From time to time, a kid or two would really bond with me and seek me out for special attention during the times I worked my shift. Brady Fletcher was one of these kids.
Brady was a cute little eight-year-old I couldn't help but take under my wing, despite my professional obligation to maintain certain boundaries. I couldn't help but shower this child with special attention—but not because I went out of my way to do so; it was because he went out of his way to seek my attention in predominantly appropriate ways; so, I was more than eager to oblige and reward and reinforce his positively expressed requests.
Brady was a somewhat chubby square-shaped child—sort of like a real-life Sponge Bob—who had the gross motor skills of a hippopotamus. Watching him run was a spectacle. He ran laboriously slow and threw his whole body into each stride in some kind of bizarre way I could never really put my finger on. It was as if he flung his arms and legs on the same side forward and backward at the same time—or something like that—in contrast to the normal human running style of flinging opposing arms and legs. Whatever it was that Brady did, it just looked completely awkward and wrong.
But this lack or coordination was part of what made Brady so endearing. He was like a three-legged pet that was all the more cute and precious because he didn't have all the polished faculties others of his species did. He was like the runt of the litter, the creature you take home and love with all your might because of the pity you feel for it and because of how adorable its shortcomings make it.
***
Brady's eccentricities didn't stop at the physical coordination of his limbs, however. One day, Lara and I were sitting just outside the semi-circle of kids engaged in a therapeutic group, and we both independently looked at Brady at the same time.
"What the—did you see that?" Lara fired at me in a sharp whisper.
"Holy crap, I sure did," I quietly shot back.
"Oh my god!"
What got us in such a frenzy was a crazy sight (literally?). When we both looked at Brady, here is what we saw: His head was cocked in our direction, and each of his eyes gazed off in a divergent path, as if he were a chameleon surveying completely unrelated areas of his environment. He held this improbable pose for a few moments.
Seeing this act of ocular gymnastics just really blew our minds, and Lara and I turned to each other for corroboration that the other indeed witnessed this freakish act of nature. We both in fact did.
Some time later, Brady had surgery on his eyes, apparently to repair a pair of lazy eyes or something of that nature. So his aberrant optical fluctuation was technically a symptom of his diagnosed condition. But I've seen lazy eyes before, and this crazy display was more than just lazy eyes: I guess you could describe it as a pair of eyes so-lazy-they're-downright-catatonic due to their extreme juxtaposition with anything straight and level in the world.
***
I recall Brady often getting shampoo in his eyes in the shower.
"Mr. Dave!" he would cry out.
So, I would have to go into the boys bathroom and check on Brady.
"Mr. Dave, I got shampoo in my eyes, and it hurts."
I would then have to coach Brady into letting the shower spray wash out his eyes.
"Ouch! ... Owww! ... It hurts! ... I can't open my eyes! ... Owww!"
But I would eventually convince him to open his eyes just long enough to get the shampoo out of his eyes, in spite of his protests that "it hurts!"
"Yeah, my eyes feel better now."
... But I would have to go back into the bathroom a few minutes later.
"Mr. Dave!"
"What do you need now, Brady?"
"I can't get my shirt on!"
When I'd check on Brady, I'd usually find that the crown of his head was stuck in the neck of the shirt. Oftentimes, the shirt would be backwards and inside-out. And sometimes a sleeve would be rolled up inward and his arm stuck in the twisted sleeve logjam.
When he finally got all of his clothes on, oftentimes his shirt would be tucked into his underwear, his pants twisted sideways, zipper undone, and his socks a pair of floppy messes on his feet. His dressing adventure might have been a little less cumbersome had he dried himself off sufficiently after exiting the shower. The water on his body made his clothes cling to his skin, accentuating his lack of gross motor coordination and further hampering his already deficient ability to pull up or unroll his clothes to their proper state.
With my help, however, we'd usually figure things out.
***
Bedtime was also a "special" time with Brady. He consistently asked for the "burrito tuck" at this hour of slumber. This special tuck consisted of laying him on the side of his covers and then rolling him across his covers like—what else—the contents of a burrito in its outer wrap.
He would be wrapped so tightly he couldn't move. But he loved this way of being tucked into bed. Within moments his eyes would roll into the back of his head.
"Good night, Mr. Dave," he'd drowsily mumble.
"Good night, Brady."
***
Once, Brady described to Lara and I the time that he had "sex" with the babysitter, apparently a young girl not much older than he was. We were all-ears, anticipating some horrid story of sexual molestation that we would have to painfully recount in documentation and verbally to our supervisor. But instead of describing some awful, corrupt encounter, what he told us was almost innocent.
"We took our clothes off and then jumped off the bed," Brady said.
When we asked him to elaborate, he asserted that jumping off the bed was what they indeed did. Whether there was more to interpret from this story, I don't know. Brady was adamant that he had "sex" by being naked and jumping off the bed. Could have been more to it—or not. We simply reported what we were told.
And had a laugh at Brady's apparent innocent naivety.
***
We knew that Brady was exposed to far worse, however. We knew this by observing Brady's behavior one day when he was in really bad space.
What set him off, I don't recall. He was in the Special Care room manically misbehaving, triggered earlier by something and now being oppositional and verbally aggressive toward us. While in Special Care, he also belied a past exposure to sexual acts inappropriate to a minor by making these assertions:
- He said he had watched pornographic movies that his mother owned while she left Brady and a young sibling alone in the house for significant lengths of time. While this claim in itself was not enough to convince me unequivocally that Brady was telling the truth about these events, what he did next proved to me beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was exposed to inappropriate sexual acts.
- He then talked about putting shaving cream on his nipples, then took off his shirt and began to lick his own nipples. Seeing this act disgusted me, and in another sense hurt me to see an eight-year-old aware of this kind of lewdness, and in yet another sense enraged me to know that someone exposed this poor, innocent child to such filthy awfulness.
I felt an overwhelming desire to exact retribution on the person who so corrupted this innocent child. The person responsible deserved a vehement berating as well as some "reflection time" behind bars.
***
On a brighter note, Brady spent a good ninety-five percent of the time I knew him engaged in the innocent behaviors of a naive child. Only when he was in the worst of space did he display such a disturbing demeanor.
Moreover, in addition to Sponge Bob, the argument could be made that Brady looked a lot like a little Barney Rubble. He had the same square-shaped head with flat top and brown hair, and his body was likewise squarish and squat with chunky limbs and wide feet.
One day, I decided to play a trick on Brady—as well as my supervisor, Mr. Stewart, who bore a striking resemblance to Fred Flintstone and therefore also bore the nickname. I instructed Brady to walk up to Mr. Stewart and belch out, "Hi Fred, I'm Barney!" which Brady indeed did.
Without missing a beat, Mr. Stewart bent down toward Brady, and responded, "Yabba dabba doo!"
Impeccable.
********
© 2008 David Lee Cummings
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Sock-O Presto! The Case of the Magic Socks
Ah, socks. These white cotton feet-sleeves were an ongoing issue on the crisis unit. The kids were constantly wearing them out, as—by rule—they could wear no shoes on the unit. Every physical activity they engaged in, particularly, wore holes in their socks. Sliding into base on their feet during kickball, for example, really tore the socks up.
Moreover, it seemed as if the Orphanage budget on socks was woefully inadequate, and so a predominant sight on the unit was a disorganized gaggle of toes sticking out of holes in the kids' socks here and there. We just couldn't keep up with the demand for new, "un-holey" socks, and so the kids too often ran around with recycled-way-too-many-times holey ones.
There was one kid, in particular, who was an agent for sock mutilation. His name was Roger, and he had a miserable habit of constantly picking at the toes of his socks and wearing holes into them prematurely, even for the unit's standards. Roger's penchant for sock destruction really frustrated the staff, as it was their job to hunt down adequate socks for the kids whenever they needed a pair, such as after their showers. Roger just made this job that much harder.
One day, a couple of coworkers—the aforementioned Lara (see "A Brush with Death") and a maverick named Antwone—and I had Roger in a room called "Special Care." This room was where we took kids whose behavior was disrupting the unit or otherwise making it unsafe. We had Roger in Special Care because he had begun climbing furniture and stirring up the other kids. We "snatched him up" and led him into the room, which was more or less a short fortified hallway where the kids could pound the walls and hit a punching bag without really destroying anything.
So, Roger was in here and we were trying to speak to him about his behaviors, trying to drill into his head that they were not appropriate and to get a sense of why he was acting out so that we could target the source of his actions. However, in addition to sock mutilation, Roger had perfected the art of ignoring adults when being lectured. He seemed to be able to tune out the staff effortlessly, which could really, really get under your skin.
So here we were trying to lecture Roger; and there he was sitting against the wall ignoring us, as if we weren't even there, and just picking away at his socks—a double insult. Our blood began to boil. Lara, Antwone, and I looked at each other and shook our heads. Then, we decided we had had enough, and Lara proclaimed our sentiment by belting out, "That's enough!"
My coworkers furiously bent down and each ripped a sock off of Roger's legs. These were knee-length athletic socks with green and yellow bands at the top. They turned and flung the socks behind them—both socks flying over a bench and landing out of sight on the other side—and then turned back to Roger.
"What?!" they both cried out. Roger still had his knee-length, yellow-and-green-banded socks on. Lara and Antwone looked extremely confused. Lara held her hands in front of her as if begging for an explanation, and they both looked back and forth several times, searching for the pair of socks they ripped off of Roger's legs—which somehow magically reappeared on his feet.
"What?" Antwone repeated. "I swore I pulled his sock off."
"Me too!" Lara chimed. "What they hell just happened? Are you a freakin' David Copperfield, or what? How'd you do that?"
I saw the whole thing and knew exactly what happened, the secret to Roger's magnificent trick. But I waited a moment to reveal it, for I was reveling too much in the comedy of my coworkers' befuddlement.
They scratched and shook their heads for awhile; Roger still sat there expressionless, almost catatonically, although I'm sure somewhere inside he was laughing at us. He refrained now from picking at his socks, however.
"Okay, guys," I finally spoke up. "You're not crazy, and he's not an illusionist. He had two pairs of socks on. Both pairs have the same design. You threw the first pair behind the bench, where you can't see them. That's the second pair he has on."
"Oh!" Lara and Antwone both exclaimed, and then smiled.
And then they both frowned and turned back to Roger and ripped the second pair of socks off. This time, there was no backup pair to the backup pair.
"There!" Lara said. "Now you're not getting any socks for the rest of the day unless you talk with us."
I don't quite recall if Roger eventually began to talk. All I know is, that double-sock farce was the funniest thing I had seen in a long time. A very long time.
********
© 2008 David Lee Cummings
Moreover, it seemed as if the Orphanage budget on socks was woefully inadequate, and so a predominant sight on the unit was a disorganized gaggle of toes sticking out of holes in the kids' socks here and there. We just couldn't keep up with the demand for new, "un-holey" socks, and so the kids too often ran around with recycled-way-too-many-times holey ones.
There was one kid, in particular, who was an agent for sock mutilation. His name was Roger, and he had a miserable habit of constantly picking at the toes of his socks and wearing holes into them prematurely, even for the unit's standards. Roger's penchant for sock destruction really frustrated the staff, as it was their job to hunt down adequate socks for the kids whenever they needed a pair, such as after their showers. Roger just made this job that much harder.
One day, a couple of coworkers—the aforementioned Lara (see "A Brush with Death") and a maverick named Antwone—and I had Roger in a room called "Special Care." This room was where we took kids whose behavior was disrupting the unit or otherwise making it unsafe. We had Roger in Special Care because he had begun climbing furniture and stirring up the other kids. We "snatched him up" and led him into the room, which was more or less a short fortified hallway where the kids could pound the walls and hit a punching bag without really destroying anything.
So, Roger was in here and we were trying to speak to him about his behaviors, trying to drill into his head that they were not appropriate and to get a sense of why he was acting out so that we could target the source of his actions. However, in addition to sock mutilation, Roger had perfected the art of ignoring adults when being lectured. He seemed to be able to tune out the staff effortlessly, which could really, really get under your skin.
So here we were trying to lecture Roger; and there he was sitting against the wall ignoring us, as if we weren't even there, and just picking away at his socks—a double insult. Our blood began to boil. Lara, Antwone, and I looked at each other and shook our heads. Then, we decided we had had enough, and Lara proclaimed our sentiment by belting out, "That's enough!"
My coworkers furiously bent down and each ripped a sock off of Roger's legs. These were knee-length athletic socks with green and yellow bands at the top. They turned and flung the socks behind them—both socks flying over a bench and landing out of sight on the other side—and then turned back to Roger.
"What?!" they both cried out. Roger still had his knee-length, yellow-and-green-banded socks on. Lara and Antwone looked extremely confused. Lara held her hands in front of her as if begging for an explanation, and they both looked back and forth several times, searching for the pair of socks they ripped off of Roger's legs—which somehow magically reappeared on his feet.
"What?" Antwone repeated. "I swore I pulled his sock off."
"Me too!" Lara chimed. "What they hell just happened? Are you a freakin' David Copperfield, or what? How'd you do that?"
I saw the whole thing and knew exactly what happened, the secret to Roger's magnificent trick. But I waited a moment to reveal it, for I was reveling too much in the comedy of my coworkers' befuddlement.
They scratched and shook their heads for awhile; Roger still sat there expressionless, almost catatonically, although I'm sure somewhere inside he was laughing at us. He refrained now from picking at his socks, however.
"Okay, guys," I finally spoke up. "You're not crazy, and he's not an illusionist. He had two pairs of socks on. Both pairs have the same design. You threw the first pair behind the bench, where you can't see them. That's the second pair he has on."
"Oh!" Lara and Antwone both exclaimed, and then smiled.
And then they both frowned and turned back to Roger and ripped the second pair of socks off. This time, there was no backup pair to the backup pair.
"There!" Lara said. "Now you're not getting any socks for the rest of the day unless you talk with us."
I don't quite recall if Roger eventually began to talk. All I know is, that double-sock farce was the funniest thing I had seen in a long time. A very long time.
********
© 2008 David Lee Cummings
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!"
********
© 2008 David Lee Cummings
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!"
********
© 2008 David Lee Cummings
Saturday, February 23, 2008
"I Love You, Barney!" Or, "Ree-ray, Woo-man!"
For about a six-month period, I worked a position at Apple Tree Orphanage called "in-home worker." This job consisted, more or less, of being a mentor and chauffeur for a number of kids in the system.
I would pick the kids up in my car and take them to various places and do various things with them, such as pick them up from their foster home or residential treatment facility and drive them to their biological parent's home for a day visit or to a court hearing. I also took them on outings of pleasure, such as trips to amusement parks and playgrounds.
In all, it was a fun job that I thoroughly enjoyed—in spite of its meager pay. I really liked the ability to spend quality time with these kids and act as a mentor to them, oftentimes engaging in fun activities with them. I also enjoyed the freedom of the job: it enabled me to avoid working at a desk and pushing pencils or punching keys all day—the kind of work I utterly loathe, no matter how well it pays.
One of the kids in my roster of clients was a child named Daniel, an adorable eleven-year-old, mixed-race kid with a slight little problem: His file said he had been literally dropped on his head as an infant and had suffered irreversible brain damage from the incident. Despite this little mental quirk, Daniel was possibly the most fun and gratifying child I have ever worked with.
Daniel had messy straight black hair, skin the color of a chocolate chip cookie (without the chips, of course), a perpetual big wide smile, and an enchanting and infectious giggle. He was the physical manifestation of the saying, "Ignorance is bliss," for in his impaired state of mind was the key to unyielding nirvana. This was one happy child who lived forever in the mental age and ecstatic playfulness of about four years old.
Daniel lived in an old house with his grandmother, a couple of aunts, and his father, Daniel, Sr.—hence, everyone called Daniel, Jr., "Little Daniel." The house smelled of the must and moth balls of an old person's home, and the thick curtains were always drawn in the living room. Grandma was the matriarchal leader of the household, taking care of her children and grandchild despite being in her seventies and the children all in their forties and fifties. The aunts did not work and they lounged lazily in the dark house all day, smoking cigarettes and watching trashy daytime talk shows on the large screen TV. The father wandered in and out of the house at times, usually wearing a pair of work overalls spattered with paint, as if he did painting work. Perhaps only one time did I ever notice him acknowledge little Daniel, Jr.'s presence.
***
I recall a couple of times when I came over and Grandma had cooked up a supper of soul food. I indulged in the delicious barbecued ribs, sweet potatoes, greens, and cornbread she whipped up—that is, until the day I helped Daniel brush his teeth.
Daniel's teeth had a greenish tinge to them, and there was always a thick and revolting layer of food and plaque from the gums to about halfway down his teeth. One day I decided to teach Daniel the proper way to brush his teeth, with the hope that I would start him on his way to a lifetime of good dental hygiene habits. As soon as we entered the bathroom, however, my stomach churned and I saw that it would be a hopeless cause. Sensing our presence, a number of little cockroaches crawling all over the toothbrushes in the holder mounted on the wall scurried away into crevices. Ugh!
I realized that if the family couldn't even keep disease-ridden creatures off their toothbrushes, I had little shot of ensuring that Daniel kept his teeth clean. And I never ate another meal at their house again, always making an excuse when offered some food. Seriously, ugh!
***
Little Daniel loved to go for rides in my car. When I first started picking him up and taking him to a playground everyday after school, he would repeat, like a broken record, "Is this yo' car? Where yo' house?" And even one time when we drove past a wandering canine: "Is that yo' dog?"
Daniel was a music connoisseur, of sorts. Although he had absolutely no sense of rhythm, he would love to snap his fingers—out of time—with whatever music was playinhg. A tape I would often play in my car for Daniel was a compilation a friend gave me. One of the songs on the tape was "Stupid Girl" by Garbage. For some reason, Daniel had an affinity for singing along with the chorus, really belching out the words: "Stupid girl, stupid girl ..."
Another song he really enjoyed was Alanis Morisette's "Ironic." When the song got to the part, "It's like pouring rain ..." Daniel would sing along—but in his own interpretation of the lyrics. He would sing, "Ree-ray, woo-man!" I lost it every time he sang those words as he snapped his fingers to his own beat and smiled to himself over his blissful crooning.
***
On Sundays, my job was to accompany Little Daniel and his family (grandmother and aunts, no Daniel, Sr.) to church. Their church was a makeshift one, the congregation held in a standard ranch-style house in the middle of a residential neighborhood, naught a sign or other indication that this home doubled as a chapel.
Rows of chairs were lined up in the living room, at the front of which stood a podium. About twenty or so parishioners tightly packed the modest-sized room. From behind the podium an elderly Caucasian lady with effusive energy delivered sermons of fire and brimstone and mysticism and paranoia. Such pungent words gushed out of this petite old woman who wore thick bi-focal glasses and a simple white dress, her white hair pulled taught into a bun. While her husband sat mute of sound or facial expression behind a small electric organ to the side, Reverend Judy belted out fiery lectures on the impending apocalypse, evoking spontaneous ejaculations of "Amen!" and "That's right!" and "You tell 'em, sister!" from the congregation.
My task during these eccentric services was to help control Little Daniel's behaviors. The poor child could barely sit still during these surely long and boring mornings for him, and it took constant prompts from me to help him maintain some semblance of decorum for the while. For the most part, Little Daniel managed to make it through the sermons with but one or two moments of notable disruption.
I recall one sermon of particular note. Reverend Judy spoke of a mystical phenomenon she experienced, I guess to illustrate the legitimacy of her preternatural powers.
"Beverly," Reverend Judy said to Daniel's grandmother, "you recall the time that fireball entered the church, don't you?"
"Yes, I do, Reverend," Grandma replied.
"It flew in through the window while I was playing 'Amazing Grace' on the organ. It flew in through the window and landed right on the keys of the organ, dancing around on it and pulsating in green, blue, purple, and orange hues. You were there, you saw it."
"Indeed I did, Reverend. I was there. I saw it. Happened just like you say it did."
All eyes—except Little Daniel's, of course—locked firmly on Reverend Judy, many mouths agape.
"And then the fireball shot up to the ceiling, spread out in a circle, and dissipated." A murmur of gasps and amens reverberated through the congregation. "I know it was an angel, the Archangel Gabriel, divine manifestation of the Holy Spirit, come down from heaven to bless this house of the Lord, to show all of you that there are special powers in this body, that I'm a messenger of the Lord to lead my flock to the Truth in a world of lies and deception."
"Mmm-hmm. Happened just like that!" Grandma blurted out. "I witnessed the whole thing."
Reverend Judy glared virulently at the congregation for some time, then continued: 'Tis proof that I have the power of prophesy, to look into the window of the future and see things yet to come. I saw the stock market crash of 1987 and the fall of the Berlin Wall in '89. Now I see another stock market crash in a couple of years, one that will be real bad. You'll see."
"Tell it to us, sister!" a man shouted out. "Show us the Truth!"
"I see the end of the world," Reverend Judy replied in a low, foreboding tone. "Our country will be attacked and dragged into a Third World War, and all will be destroyed in a mass wave of fire." She swept her arm in front of her. "And when this happens, we need to be ready. We need to prepare our souls now for entry into the promised land. We need to cleanse ourselves of any sin so that the pearly gates of heaven will open up and let us in and Christ will await us with open arms. And to get ourselves ready, we need to open our own hearts to others and grow this church and help others receive the Kingdom of God too. So open your hearts, and let's grow our congregation so that we can save as many souls as possible."
And with this, Reverend Judy sat down at the organ and began to play and sing "Amazing Grace," as her husband pressed the donation plate into the hands of a man sitting in the front row.
The money flowed copiously onto the plate, and I even tossed a buck onto it—out of social pressure and politeness. And when the plate passed by Little Daniel's ravenous eyes, he reached in with a smile and helped himself to a fistful of dollars, which I laboriously had to convince him to return.
"Through many dangers, toils and snares
"I have already come;
"Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far
"and Grace will lead me home."
***
One of the things that little Daniel really liked, and often begged for, was my comedic routine in which I'd pretend to bump my head on something. I'd surreptitiously kick my foot against the base of the wall or a large object, making a bumping sound to accentuate the trick. When a wall or object was not available, I took to pretending to pound my fist against my head, reacting with a wavering "Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh ..." vocalization and rotating my head as if in a cartoon daze. These little games would send Daniel into fits of laughter and calls for me to "Do it again! Do it again!" I could keep Daniel in stitches all day long with just a few faux bonks of my head.
He then took to bonking himself in the head with his fist for amusement—but his bonks were real, hard bonks that actually made a thumping sound, unlike the faux bonks I employed. But, he still giggled wildly at his acts at physical humor, even though they had to be painful. I tried to teach him to perform the trick without actually hitting himself, but to no avail.
Another game that Daniel was passionate about involved a small stuffed Barney doll that he often carried around with him. Little Daniel—to my irritation—was crazy about Barney, the annoying purple dinosaur. He liked to kiss Barney and say to the doll, "I love you, Barney!" And he liked to pretend to give other people kisses with his stupid little Barney doll. My response one day was to pretend to faint after Barney kissed me. Daniel thought that this reaction was so funny he would pretend to kiss me with Barney over and over again, until I would beg him to stop. Eventually, Daniel took to kissing himself with Barney and fake fainting, tossing Barney in the air as he did so.
One day when Daniel and I sat in the living room of his house with his grandmother, Daniel spontaneously decided to play his two favorite games. He suddenly bonked himself on the head—hard and loudly—and then play fainted. Immediately after, he picked up Barney, kissed him, and then faux fainted again, tossing Barney into the air. At the sight of this, his Grandma got up from her seat, shook her head in bewilderment, and walked out of the room, saying, "Lord, I just don't know where this boy learns these crazy behaviors."
"Um, I don't know either, ma'am," I replied sheepishly.
I then tried to get Daniel to stop engaging in those "crazy" behaviors—at least in front of his family. But to no avail. When Little Daniel got something stuck in his head, it became anchored there like a broken record.
I can just hear him now: "Ree-ray, woo-man!" ... "Is this yo' car?" ... "I love you, Barney!" ... Bonk! "Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh ..."
I would pick the kids up in my car and take them to various places and do various things with them, such as pick them up from their foster home or residential treatment facility and drive them to their biological parent's home for a day visit or to a court hearing. I also took them on outings of pleasure, such as trips to amusement parks and playgrounds.
In all, it was a fun job that I thoroughly enjoyed—in spite of its meager pay. I really liked the ability to spend quality time with these kids and act as a mentor to them, oftentimes engaging in fun activities with them. I also enjoyed the freedom of the job: it enabled me to avoid working at a desk and pushing pencils or punching keys all day—the kind of work I utterly loathe, no matter how well it pays.
One of the kids in my roster of clients was a child named Daniel, an adorable eleven-year-old, mixed-race kid with a slight little problem: His file said he had been literally dropped on his head as an infant and had suffered irreversible brain damage from the incident. Despite this little mental quirk, Daniel was possibly the most fun and gratifying child I have ever worked with.
Daniel had messy straight black hair, skin the color of a chocolate chip cookie (without the chips, of course), a perpetual big wide smile, and an enchanting and infectious giggle. He was the physical manifestation of the saying, "Ignorance is bliss," for in his impaired state of mind was the key to unyielding nirvana. This was one happy child who lived forever in the mental age and ecstatic playfulness of about four years old.
Daniel lived in an old house with his grandmother, a couple of aunts, and his father, Daniel, Sr.—hence, everyone called Daniel, Jr., "Little Daniel." The house smelled of the must and moth balls of an old person's home, and the thick curtains were always drawn in the living room. Grandma was the matriarchal leader of the household, taking care of her children and grandchild despite being in her seventies and the children all in their forties and fifties. The aunts did not work and they lounged lazily in the dark house all day, smoking cigarettes and watching trashy daytime talk shows on the large screen TV. The father wandered in and out of the house at times, usually wearing a pair of work overalls spattered with paint, as if he did painting work. Perhaps only one time did I ever notice him acknowledge little Daniel, Jr.'s presence.
***
I recall a couple of times when I came over and Grandma had cooked up a supper of soul food. I indulged in the delicious barbecued ribs, sweet potatoes, greens, and cornbread she whipped up—that is, until the day I helped Daniel brush his teeth.
Daniel's teeth had a greenish tinge to them, and there was always a thick and revolting layer of food and plaque from the gums to about halfway down his teeth. One day I decided to teach Daniel the proper way to brush his teeth, with the hope that I would start him on his way to a lifetime of good dental hygiene habits. As soon as we entered the bathroom, however, my stomach churned and I saw that it would be a hopeless cause. Sensing our presence, a number of little cockroaches crawling all over the toothbrushes in the holder mounted on the wall scurried away into crevices. Ugh!
I realized that if the family couldn't even keep disease-ridden creatures off their toothbrushes, I had little shot of ensuring that Daniel kept his teeth clean. And I never ate another meal at their house again, always making an excuse when offered some food. Seriously, ugh!
***
Little Daniel loved to go for rides in my car. When I first started picking him up and taking him to a playground everyday after school, he would repeat, like a broken record, "Is this yo' car? Where yo' house?" And even one time when we drove past a wandering canine: "Is that yo' dog?"
Daniel was a music connoisseur, of sorts. Although he had absolutely no sense of rhythm, he would love to snap his fingers—out of time—with whatever music was playinhg. A tape I would often play in my car for Daniel was a compilation a friend gave me. One of the songs on the tape was "Stupid Girl" by Garbage. For some reason, Daniel had an affinity for singing along with the chorus, really belching out the words: "Stupid girl, stupid girl ..."
Another song he really enjoyed was Alanis Morisette's "Ironic." When the song got to the part, "It's like pouring rain ..." Daniel would sing along—but in his own interpretation of the lyrics. He would sing, "Ree-ray, woo-man!" I lost it every time he sang those words as he snapped his fingers to his own beat and smiled to himself over his blissful crooning.
***
On Sundays, my job was to accompany Little Daniel and his family (grandmother and aunts, no Daniel, Sr.) to church. Their church was a makeshift one, the congregation held in a standard ranch-style house in the middle of a residential neighborhood, naught a sign or other indication that this home doubled as a chapel.
Rows of chairs were lined up in the living room, at the front of which stood a podium. About twenty or so parishioners tightly packed the modest-sized room. From behind the podium an elderly Caucasian lady with effusive energy delivered sermons of fire and brimstone and mysticism and paranoia. Such pungent words gushed out of this petite old woman who wore thick bi-focal glasses and a simple white dress, her white hair pulled taught into a bun. While her husband sat mute of sound or facial expression behind a small electric organ to the side, Reverend Judy belted out fiery lectures on the impending apocalypse, evoking spontaneous ejaculations of "Amen!" and "That's right!" and "You tell 'em, sister!" from the congregation.
My task during these eccentric services was to help control Little Daniel's behaviors. The poor child could barely sit still during these surely long and boring mornings for him, and it took constant prompts from me to help him maintain some semblance of decorum for the while. For the most part, Little Daniel managed to make it through the sermons with but one or two moments of notable disruption.
I recall one sermon of particular note. Reverend Judy spoke of a mystical phenomenon she experienced, I guess to illustrate the legitimacy of her preternatural powers.
"Beverly," Reverend Judy said to Daniel's grandmother, "you recall the time that fireball entered the church, don't you?"
"Yes, I do, Reverend," Grandma replied.
"It flew in through the window while I was playing 'Amazing Grace' on the organ. It flew in through the window and landed right on the keys of the organ, dancing around on it and pulsating in green, blue, purple, and orange hues. You were there, you saw it."
"Indeed I did, Reverend. I was there. I saw it. Happened just like you say it did."
All eyes—except Little Daniel's, of course—locked firmly on Reverend Judy, many mouths agape.
"And then the fireball shot up to the ceiling, spread out in a circle, and dissipated." A murmur of gasps and amens reverberated through the congregation. "I know it was an angel, the Archangel Gabriel, divine manifestation of the Holy Spirit, come down from heaven to bless this house of the Lord, to show all of you that there are special powers in this body, that I'm a messenger of the Lord to lead my flock to the Truth in a world of lies and deception."
"Mmm-hmm. Happened just like that!" Grandma blurted out. "I witnessed the whole thing."
Reverend Judy glared virulently at the congregation for some time, then continued: 'Tis proof that I have the power of prophesy, to look into the window of the future and see things yet to come. I saw the stock market crash of 1987 and the fall of the Berlin Wall in '89. Now I see another stock market crash in a couple of years, one that will be real bad. You'll see."
"Tell it to us, sister!" a man shouted out. "Show us the Truth!"
"I see the end of the world," Reverend Judy replied in a low, foreboding tone. "Our country will be attacked and dragged into a Third World War, and all will be destroyed in a mass wave of fire." She swept her arm in front of her. "And when this happens, we need to be ready. We need to prepare our souls now for entry into the promised land. We need to cleanse ourselves of any sin so that the pearly gates of heaven will open up and let us in and Christ will await us with open arms. And to get ourselves ready, we need to open our own hearts to others and grow this church and help others receive the Kingdom of God too. So open your hearts, and let's grow our congregation so that we can save as many souls as possible."
And with this, Reverend Judy sat down at the organ and began to play and sing "Amazing Grace," as her husband pressed the donation plate into the hands of a man sitting in the front row.
The money flowed copiously onto the plate, and I even tossed a buck onto it—out of social pressure and politeness. And when the plate passed by Little Daniel's ravenous eyes, he reached in with a smile and helped himself to a fistful of dollars, which I laboriously had to convince him to return.
"Through many dangers, toils and snares
"I have already come;
"Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far
"and Grace will lead me home."
***
One of the things that little Daniel really liked, and often begged for, was my comedic routine in which I'd pretend to bump my head on something. I'd surreptitiously kick my foot against the base of the wall or a large object, making a bumping sound to accentuate the trick. When a wall or object was not available, I took to pretending to pound my fist against my head, reacting with a wavering "Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh ..." vocalization and rotating my head as if in a cartoon daze. These little games would send Daniel into fits of laughter and calls for me to "Do it again! Do it again!" I could keep Daniel in stitches all day long with just a few faux bonks of my head.
He then took to bonking himself in the head with his fist for amusement—but his bonks were real, hard bonks that actually made a thumping sound, unlike the faux bonks I employed. But, he still giggled wildly at his acts at physical humor, even though they had to be painful. I tried to teach him to perform the trick without actually hitting himself, but to no avail.
Another game that Daniel was passionate about involved a small stuffed Barney doll that he often carried around with him. Little Daniel—to my irritation—was crazy about Barney, the annoying purple dinosaur. He liked to kiss Barney and say to the doll, "I love you, Barney!" And he liked to pretend to give other people kisses with his stupid little Barney doll. My response one day was to pretend to faint after Barney kissed me. Daniel thought that this reaction was so funny he would pretend to kiss me with Barney over and over again, until I would beg him to stop. Eventually, Daniel took to kissing himself with Barney and fake fainting, tossing Barney in the air as he did so.
One day when Daniel and I sat in the living room of his house with his grandmother, Daniel spontaneously decided to play his two favorite games. He suddenly bonked himself on the head—hard and loudly—and then play fainted. Immediately after, he picked up Barney, kissed him, and then faux fainted again, tossing Barney into the air. At the sight of this, his Grandma got up from her seat, shook her head in bewilderment, and walked out of the room, saying, "Lord, I just don't know where this boy learns these crazy behaviors."
"Um, I don't know either, ma'am," I replied sheepishly.
I then tried to get Daniel to stop engaging in those "crazy" behaviors—at least in front of his family. But to no avail. When Little Daniel got something stuck in his head, it became anchored there like a broken record.
I can just hear him now: "Ree-ray, woo-man!" ... "Is this yo' car?" ... "I love you, Barney!" ... Bonk! "Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh ..."
********
© 2008 David Lee Cummings
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Locker Wars
Over the years, a few of us staff at Apple Tree Orphanage engaged in a series of battles collectively christened the Locker Wars. The epic struggle for locker supremacy begot a cycle of supreme victories and anguishing defeats.
Here's how it worked: Our unit had eight small, metal lockers stacked in a casing in the staff office, each locker about twelve inches high, by six inches wide, by eight inches deep. The lucky eight of us who had a locker acquired it at some point through seniority, nepotism, or timing.
Anyway, a few of us locker overlords, who each worked a different shift, engaged for some time in guerilla locker warfare against one another in which we'd give the other guy hell by doing something cruel and unusual to his locker, or to him via his locker. Hence, the next time we worked our shift, we each expected our locker to have received a guerilla attack "in the night." Back and forth we struck, retributing one dirty prank with another.
Here are some of the battles we waged:
Here's how it worked: Our unit had eight small, metal lockers stacked in a casing in the staff office, each locker about twelve inches high, by six inches wide, by eight inches deep. The lucky eight of us who had a locker acquired it at some point through seniority, nepotism, or timing.
Anyway, a few of us locker overlords, who each worked a different shift, engaged for some time in guerilla locker warfare against one another in which we'd give the other guy hell by doing something cruel and unusual to his locker, or to him via his locker. Hence, the next time we worked our shift, we each expected our locker to have received a guerilla attack "in the night." Back and forth we struck, retributing one dirty prank with another.
Here are some of the battles we waged:
- I believe the very first Locker War skirmish occured when my shift partner, Justin, and I surprise attacked the locker of our coworker Martin, who worked a different shift from us, by stuffing it full of Cheerios via a small square hole along the bottom rim of the locker door. This attack was Justin's idea, and it was a stroke of genius. We heard later that Martin opened his locker, and hundreds of tawny Cheerios poured out in a rockfall onto the floor, which Martin had to subsequently vacuum up. Ha ha.
Get this: I then followed up this offensive with another by taking a digital picture of Martin's photo on a wall in a hallway of the Orphanage -- a wall where our horrendous badge photos hung, I guess to illustrate some kind of organizational unity or to project some other kind of image (maybe humilation of the photo subjects?) -- and Photoshopped Martin's image into a Wild West "Wanted" poster with more or less the following text:
"WANTED DEAD or ALIVE: The Cheerios Bandit.
"Wanted for stealing Cheerios from innocent children.
"Reward: 500 bonus tokens.
"Caution: He may be armed and dangerous with a jug of milk."
I posted the "Wanted" flyers in a multitude of various places, including one on Martin's locker, one in an obscure wing in the Orphanage, and one in the staff janitorial closet. I had made Martin infamous. - Martin counterstruck by taking a styrofoam cup full of glitter and blowing the tiny glitter squares into my locker, via the square hole in the rim of the door, through a straw. He blew enough glitter into my locker that, when I opened it the next time I worked, it looked like a snowstorm of colorful sparkles had settled on everything in my locker. It was a Winter Wonderland of tinsel confetti on my stuff.
- In response, I filled a styrofoam cup with glitter about a third full and placed it right above Martin's locker, which was on the top row of lockers, and taped one end of a black thread to the cup and the other end to the locker door. I attempted to make the thread as inconspicuous as possible. The punch line would be that Martin would open his locker door, thereby pulling the cup off the top of the lockers and spilling all of the glitter onto him and the floor. Unfortunately I guess I didn't hide the thread well enough, and Martin discovered the contraption as he began to open his locker. He dismantled it without incident, foiling my clever counterstrike. Damn.
- Okay, fast forward a couple of weeks: My coworker Brant, covering for Justin, and I come in one night and discover that Martin accidentally left his locker unlocked (O, how we never forget to lock them now!). Heh, heh. This was going to be good. Really good.
Brant took Martin's badge from the locker, wrapped it up in masking tape, and wrote, "Hi, I'm Martin," on it. He then taped a tampon onto the badge and taped the end of the tampon string to the ceiling of the locker, hanging it as a humiliating greeting for Martin the next time he worked.
I, co-conspirator, took the joke a little further. I then plastered the inside of Martin's locker with a whole bunch of stupid stickers of some sort. I next took a styrofoam cup half-full of glitter and set it on some stuff in his locker, and tied a string between the cup and the door. I took another string and tied it between the door and a cup of glitter perched atop his locker (the decoy).
When Martin next worked, he found the cup (the decoy) atop his locker and removed it, thinking he had successfully averted a viscious locker attack. He then cocksuredly opened his locker and -- boom! -- was showered, by the cup inside, in a blast of tiny fluttering sparkles. After that humiliation and ego-injury, he was then greeted by his flattering, "Hi, I'm Martin," tampon badge. - Another time, Martin ambushed our coworker Alvin, who never bothered to put a lock on his locker, with a brilliant prank. Alvin came to work one night, and when he opened his locker, it was stuffed full of boys underwear nicked from the boys clothing closet. Alvin immediately knew it was Martin's doing and, like the rest of us, had a good, hearty laugh over it.
- Yet another popular surprise attack has been to coat the backside of a coworker's lock with peanut butter, margarine, lotion, or some other foul-feeling substance. Occasionally we're vigilant enough to check our lockers for booby traps before we begin the process of opening it, but more often than not, we rush right in and mindlessly grab our lock and—Crap! I got suckered again!
I'll tell you what, peanut butter becomes an utterly filthy, disgusting mess when smeared across the fingers and palm ...
***
There were other battles in the "Locker Wars," but I shall continue the recounting of them at a later time.
********
© 2008 David Lee Cummings
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Jesus & the Coal Miner's Daughter
Cara was a thin teenage girl who spoke with an awkward and hesitant quiver in her voice. She was relatively good natured with mid-length straight blond hair and large, thick glasses. She was, I believe, of Appalachian blood and reminded me of a sort of modern day Laura Ingalls from the frontiers of a riverside trailer park.
At the time, I had my hair grown out in a long and thick mop of mangy waviness rippling down to my shoulders, and I possessed a full, moderately close-cropped beard. For reasons I cannot imagine, Cara one day took to calling me "Jesus."
She enunciated the syllables with a deliberate cadence in her quivering Bluegrass drawl, sounding not unlike Dana Carvey's "The Church Lady": "Jee-zuss." She then smiled at herself with an immense visage of self-satisfaction at having thought of the clever moniker.
Her barb was good natured, but as I prided myself on always keeping an upper hand on the taunts between the kids and me, I had to think of a retort quickly, lest I lose my perch of superior wisdom and wit. I smiled at Cara and offered, "Oh, yeah?" to stall for time to think of something good.
"Yeah!" she responded.
"Okay, no problem," I said. "Coal Miner's Daughter."
Cara's jaw dropped. She took on a look of incredulity, a loss for words. She gazed around for help, but all she saw were my coworkers laughing apparently at our comedic name-wrangling and the fact that I had pinned down her counter-ego so precisely. She huffed a few times, and then retorted, "Jesus."
"Coal Miner's Daughter."
"Jesus."
"Coal Miner's Daughter."
Later I discovered that my coworkers were not only laughing at our tussle of nit-wits, but also at my naivety. Apparently I was too simple to see that Cara's barbs emanated from a crush she had on me. A very innocent crush, no doubt, but a crush nonetheless, and prudent to discourage. Once I realized this, I kept vigilant about our interactions.
Yet, I could not resist, and I continued evermore to christen Cara as our resident "Coal Miner's Daughter."
And I continued in the role of "Jesus."
Amen.
********
© 2008 David Lee Cummings
At the time, I had my hair grown out in a long and thick mop of mangy waviness rippling down to my shoulders, and I possessed a full, moderately close-cropped beard. For reasons I cannot imagine, Cara one day took to calling me "Jesus."
She enunciated the syllables with a deliberate cadence in her quivering Bluegrass drawl, sounding not unlike Dana Carvey's "The Church Lady": "Jee-zuss." She then smiled at herself with an immense visage of self-satisfaction at having thought of the clever moniker.
Her barb was good natured, but as I prided myself on always keeping an upper hand on the taunts between the kids and me, I had to think of a retort quickly, lest I lose my perch of superior wisdom and wit. I smiled at Cara and offered, "Oh, yeah?" to stall for time to think of something good.
"Yeah!" she responded.
"Okay, no problem," I said. "Coal Miner's Daughter."
Cara's jaw dropped. She took on a look of incredulity, a loss for words. She gazed around for help, but all she saw were my coworkers laughing apparently at our comedic name-wrangling and the fact that I had pinned down her counter-ego so precisely. She huffed a few times, and then retorted, "Jesus."
"Coal Miner's Daughter."
"Jesus."
"Coal Miner's Daughter."
Later I discovered that my coworkers were not only laughing at our tussle of nit-wits, but also at my naivety. Apparently I was too simple to see that Cara's barbs emanated from a crush she had on me. A very innocent crush, no doubt, but a crush nonetheless, and prudent to discourage. Once I realized this, I kept vigilant about our interactions.
Yet, I could not resist, and I continued evermore to christen Cara as our resident "Coal Miner's Daughter."
And I continued in the role of "Jesus."
Amen.
********
© 2008 David Lee Cummings
Friday, May 4, 2007
McGuyver
Some of the kids I enjoyed most were the ones with ingenious minds, good or bad as they were. They were intellectual masterminds -- high logical IQs, though perhaps low emotional IQs. Even though they were deprived in many ways, their intellect still found a way to express itself in spite of all the soul had been through.
One of these unbreakable spirits was Stewart. He loved his Legos and paper and whatever raw material he had to work with. He could build anything out of nothing. Like a Buddhist mind. He even had a buzzed head, almost bald -- the Buddhahead buzz cut common among white kids at the time.
I had a natural affinity to Stewart, whom we affectionately called "McGuyver." I loved to spend time with this kid. Building whatever. A Lego city of various colors. A set or origami creatures from paper -- I don't even know what now. I just recall that he could build things out of anything. He was a clever kid, sharp as a tack. But with just a snowball's chance in hell of a normal life that could channel his talents in any meaningful way.
I fell in love with that kid. Yearned for him to have a productive life that offered him happiness and enabled him to express his talents.
***
A couple of years after Stewart discharged I was able to visit him. He was living in one of our facilities in another city about 60 miles away. I went there with a case worker who was visiting another kid for some unrelated reason.
I found Stewart, hanging out at his cabin of sorts and playing with an R/C car. He remembered me, but as I reached out to hug him, his response was cold. As if he had been through this before -- the adult once in his life who was no more, the shoulder to lean on that withdrew its perch, the advocate just like all others who got lost in the shuffle, not really there for Stewart when it mattered most, but just a cog in the system that felt some pity but not enough to snatch him up and take him home. Why should he bother to hug me back? Why should he care? Essentially, no one else really cared about him.
And then I understood a great deal. A great deal. A goodly little bit about how meaningless even my empathy and sympathy and pity was to these tortured souls who'd endured so much. Unless I could do something to change their lives, what good was my presence in their lives? I crossed their paths -- so, what difference did I truly make?
I left Stewart with a heart broken in my chest. I have agonized about him to this day, as I have agonized about many of our kids. I wonder if he has done okay. I would love to know.
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
One of these unbreakable spirits was Stewart. He loved his Legos and paper and whatever raw material he had to work with. He could build anything out of nothing. Like a Buddhist mind. He even had a buzzed head, almost bald -- the Buddhahead buzz cut common among white kids at the time.
I had a natural affinity to Stewart, whom we affectionately called "McGuyver." I loved to spend time with this kid. Building whatever. A Lego city of various colors. A set or origami creatures from paper -- I don't even know what now. I just recall that he could build things out of anything. He was a clever kid, sharp as a tack. But with just a snowball's chance in hell of a normal life that could channel his talents in any meaningful way.
I fell in love with that kid. Yearned for him to have a productive life that offered him happiness and enabled him to express his talents.
***
A couple of years after Stewart discharged I was able to visit him. He was living in one of our facilities in another city about 60 miles away. I went there with a case worker who was visiting another kid for some unrelated reason.
I found Stewart, hanging out at his cabin of sorts and playing with an R/C car. He remembered me, but as I reached out to hug him, his response was cold. As if he had been through this before -- the adult once in his life who was no more, the shoulder to lean on that withdrew its perch, the advocate just like all others who got lost in the shuffle, not really there for Stewart when it mattered most, but just a cog in the system that felt some pity but not enough to snatch him up and take him home. Why should he bother to hug me back? Why should he care? Essentially, no one else really cared about him.
And then I understood a great deal. A great deal. A goodly little bit about how meaningless even my empathy and sympathy and pity was to these tortured souls who'd endured so much. Unless I could do something to change their lives, what good was my presence in their lives? I crossed their paths -- so, what difference did I truly make?
I left Stewart with a heart broken in my chest. I have agonized about him to this day, as I have agonized about many of our kids. I wonder if he has done okay. I would love to know.
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
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