I Like Chocolate Milk

The collective character of the RTU was an organic thing, with the client and staff populations perpetually fluctuating. Kids came and went according their individual treatment schedules, and if a staff member made it six months in the trenches without quitting, he was a veteran. And so the unit "organism" was always in flux, with but brief periods of consistency.

After several years of working at the orphanage, I came to notice the cycling of certain phenomena. Patterns emerged in the flux. On the RTU, one of these phenomena was the presence of a charismatic teenage African American boy who kept the staff in stitches and the younger kids following him like a pied piper. Like clockwork, one of these teenagers showed up on the RTU about once every couple of years. In the initial group of kids I worked with, this person was Calvin.

***

Calvin was an entertaining kid who didn't walk but rather cooly strolled everywhere, with head slightly tilted and mouth smiling ever so faintly. An afro pick, alternating its perch from his back pocket to the back of his head, accompanied him wherever he went (which wasn't far on a locked unit). When he wasn't cooly meandering, Calvin could be found shuffle-running, jeans bottoms dragging on the floor, to one of the couches; he would then blare out a high-pitched "Whoop! Whoop!" before crashing onto the couch and drooping into his seat, leaning back with an "oh, yeah" smugness on his face and burrowing his hands into his pockets or raking his pick across his 'fro.

Calvin's afro pick wasn't his only constant companion. Marky followed the older Calvin like his shadow: Wherever Calvin went, Marky was sure to go. (For every Calvin on the unit, there was always a Marky sidekick.) Calvin didn't seem to give Marky much special attention; he just more or less tolerated his presence. Occasionally he would goad Marky into doing something for him that he was too lazy to do himself, like retrieving a remote control car that got wedged against a chair ... or calling another kid a bad name.

Marky was a cute little sucker with bright eyes and a big smile, happy-go-lucky and pleasant to be around. He enjoyed board games, individual time with staff, and bedtime stories and being tucked in at night. But when Marky became upset, he would often lose control. Like the preponderance of kids who passed through our doors, he had trouble with anger management.

***

One Saturday morning, Marky became distraught over discovering himself on level two. The RTU program employed a point system in which the kids earned various levels, from one to three, based on their behaviors the day before; if a kid was really bad, he ended up on a level called "restriction," which resulted in, of course, restricted privileges. Clearly, level two was a good level and nothing to rationally poo-poo about. However, Marky had somehow gotten the impression the night before that he would wake up in the morning to find himself on level three. What was actually said to him was, "If you don't lose any more points tonight, you should be on level three tomorrow." Well, he did lose some more points because he came out of his room several times -- without adequate excuses -- after bedtime. In his mind, however, Marky had heard, "You'll be on level three tomorrow," and, of course, his selective recall either didn't remember the post-bedtime behavior or didn't want to acknowledge it occurred. In any case, Marky blew out.

"That's bullshit!" Marky shouted when he saw the glaring "2" next to his name on the white dry-erase board.

"What did you say?" inquired Miss Chevon, a slightly overweight twenty-something African American staff member with baggy eyes and figure, as if she wore an aura consisting of a heavy burden.

"I said, 'That's bullshit!'"

"Boy, who are you speaking to like that?" Miss Chevon asked, approaching Marky.

"I'm not speaking to nobody!"

Miss Chevon glared down at Marky, who glared at the floor. "Boy, you better calm down and get yourself together before you get yourself in even more trouble. What's your problem?"

"My problem is that I'm on level two when I was told I would be on level three."

"Unball your fists, and then we'll talk about it."

"I'm supposed to be on level three!"

"Marky, unball your fists."

Before Marky unballed his fists, however, he swung at Miss Chevon. He missed -- and probably wouldn't have hurt her anyway if he did connect, because of his diminutive size. But in the tussle that occurred next, Marky grabbed a fistful of Miss Chevon's shirt -- and a bra strap -- and pulled both articles of clothing down over her shoulder, exposing her right breast. Cooly, Miss Chevon yanked Marky away and pulled up her shirt. After regaining his balance, Marky stopped in his tracks and looked up in shock at Miss Chevon. A collective gasp reverberated among the other children and staff, who quite legitimately feared for Marky's life.

"Little boy, you just signed your death wish," Miss Chevon growled through clenched teeth.

Calvin bravely chimed in: "Marky, you're my boy! Whoop! Whoop!"

"You shut up, Calvin, or I'm coming for you next," warned Miss Chevon.

"Whoop, whoop?" Calvin chimed again, this time under his breath.

Marky scampered out of the vicinity of Ms. Chevon.

"Little child, I'm not running after you. But I want you to know that not only are you not on level three, but now you're on restriction. And I'd suggest you go straight to your room and stay in there until I tell you to come out. Otherwise, I will run after you. And when I catch you, you'll beg for a quick and painless death."

Marky bolted for his room.

"And Calvin, one more word from you, and you're on restriction too."

Calvin dropped his jaw and lifted his arms to wordlessly suggest, "What did I do?"

***

Later that day, after things had settled and the "booby incident" was all but completely forgotten, the kids and staff settled into the couches for an event called Community Group. It was a time when the kids took turns standing before the group and discussing some issue or other that needed resolving. The talk may have focused on something that happened that day, something happening in their lives on a broad scale, an incident from their past, whatever. Usually, the kids were reticent to talk and couldn't wait for the group to finish. The staff's official role in Community Group was to facilitate the discussion and prod the kids into developing some insight into their problems; but the net effect was usually that the kids simply learned to say what the staff wanted to hear. These were street-hardened kids, and they were experts at manipulation and survival ... but tragically short on introspection -- probably because they wanted to suppress the past as much as possible.

As Marky took his spot in front of the group, Calvin, sitting next to Miss Chevon, let out a weak "Whoop, whoop." Marky tried to, but couldn't, stifle a smile. Miss Chevon glared at Calvin, who cast a sheepish grin, stuck his afro pick on the back of his head, folded his arms, and sunk into his chair. Miss Chevon then instructed Marky to begin addressing the group.

Instead, Calvin spoke up again, dropping a bomb. Cooly nodding his head, he declared in a lazy voice: "Oh yeah ... I like chocolate milk."

Smack! -- Miss Chevon slapped Calvin across the back of his head so hard, his afro pick went flying.

"Ow!"

"That's what you get!"

Calvin smiled as he rubbed the back of his head and gathered up his pick. "I know, I know. I couldn't help it."

"You never can, that's your problem." Miss Chevon tried to glare at Calvin, although even she had to crack a smile at Calvin's funny remark. "Marky, just sit down. We're skipping you today."

"Alright, that means I'm next," Calvin eagerly said and started to get up.

"Oh, no -- you sit down," Miss Chevon snapped. "We're skipping you too."

"Aw, man," Calvin responded. Miss Chevon glared sternly at him. "Alright, alright." Calvin sunk back into his chair.

"You better watch yourself the rest of the day," Miss Chevon said. "And you too, Marky."

"Does that mean group's over?" inquired Calvin

"Yes, it's free time."

"Yay!" a collective cry resounded from the kids, who scattered to begin various activities.

Calvin raised an eyebrow and smiled at Marky, then stuck his afro pick on his head. Abruptly, he shot up and bolted toward his room, but not without leaving a departing last jab: "Whoop! Whoop!"

********

© 2007 David Lee Cummings