I sat at my desk drinking the brown stuff the staff at Jewish Unified Services referred to as coffee. A Monday and I had five back-to-back appointments this morning, because I had to catch up. A few sick days last week to go to Gleason's Gym and spar had put me behind.
I went to see Trina, the office manager.
"Who's my 9:15?" I asked. Before I could get an entire sentence out of my mouth, I tripped over something. I lost my balance a little and banged into the wall.
"Walk much?" Trina said. "Karl is your 9:15."
"Oh, very nice. I almost do serious bodily harm to myself and you find it funny."
"It was pretty funny."
I looked at the box that used to contain a case of Campbell's Chicken and Stars soup. Now it had cans of various meat and fish in it.
"The Mission looking for canned goods? It's August," I said.
"It's for the soldiers oversees."
I looked in the box and saw cans of Spam, sardines, and Vienna sausages.
"Apparently, fatty foods loaded with salt are going to help the war effort."
"No, it's for the soldiers to have snack foods, and canned goods keep the best. They're calling it the 'Snack Attack'," Trina said. She checked the clinic's answering machine.
"Have you ever eaten Spam? Wait a minute. Can you even say that to a woman and still be considered a gentleman?"
"When did you start considering yourself a gentleman?" Trina asked.
"You doubt my chivalry? By the way, who's my 9:15?"
"I already told you-are you gonna keep asking me all morning?" She feigned annoyance.
"C'mon, it's Monday," I said.
"Yeah, maybe you shouldn't take stupid pills for breakfast on Mondays."
"Hmmm… and you work in human services…"
"No, I'm the secretary."
I went to the files to get Karl's chart. His last name is Greene and it wasn't near the 'Gs'.
"Does Claudia have Karl's chart for signatures?"
"Duffy, you got that file fifteen minutes ago."
"That's right. I need more coffee," I didn't remember anything about getting the file. That felt a little weird. So did my head.
I got knocked out for the first time Saturday afternoon. I've been boxing my whole life and I've never been knocked unconscious. I've had my nose broken a bunch of times, I've been cut, and I have had my bell rung, but I never went out for a few minutes. It happens and it happens to the best fighters. I'm not one of the best fighters and have almost as many losses as wins. I sparred with a heavyweight contender all last week and made an extra thousand bucks. I used eighteen-ounce gloves and he used fourteen, which is bullshit, but when they pay you to be cannon fodder, bullshit comes with the territory. The buzzer on my phone jarred me out of my reverie. Trina announced Karl was here for his appointment. Karl was a tough session when I felt fresh and rested, but on an under-caffeinated Monday morning equaled torture. This was only his second time in, but his first had been a little, let's say, out of the ordinary.
"Mornin' Karl," I said and extended my hand.
"Yeah, that's what you'd like wouldn't you?" Karl said with a laugh. It wasn't a happy laugh, though I couldn't say if he smiled or sneered because his Michael Jackson style surgical mask hid his expression.
"Whatyamean Karl?"
"Don't play games with me. I get what's going on, you know."
I wasn't sure if he did actually. Karl and reality parted company sometime between high school and a short stint in the Marine Corps. That stint included a trip to Iraq.
"Well, whatya say we head into the counseling room, then?"
"I'll follow you," Karl said.
I think they call it paranoid schizophrenia. Karl recently hit his mid twenties and had started getting delusional a few years back, which is just about the typical age schizophrenia starts to develop. I'm guessing dealing with Parris Island, wacky military discipline, and RPGs, IEDs, and whatnot might have sped up the process a little bit. I didn't know much more because the Veteran's Administration, that super efficient federal organization, had yet to send me any info on Karl.
"How's the week been?" I tried to be casually therapeutic.
"The week has been just fine-for the NWO."
"The NWO? The angry rap group with the inappropriate name?"
"Don't play coy, Dombrowski."
"Coy, me?" My head started to throb. I couldn't tell if it was from Saturday or from Karl.
"New World Order," Karl said and snickered.
"Not sure I'm down with what the NWO is about there, Karl."
"Yeah-and the World Trade center collapsed when two hijacked planes flew into it. Ha! You people kill me!"
"Ah, Karl, have you been taking your meds?"
"That's what you want, isn't it? That's what they've all wanted since I enlisted. Keeps me in the program."
"The program?"
"Oh, you don't know about the program, ha! When did they get you?"
I didn't remember getting into the program. I did remember Karl was just about due for a psych consult and I thought maybe we could put him number one with a bullet on the waiting list.
"Karl, how's your drug use been lately?" I said, temporarily trying to steer the session away from all things conspiratorial.
"The drugs have kept me a slave at times, but it's a slavery I welcome compared to the other choices," Karl said.
"What does that mean, Karl? The part about slavery?"
"As long as you're hooked they can control you. Shit, why do they introduce you to the stuff? It's just another way for the man to get you under his thumb."
"But Karl, it's your choice to use drugs, isn't it?"
"It is now, but it wasn't then," Karl said and punctuated it with a sneer.
"Huh?"
"Never mind, Dombrowski," Karl looked me straight in the eye. "Never mind."
My advanced psychological training, which amounted to my junior college diploma from an online school of higher learning, told me I should continue to provide unconditional positive regard to my client by moving to a subject we mutually agreed would be more beneficial.
That and the fact the current line of conversation drove me up the fucking wall.
"How's life at the Mission?" I asked, inquiring about Karl's department of social services financed living situation.
"It's great because I left."
"Why? Does that mean you're out on the street?"
"I like the street. They can't keep such a close eye on you when you don't have an address. The man likes it when you have an address."
"Yeah, but isn't there something to be said for warmth, shelter, and three squares a day?"
"It's August, it gets a little cool at night, but it's worth the freedom."
It's sessions like this that make me question the overall utility of human services. I wasn't sure what exactly I did for old Karl except piss him off and make him more suspicious. I also wasn't sure what kept him coming, but I hazard the guess even Karl, despite all his talk, liked his monthly DSS check.
"Have you formed any positive relationships in the last week?" I hated asking cliched human services questions, but Karl had me kind of stymied.
"Positive relationships," Karl smiled out of one corner of his mouth. "Counselor, Dombrowski, do tell me what makes a relationship positive."
"You know, uh…relationships marked by…" He'd caught me spouting bullshit and he knew it. So did I. An awkward silence hung and Karl gave me a self-satisfied smile while I squirmed with really nothing of substance to say. Finally, he broke the silence.
"Do you know about the fires? Or, are you going to play dumb?"
"What fires?"
"Yep, I knew you'd play dumb."
I looked at Karl and kind of squinted, which made my head throb a bit. I really wasn't up for another go around.
"You know Karl, we've probably covered enough for today," I said.
"What ever you say commandant-I know better than to disobey. I remember what you did last time I did." I didn't.
I walked Karl out and went to see Trina about getting Karl in for a psych session with Dr. Meade as soon as possible. Trina stood at the file cabinet, up on her tiptoes, trying to water her spider plant. She wore a pair of 501's and the denim hugged every turn her body took. Her stretching to take care of her plant gave me an extra treat for which I offered the good Lord gratitude. She had the radio on the FM classic rock station.
"Trina can we get Karl into to see Meade ASAP?" She recoiled from her watering position.
"ASAP is six weeks."
"Oh, come on-really?"
"You can get him in for a med review Thursday, but for only fifteen minutes."
We only had Meade, the shrink, one day a week. It wasn't enough, but that was the world of non-profit human services in Crawford, New York.
"I'll take the med review."
"Med reviews are not to be used as a substitute for therapeutic psych visits," I heard from over my shoulder.
"Good morning, Claudia," I said to the Michelin Woman. Claudia Michelin, the clinical director and my nemesis who lived for the bureaucratic paperwork I detested. She had been trying to fire my ass for the last six years and had come close plenty of times.
"Trina, don't schedule Karl in med review spot. Give him the next available therapeutic session," Claudia said. Claudia, nearly six feet tall, with a black perm was a rice cake shy of 250 lbs, hence, my private nickname 'The Michelin Woman.'
She turned and headed toward her office. Trina rolled her brown eyes at me and I shrugged my shoulders, which made my head throb again.
"You all right?" Trina said.
"Yeah, why?"
"You just wobbled."
"Wobbled? I didn't wobble."
"You wobbled."
"Bullshit."
I didn't feel much like arguing about my gait, especially as the throbbing returned, so I turned to head toward my cubicle, when Clapton's Layla faded out, and the radio news came on.
"Six dead, twenty more hospitalized in a fire at ROTC training camp believed to be deliberately set…"