A Brush with Death

Okay, to fully appreciate this story you've first got to understand the two women with whom I worked my shift.

The first was Lara, a squat but beefy and boisterous Caucasian lesbian who perpetually wore a baseball cap and athletic shorts, even on the coldest days of winter. She was a fun and animated person who told funny stories as much with her hands as her mouth. Lara was very excitable as well as tough. She took a no-nonsense approach with clients but was a gas with her coworkers.

Then there was Latisha, a squat and husky African American woman with flawless dark skin and impeccable braided hair that oftentimes had orange ribbons twisted into the braids. Latisha was more or less no-nonsense all the time—at least, on the job. She at times had harsh conflicts with coworkers, mostly because she didn't take any crap from anyone. She was one tough cookie no kid or adult wanted to mess with. It was an incident with Latisha that almost ended my life.

Lara, Latisha, and I worked together during the week on second shift, when the clients took part in an after-school program called Partial Hospitalization Program. It consisted of several so-called "therapeutic" groups run by in-house therapists, by interns who were graduate students in psychology, by the regular direct-care staff, and by the clinician in charge of the unit. Four hour-long groups ran every weekday from 2 p.m. to 7 p.m., with an hour break for dinner at 5 p.m.

(I have a strong opinion of these groups, as the Orphanage earned several hundred dollars per day per client from them yet had ten-dollar-per-hour, inadequately trained staff as well as unpaid interns runnings a preponderance of the groups. This system seemed to me a racket of sorts—but this is another issue I'll perhaps explore at a later time.)

In any case, one of the "therapeutic" groups was called "Team Building." This group consisted of playing various team-oriented games, although in the majority of these groups we simply played kickball (with the group notes embellished to reflect that we taught the clients some new and essential team-building skill). Lara ran the Team Building groups and played the position of all-time pitcher. The games were played on the unit, because it was the crisis unit and the clients were not allowed off the locked unit except in rare occasions.

On the floor of the unit a diamond shape made from masking tape designated home plate; a door functioned as first base, a love seat at the far end of the unit functioned as second base; and a structural pole functioned as third base. The kids played in socks, since shoes were banned on the unit, and consequently there was a lot of sliding on the industrial grade carpeting, which burned a lot of holes in a lot of socks over time.

One early evening, Team Building was the last group of the day, and Latisha had taken the day off to go out with some friends that night. She stopped in at the facility, however, to pick up her paycheck, since it was payday, before she went out. While in the building, she decided to visit the unit to say hi, and she entered all dolled up, wearing a shiny black blouse, black pinstriped dress pants, large and sparkly hoop earrings, and an elegant facade of makeup. Lara, the kids, and I were in the middle of a game of kickball, and after greetings with Latisha, she went about chatting with one of the in-house nurses, Nurse Nora, at the unit's staff desk while we resumed our game.

Okay. During the game, a kid kicked the ball to the outfield, where I was playing. I grabbed the semi-soft foam ball with thin rubberized shell and immediately looked for a target. Rounding third base and heading for home was an adolescent boy named Isaac. I salivated at the opportunity to drill Isaac in the back with the ball, since it was a fairly soft ball—softer than a volleyball yet harder and heavier, and hence able to be thrown with much more velocity, than a Nerf ball—and because it was good to let out one's frustrations with the clients in such a safe manner.

So, as Isaac rounded third and headed for home, I reared back and flung the ball with all my might at the sizable target that was his backside. The ball soared in his direction with a fairly extreme velocity, and I anticipated the thud as it drilled him between the shoulder blades. I also anticipated a slight groan from Isaac as he was hit, as the ball had enough mass to inflict an ample but mostly painless thump. To my annoyance, however, my aim was off, and the ball soared over Isaac's head and shot straight toward the staff desk.

Oh, no! Horror seized me as I watched the ball—almost in slow motion—crash into the face of Latisha. It drilled her right between the eyes, snapping her head back violently. She immediately buried her face in her hands, and Nurse Nora grasped her by the shoulders to brace her. The unit fell silent, and a collective gasp murmured from the mouths of everyone—man, woman, child—on the unit.

Ohmygod! Ohmygod, I'm dead! I thought to myself as I surreptitiously slid behind a pole in the outfield. I had just hurt and embarrassed one of the toughest and most volatile and unpredictable personalities in the entire agency.

"Who threw that?" a small voice in the playing field punctured the utter silence.

Another voice, a whisper from nearby, called out, "Mr. Dave, did you throw that?" It was the voice of Maria, a teen girl playing in the outfield on my team.

I looked at her and uttered, "Shhhh ..."

She looked back at me with pity, and whispered, "Mr. Dave, I think you're dead."

"I know."

I continued to hide behind the pole, fearing for my life and waiting for Latisha to hunt me down and ram the ball down my throat–quite literally. In my favor, everyone but Maria seemed to know that I threw the ball, as there were further quiet murmurings about who threw it.

After a few moments, though, I knew I had to face the music and brave my impending fate like a man. The longer I prolonged the inevitable, I thought, the longer would the torment be. I extracted myself from behind the pole and walked toward the front of the unit. At this point, Latisha was to the side of the unit, sitting at one of the two dining tables and holding an ice pack to her eye. I gulped and approached her.

"Latisha, I'm very sorry," I said. "It was I who threw the ball."

No response.

"I'm really sorry. I was trying to hit Isaac and I guess my aim was off."

Still no response.

"Is there anything I can do to make up for this?"

Finally, a response: "No, it was an accident. It's okay, I'm not angry."

"You're not?"

"No."

Phew! "Okay, well, just let me know if I can make it up to you in any way."

"Okay, I will. You should go back to your game. The kids are waiting for you."

"Okay. Again, I'm terribly sorry."

I couldn't believe it. Latisha handled the awful incident so graciously. I thought I was dead meat, but somehow Latisha showed mercy on me. I guess it was because I had always been pleasant to her and never engaged in any prior conflicts with her.

When Latisha left the unit, Lara and I noticed that her left eye was utterly bloodshot and puffy. She was all dolled up to go out, and now she looked like she had been punched in the eye. I felt really bad.

However, later that night Lara and I couldn't help ourselves when we discussed the incident. We had to laugh about it, partly as a coping response to deal with the stress of the moment when it happened. Lara looked at me and mimicked the event: "Boosh!" she said and threw her head back. I shook my head and laughed uncontrollably.

And from that night on, we would often humor ourselves by quietly calling out to the other person—"Psst, Lara, Lara"—and then spontaneously busting out with a "Boosh!" and a flinging back of the head.

Of course, we'd never do this in sight of Latisha, but we'd often do it in her presence when she wasn't looking, having then to stifle our laughter in fear of having to explain what we were laughing about. I guess we were foolish and liked to live on the edge.

"Psst ... Boosh!"


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© 2008 David Lee Cummings