoming over involved with your clients.'
'Yes, we have,' I said and walked past her.
'I'm docking you an hour and eleven minutes.'
'Swell…' I said. I headed back to my cubicle just to get away. By the time I got there Trina buzzed my extension.
'Your 10:30's here,' She said.
'I don't have a 10:30.'
'You're losing it Duff. You called Mr. Sprain yesterday to have him come in,' she said, not feigning or hiding her annoyance at all.
I told Trina to send Mr. Sprain, or as I called him 'Sparky', into the multi-purpose room for a counseling session. Sparky was an unusual client in that he actually tried to improve his life, and he had succeeded to a degree. He got the name 'Sparky' because he's an arsonist who had a history of setting fires for money. He once explained to me when he got short on cash and wanted to get high he could always find a small business owner who looked for a little 'Jewish Lightning.'
Sparky's anti-Semitic but colorful euphemism for arson not withstanding, setting fires tend to get you in trouble in our culture. The problem was Sparky was damn good at it and his services were almost always in demand in Crawford's failing economy. Even with the temptation of easy money, Sparky had been able to put together seven months of sobriety and, how do you say this…adopt a fire-setting-free lifestyle.
'What's goin' on Spark?' I said by way of an astute counseling session opener.
'Mostly good Duff, mostly good,' Sparky said. Sparky was a shifty guy-if not figuratively, literally. He never quite sat still and he had a tendency to try to crack his neck every twenty seconds or so.
'Duff, these twelve steps-do I gotta do them in order?'
'I don't think so.'
'Some guy at an AA meeting the other night told me I hadn't done Step One and was trying to do Step Four already and if I continued to do that I was sure to get drunk. I didn't understand what he was getting at.'
'Well, Step One is about admitting your life is out of hand and Step Four is about making an inventory of your life.'
'The guy said I was a dry-drunk and that I was b-u-ddingbuilding up to a drink-or some shit. He also said I wasn't keepin' it green enough and something about if I keep going to the barbershop I'm bound to get a haircut.' Sparky looked confused.
'Duff, what the fuck are these people talking about? I mean, I want to be clean, but some of this shit is a little wacky.' I resisted telling him to put 'principles above personalities or 'to take what he needs and leave the rest' or even 'one's too many and a thousand's never enough.' Instead I said, 'Ah, some of those guys are a little fucked up, Sparky. I mean, they may mean well, but some guys have never been good at anything their whole life, but AA and it gives them a chance to preach. Ignore it.'
'Thanks, Duff.'
Another existential dilemma with my fellow man solved. We kicked around another couple of things, talked about the Yankees middle relief issues and whether or not their starting rotation could go into September and October. That was more than enough for the day and we agreed to see each other next week at the same time.
I headed back to my desk and I got to my cubicle just in time to answer my phone. It was Smitty.
'Duff, how you doin'?' Smitty asked. When he called me at work it usually meant a promoter had contacted him about a fight.
'We got something?' I said.
'No son, I just called to see how you were feelin.''
'How I'm feeling?'
'Yeah, the head, is it clearin' up?'
'What the fuck are you talking about?'
'Don't get upset Duff. You should get it checked if it's still hurtin' or if, you know, you keep repeating yourself.'
'I'm not repeating myself,' I said. It wasn't like Smitty to get overly concerned about this stuff.
'Look kid; just keep an eye on it, will you?'
'Sure, Smitty, whatever. I'll see you tonight.'
'Son, take another week.'
'No, you know me, I get buggy without the work.'
'There's no sparring here for you son-take another week and we'll talk. Now, I gotta run.' He hung up. This day was shaping up as a real shit sandwich.
I checked the calendar for today and it was a beaut. The Aberman's were due in, to continue their decade- long bitch session disguised as couples counseling. Then it was Eli, who had been coming for eight years with no more than a few days here and there without his daily dose of two or three forties of Olde English, and then, Sheila, my seventeen-year-old kleptomaniac who would come in if she weren't in jail. Then the day ended with Karl, which I figured was a long shot.
'Are you talking to me?' Monique, the counselor in the next cubicle said.
'Huh?' I looked around the partition. She had slid back on her desk chair and looked at me with her eyebrows raised. She had on a white jacket with a black shirt; it seemed to bring out her black skin.
'You're talking out loud, but I think just to yourself,' she said.
'I was?'
'Uh-huh,'
'Sorry, I didn't realize I was doing that.'
'It's okay. I just didn't want you to think I was ignoring you. I heard Claudia say she was docking you.'
