Our Little Angels

A Very Sad Story

2008-05-06T16:52:00.000-07:00

Like all of the children in our care, Jewel Hillock had a very sad story. One day, she inexplicably chose to share hers with me.

I recall Jewel as an affable Caucasian girl of about twelve years of age. She had unruly, medium length, dark blonde hair and a clumsy, medium build. She was an average looking Midwestern girl who would blend right in with a gang of youngsters kicking along down a set or railroad tracks or pinching candy in a run down convenience store. She was, in a raw and authentic sort of way, an All-American girl.

Jewel was discharging from the crisis unit the following morning and would be going to live in a foster home. She appeared rather wistful this day. Although we had formerly always shared perfunctory interactions, today she asked if she could speak with me in private right before I left my shift for the day. So we sat at the dining tables and talked.

“Mr. Dave,” she said, “I miss my mom.”

“Where does she live?” I asked.

“She’s dead.”

“Oh.” I cringed. “I’m sorry, Jewel. I didn’t know.”

“That’s okay. She died right in front of me. I remember that night like it was yesterday. It was the most horrible night ever.”

I shook my head, feeling awkward and unable to think of anything to say. I wondered why she was sharing this information with me now, as she had never before conversed with me about any serious matter. I surmised that perhaps sharing this experience was somehow her way of saying goodbye to me—or perhaps to her mother.

“My mommy and I were sitting on the floor playing rummy in her bedroom, and then all of a sudden she fell over. At first I thought she just passed out, ’cause she was drinking wine. But when I tried to wake her up, she wouldn’t get up. She just lied there.”

Jewel’s blue eyes welled up. “Then I got real scared. ‘Mommy, Mommy, wake up!’ I kept saying, but she just wouldn’t.”

“Oh, Jewel, that sounds—”

“Then I got really, really scared and started screaming: ‘Mommy! Mommy! Wake up! Wake up!’ And I was shaking her. Hard, like this.” She acted out the gesture. “But she still wouldn’t get up. I tried to wake her up for a long time. Her skin got real cold.”

I shook my head solemnly.

“I called 9-1-1 and the police and ambulance people came, and when they got there they drugged me out of the room. I was kicking and screaming: ‘No! Don’t take me away from my mommy! I want to be with my mommy!’ Then they tried to wake her up too but they couldn’t get her to wake up either. She was dead. They said she had a heart attack from taking too many drugs.”

Jewel looked at me sadly and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She then pulled a folded piece of paper from her back pocket. “Anyway, Mr. Dave, I wrote you this letter. But you can’t read it until tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.” Jewel looked at me suspiciously. “I swear, Jewel, I will wait.”

Reluctantly, she handed me the letter and I put it in my pocket, intrigued about its content. I gave Jewel a hug, and said, “Jewel, you take care of yourself. Be good in your foster home, okay?”

“I will.”

“And remember to use the coping skills you learned here.”

“I know! When I get angry I’ll write in my journal. Or go to my room and listen to music. Or talk with an adult.”

“Good girl, Jewel. I believe in you. I know you’ll do well.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dave.”

“I gotta go now. Take care of yourself.”

“I will.” Jewel looked down sorrowfully at the tabletop.

“Bye,” I found myself straining to utter, suddenly fighting back an urge to sob.

“Bye!” Jewel’s face abruptly brightened and she leapt up and skipped away merrily to where a few other kids were playing a game of cards at a table. I hastily walked off the unit, rather bewildered at the swiftness in which her mood so completely flipped over.

***

Later that evening, I broke my promise and read Jewel’s letter:

“Dear mr. Dave,

“You have always be so nice 2 me. I hope we can be freinds when I at my foster home. I fell like I cold talk to you and tell you anything. You are very specal to me and I fell very cloose 2 you, can we be freinds OK????? here is the number 4 my foster home [xxx-xxxx]. I hope you call me please???

“Love,

“Jewel”

***

I failed to understand why Jewel suddenly felt so close and personal with me, intimate enough to use the word “love” in her closing. She had never before even remotely hinted to me of such sentiments.

The letter was rather unnerving, and I intentionally avoided contacting Jewel for several reasons: I did not know if it was professionally ethical for me to do so; I did not know Jewel’s true intentions and feelings, and I did not want to encourage a crush, if this letter indeed was a sign of such a perilous infatuation; and I did not want Jewel to stalk me, as the potential for it was evidently there. I sorely regretted having to disregard her appeal for friendship, as I’m sure I became yet another adult in her life in whom she was unable to have faith; I was yet another in a long line of big disappointments. But the decision I chose was the only way.

However, I still have her letter stored in a box somewhere in my home. Every now and then, when I’m sorting through my clutter of keepsakes, I come across it and think of Jewel. And wonder how she’s doing and if she is indeed using her coping skills when she gets angry. I hope so.

********

© 2008 David Lee Cummings

The Assthrax Incident

2008-04-27T06:43:00.000-07:00

There were numerous occasions in which a child would attempt to, or would successfully, sneak prohibited contraband into the unit from a home visit. Once, a very clever and disturbed nine-year-old boy snuck in a four-inch long folding hunting knife. We discovered it only as he threatened to press it into his chest during a manic outburst. A coworker was fortunate enough to snatch the knife away from the boy as he was distracted. Needless to say, from that point on we always did a thorough strip search of that child after every home visit.

Another time, a female teen was caught trying to sneak in something a little less dangerous than a knife—yet still a "pointed" implement, if you will. Two female coworkers noticed a bulge in the middle of the teen's chest as they were checking her in from her visit. The coworkers took the teen into a bathroom and had her remove her shirt, and as she did, a vibrator slid out from under the middle of her bra and fell onto the floor. We all had a good laugh over this one, for we really couldn't chastise the girl for trying to add a little excitement to her forced stay in a locked and depressing institutional milieu.

But no other contraband story quite compares to "The Assthrax Incident." This one is a classic.

***

Joey was an eleven-year-old Caucasian boy who was very devious and sly, and also quite troubled. He once snuck out of the short term residential unit by every day picking away at the caulking around the window fan in the boys bathroom, until one evening he was able to remove the fan and slide through the opening. After noticing that Joey was taking an unusually long time in the shower, a coworker knocked on the bathroom door. When there was no answer, the coworker unlocked the door and went into the bathroom, only to discover it empty and a hole in the window and the fan hanging by its wires.

Apparently, however, Joey's cunning went only so far, as he had a plan to sneak out of the bathroom and onto the fourth-floor rooftop at night, but he had not thought out how to get down from there. A couple of coworkers were able to get onto the roof through a door—one coworker, a big muscular guy, tiptoeing gingerly and slowly across the flat, rock-covered roof; the other, a part-time flying instructor and born into a family full of doctors, bounding across the roof with reckless abandon and absolutely no fear—and they corralled Joey back into the unit.

After this incident, Joey was "demoted" to the crisis unit. Where "The Assthrax Incident" occurred.

One day, Joey went on a home visit and returned a day or two later. Later during the day of his return to the crisis unit, a couple of coworkers found a picture from a porn magazine folded up and hidden under his mattress. Naturally, they confiscated the picture. Antwone later showed up for work and found the picture folded up on the staff desk. Out of curiosity, he unfolded it and took a pleasurable gander at it.

Suddenly, Lara came from the back hallway where the bedrooms were located and screamed at Antwone as she rushed toward him.

"Antwone! Put that down!"

"What, woman? Not like I've never seen something like this before."

"No, you don't understand. Joey had that up his ass!"

"What the—! What are you talking about?"

"Joey had that folded up and snuck it onto the unit by shoving it up his ass. I was just in his room talking to him and that's what he told me."

Antwone immediately dropped the picture. "Shit! And I've been touching my face!" He then sniffed his hands and ran to the staff bathroom.

Lara then stuffed the picture into the trash and followed Antwone to the bathroom to wash her hands. As she entered it, she discovered Antwone in a state that she would often describe later with much animation and laughter: "And when I went in there, he had the hand soap lathered all over his hands and face. His head was like a big ball of white foam! And he was scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing! It was hilarious!"

When I heard about this event the next day, I, like all of my coworkers, had a tremendous laugh over it. And suddenly the label popped into my mind, which I just had to share with Antwone and Lara: "Hey guys, you know, that's forever going to be known as 'The Assthrax Incident.'"

And so it is.

********

© 2008 David Lee Cummings

Damn Tooth Fairy

2008-04-27T05:41:00.001-07:00

Isaiah was a small African American eight-year-old boy with wide-set eyes and a bulbous head shaped somewhat like a light bulb. He looked a bit like a miniature version of NBA player Sam Cassell. As well, one of his upper front teeth was missing, giving him a cute smile and a tenacious frown.

Isaiah was also born a crack baby and now couldn't sit still to save his life. He perpetually shifted, wriggled, got up, jumped, jiggled, readjusted, wandered off, spaced out, got sidetracked, impulsively spoke out of turn—whatever ... except sit still.

One morning, Isaiah awoke early and approached a coworker, an obese Anglophile man named Calvin Humperdink who never seemed to wear a shirt that would fully cover his rotund, pearly white, baby smooth belly.

"Mr. Calvin, can you throw this away for me?" Isaiah asked.

"What is it?" Calvin asked, looking down at the minute object in Isaiah's hand.

"It's my tooth," he said, holding up the white chunk of calcium and separating his lips to display his teeth. Isaiah had lost the other of his two upper front teeth. "I've had it under my pillow for the past two nights, but the damn tooth fairy never came. So now I just want to throw it away."

"Oh, Isaiah, I'm sorry. I guess no one let the tooth fairy know you had lost a tooth. Why don't you put it under your pillow one more time tonight, and I'll be sure to tell the tooth fairy to come visit you."

"Okay," Isaiah responded in a sad, little voice, and moped back to his room.

And that night, thanks to the grace of Humperdink, the tooth fairy indeed finally paid a visit to little Isaiah.

********

© 2008 David Lee Cummings

Disclaimer

2008-04-13T16:43:00.000-07:00

Please allow me to express that, although this blog focuses on many of the humorous and perhaps even shocking incidents I have engaged in and witnessed in my experience working with children, I and others have done a lot of good work in our time. Though our efforts at times may have bordered on the unprofessional, I think it is because of our willingness to be human beings in front of our clients that we were often able to earn their trust and make progress with them in ways not possible were we to be sterile and clinical automatons who rarely displayed a hint of humanity.

We have loved our little angels, and I think it showed.

********

© 2008 David Lee Cummings

Hear Ye: Refrain from Farting by Gollum, Lest You Suffer His Wrath

2008-03-18T20:01:00.000-07:00

I've got at least one more "natural gas" story that I have to tell. I'll try to keep it short.

Al (referred to as "Alvin" in a previous post) and I one night were dealing with a kid named Chuck, a buzz-cut, pimply faced young teen who liked his rap music. Chuck was one hundred percent white, but apparently he was raised in a black family. I'm not absolutely sure what his circumstances were—I think perhaps his mother married a black gentleman and moved in, along with Chuck, with his family. I dunno.

Chuck was skinny and gangly, and with his short-almost-bald round head and pimple-littered face, he looked a lot like Gollum from "Lord of the Rings." So, Al and I—to ourselves, of course—referred to him as our beloved "Gollum." And sometime "Smeagol."

Anyway, this night was during a time when the clients were allowed to have boom boxes and CDs in their rooms (whoever thought this was a good idea surely had little foresight or imagination). And Chuck got really worked up whenever he'd listen to rap music. He would start pacing in his room, thrusting his fists into the air, rapping along with the CD, and generally becoming worked up into a frenzy of frenetic agitation. His behavior really affected Al and I, because we worked the overnight shift and Chuck's music would encourage him to stay up late into the night listening to it and becoming disruptive with his dance-stomping and sing-along rapping. When Al and I tried to make Chuck turn off his boom box and be quiet, he would throw a teenage tantrum of ample proportions. It was a significant headache dealing with him.

So this night while we were addressing Chuck in his room, threatening to take his boom box away if he couldn't be quiet, the urge emerged. And I let loose from my caboose. But it didn't have an effect Al and I could have predicted.

Chuck, a kid of minimal concern for cleanliness and manners himself—as evidenced by his poor personal grooming habits—reacted to my fart with utter offense.

"Why'd you do that!" he cried out, tearing up in anger. "Why'd you do that!"

He then tried to burst out of his room, and Al and I had to stop him by stepping in his way and holding him back.

"Chuck, calm down," I said. "I'm sorry, it was meant to be funny but I guess you didn't get the joke."

"I didn't think it was funny!"

"Obviously," Al said.

"Look, I'm sorry," I added. "I won't do it again if this is how you feel about it."

We managed to calm Chuck down—but, wow, his reaction was certainly unexpected. I learned to be a little more judicious from then on with which kids I could share a little friendly Bronx cheer.

(Not that I shared it often—it was really a rare occasion, in fact, that I saved for moments in which I thought it would lighten a tense mood or work as a disincentive for a kid to behave in a way that required such an "intervention.")

But Al and I to this day have a good laugh over this incident. Who knew Gollum could be so offended over just a little bio-methane? Who knew.

********

© 2008 David Lee Cummings

Big Brother is Watching (or, Weapon of Gas Destruction)

2008-03-02T07:42:00.000-08:00

Sometimes a kid would simply tick you off so much that you just wanted to put him in a headlock until he begged for mercy and promised never to do anything bad again. Seriously. If you've worked in direct care for some time—or even if you're just a parent—I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about.

But alas, we live in a society that has its limits and controls and affords us a semblance of freedom only if we refrain from doing bad. And so for moral as well as practical reasons, we must regulate our impulses. Else, we be no different from the anarchic kids I served, who made the ruffians in "Lord of the Flies" look like pansies.

To compensate for not being able to act on one's impulses, however, those who work in direct care with mega-hyper, mega-disrespectful, mega-obstinate, mega-aggressive kids necessarily develop certain strategies for handling the stresses of the job. Also known as "coping skills," these methods vary in their self-destructiveness: some of us take up drinking excessively, some take up smoking, some develop tics, some take prescription sedatives, and some take up chronically cussing and venting to their coworkers. And some take up all of the above.

Anyway, one coping skill I spontaneously discovered one day was to pass gas on a kid who deserved it. Here's how it all began.

Lara and I directed a client to take a time out because he was being rude and disruptive during a therapeutic "team building" group (aka, kickball) that Lara was running. This client, a challenging (to put it mildly) fifteen-year-old named DeShawn, refused to serve the time out.

DeShawn was a challenging (again, an understatement) persona all around, the kind of kid only a mother could love. Except, even his mother didn't love him, else he wouldn't have been in residential placement for the reasons he was.

Now, when I suggest he was hard to love, I'm sure there are people who could find it in their hearts to love this child, including when he crapped in his pants and then refused to shower, when he cussed you out, when he refused to follow your directions, when he spit on you, when he tried to hurt you physically—all on a moment-to-moment basis of every single day, for weeks on end. Yeah, there are surely some Mother Teresa types out there who probably could find a special spot in their heart for DeShawn. But, unfortunately, I just couldn't find this place in mine.

I have possessed overwhelming sympathy for virtually every single kid I have ever served. But DeShawn simply made the list of the one or two kids in over seven years whom I simply could not develop a fondness or feel sufficient pity for, because his behaviors were so aggressive, mean spirited, and intentionally infuriating. I knew his monstrous nature was not originally his fault, but he was a monster nonetheless, and he flaunted this persona by smearing it in your face every day.

Anyway, Lara and I forced DeShawn to serve his time out by grabbing him on each forearm and leading him to the time out area (a particular spot on the floor adjacent to a wall). He offered minimal resistance getting there, but once on the spot he kept trying to get up. So, Lara and I continued to hold each forearm of this rather large young man—nearly six-foot tall and about 235 pounds—and we held him down by pressing down on his shoulders with our other hand.

(This physical enforcement of time outs was standard practice at my place of employment at one time; however, any hands-on method of compliance was later prohibited—in my opinion, to the detriment of the clients. For, they then had the green light to be as disruptive, defiant, and oppositional as they wanted to be no matter the circumstance, as our only allowed response was to verbally encourage them to stop misbehaving. If they refused to heed our imploring, we were essentially powerless to do anything else about it. In fact, many of the staff resorted to bribes, which only made things worse, as some of the kids realized they could always demand more and more loot and keep getting these rewards for their escalating badness. So, the kids were empowered to run the show, and they simply learned that terrorizing others into yielding to their demands pays off—and pays well.)

So, as Lara and I held DeShawn in place, I suddenly felt the urge–as every human does at times—to pass gas. But instead of holding it in, as decorum requires, I got the brilliant idea to vent some of my frustrations toward DeShawn on DeShawn himself, in a relatively harmless yet potent way. Thus, I pointed my caboose at DeShawn's head and let loose.

Lara and I instantly groaned and croaked, trying to stifle our laughter, as we attempted to maintain some semblance of professionalism. But Latisha, sitting at the staff desk, cried out, "Mr. Dave! I can't believe you did that!" And we ached even more to explode in laughter.

Suddenly, the unit phone rang. Latisha answered it, listened for a moment, looked at us gravely, and then hung up. She then turned to Lara and I and said, "That was Brandt (our supervisor). He was watching on the cameras and just asked if Dave farted on DeShawn's head."

Lara and I looked at each other grimly. We thought we were in trouble ourselves.

"Dave, he said for you to be more subtle next time."

God, it hurt so much trying to hold back the tsunami of guffaws now trying to force their way out of my body and head—that I just couldn't do it, and I let loose in an explosion of laughter, as did Lara. And, man, it felt so darn good to finally adequately "vent" my frustrations with DeShawn. So good, that tears came to my eyes.

********

© 2008 David Lee Cummings

"Come on, Mistah Dave!"

2008-03-01T03:28:00.000-08:00

Yet another Brady—Brady Wyler—also developed a vigorous attachment to me. And I developed a commensurate fondness for him.

Brady W. was an African American boy about twelve years old who I believe was diagnosed with mental retardation, although he didn't have the characteristic physical appearance the term conjures up. He looked pretty much like a normal adolescent child—sans the encrusted snot perpetually caked from his nostrils to his upper lip. He also wore large and extremely thick plastic-framed glasses that distorted his eyes, magnifying them into disproportionately large and goofy orbs. His behavior was likewise goofy, particularly when he cocked his head like a Labrador and gazed at you with his mouth agape, seemingly preparing to say something to you yet not uttering a word ... just gazing silently and without an ostensible reason.

Brady stayed for some time on the crisis unit, and one of his favorite pastimes was to play catch with a Nerf football. I think nearly every night that I worked while Brady was a resident, during free time we played this game of toss-and-catch. It was the main process by which we bonded.

This game was a great deal of fun. Brady would cock his head and look at me out of the corner of his glasses—his comically enlarged eyes opened up wide—and then fling the ball at me in a spasmodic two-handed flick, like he was impatiently swatting at a fly with both hands at once. His throwing motion would make any quarterbacks coach cringe, but somehow it was effective. The ball would fly at me with an incredible amount of thrust, and Brady's accuracy was formidable: More often than not, the ball would be on-target and reach me with an ample degree of velocity.

Catching the ball was a different story for Brady. Usually he would lunge at the ball and abruptly cross his arms in an attempt to cradle-snatch it, the ball ricocheting off of his chest and bounding away. Brady would then chase after the ball with an extreme sense of urgency as it flipped and flopped away, pouncing on it when he finally caught up with it.

The most memorable thing about our game of toss-and-catch was this: Whenever I would throw Brady an errant pass that was out of his reach, he would cock his head and peer at me out of the corner of his glasses with his magnified fish eyes, and cry out, "Come on, Mistah Dave!" His voice would screech out in a high pitch and had a slur to it reminiscent of a drunkard.

His little shout out—"Come on, Mistah Dave!"—was so emphatic and frequent (I guess my aim must have been pretty bad), that it earned a sort of infamous status on the unit, eliciting frequent laughs from my coworkers as well as mocking repetition from them on many occasions. And so, I recall that phrase now with much vividness, as it is inseparable from the source. It will always be Brady's trademark slogan, the sound image married indelibly to the visual image of him, the icing on his endearing cake.

"Come on, Mistah Dave!"

********

© 2008 David Lee Cummings

"Yabba Dabba Doo!"

2008-02-27T19:16:00.001-08:00

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

Sock-O Presto! The Case of the Magic Socks

2008-02-24T12:39:00.000-08:00

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

A Brush with Death

2008-02-24T02:09:00.001-08:00

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

"I Love You, Barney!" Or, "Ree-ray, Woo-man!"

2008-02-23T00:41:00.000-08:00

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 ..."

********

Locker Wars

2008-01-29T20:09:00.000-08:00

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:

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.

********

Jesus & the Coal Miner's Daughter

2008-01-26T13:03:00.002-08:00

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

McGuyver

2007-05-04T21:26:00.000-07:00

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

The Boy with an Ordinary Name

2007-03-21T19:57:00.000-07:00

This first group of kids, of course, was a challenging bunch. Yet, over the years, I would encounter clients who would be even greater threats to my safety as well as my sanity.

During the following several weeks after my first day at the orphanage, in fact, the client composition would change dramatically. A few of the kids would discharge—and be out of sight and nearly out of mind forever—and others would take their place, others of a far more dangerous and disturbing nature.

One of these replacements was Mikey Smith, a boy with an unassuming, typically ordinary name. Mikey Smith—must be the football team's backup tight end … or glee club member … … or friend’s second cousin … or someone else mundane and harmless.

But Mikey Smith belied his name. Mikey Smith was a psychopath. An undersized, thirteen-year-old psychopath driven by circumstances to inflict torment upon others.

One day Mikey told me how he had literally stabbed his step-father in the back. In a raspy, soft, serene voice he said, "He was on a ladder cleaning the gutters. I ran up the ladder and stabbed him in the back with a kitchen knife."

"What? What'd you do that for?" I asked.

"Because he deserved it."

“He deserved it?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

"Why did he deserve it?"

"'Cause."

"'Cause why?"

"Cause he is an evil man."

"Why do you think he’s evil?"

"He would whip me with a belt, call me 'stupid,' beat my mom. Punched my sister in the face once. I couldn't take it no more. So I stabbed him.” Mikey smiled

He continued: “It was funny. He has a fake leg, and after I stabbed him he tried to chase me. I ran away and laughed at him; he looked so stupid limping after me. He was yelling, "I'm gonna kill you, you little fucker!' But I just laughed at him."

"Gees.” I shook my head. “So … what happened later? I mean, didn't you have to go home and face him eventually?"

"Nah. My mom called the cops. And the ambulance came, and they took my dad to the hospital. The cops found me at a friend’s house and took me to juvie hall. Then I came here."

"Man." I didn’t know what else to say. I did know, however, from that day on to watch my back around Mikey.

***

One day, Mikey became aggressive and destructive in his room. I don’t recall exactly why, but it was likely because he didn’t get his way with something. Mikey often became aggressive simply when told ‘no.’”

What I do remember well is this:

A fellow staff member and I ended up having to physically restrain Mikey (manually hold him prostrate and face down against the floor, keeping his arms tight against his sides—for his and our safety alike) in his room. His neighbor on the RTU, a boy named Ronny Jones, started throwing pens and pencils into Mikey’s room. In spite of our firm prompts to stop, Ronny laughed and continued as if it were a game. Even from the floor, Mikey smiled and laughed heartily as if his restraint were part of some grand joke—whose punch line was his twisted life.

Mikey was a wiry, slippery, and tough kid. He managed to wriggle an arm free and grab one of Ronny's makeshift weapons. Just as he was going to stab me with it, I managed to snatch his wrist. He then bent his wrist and angled the tip of the pen against my skin and thrust as hard as he could: he managed to draw a short, crooked blue line up my wrist but fortunately did not pierce my skin.

Eventually my coworker and I were able to wrest the pen free from Mikey, and someone else helped out and was able to confront Ronny, forcing him to stop encouraging Mikey's frenzy and feeding him weapons. We collectively managed to take control of the situation and end the two thugs’ episode of terror. For the time being, anyway.

***

It wasn't long after that incident that Mikey and Ronny stirred an even greater, and comedic, madness.

One day I was on the RTU alone with Mikey and Ronny, as my two coworkers, Travis and Stacy, took the eight or so other RTU clients to the gym. Mikey and Ronny were prohibited from going off the unit with their peers because of earlier negative behaviors. So here I was, stuck in a small locked milieu with the two most volatile kids in our care. Naturally, the two took advantage of the situation to foment chaos.

They began running throughout the unit, climbing and overturning furniture, tearing down curtains and posters, and running into their peers’ bedrooms and taking their toys. I tried my best to keep up with them, but as soon as I got a hold of one, the other would be off pillaging; as I made for the other, the one would slip free.

Finally, I had an idea: I would toss one into a locked space called the Seclusion Room. The other, I would then be able to snatch up and control.

So, l captured Mikey and corralled him into the Seclusion Room. It was more or less a proverbial “padded room” in which we occasionally placed clients who were violently out of control and displayed little hope of calming down anytime soon. Except this room wasn’t padded: rather, it had concrete and steel walls, a hard tile floor, and a medium-sized thick-paned window on one side through which the staff could observe clients inside the room.

Very curiously, Mikey did not resist going into the Seclusion Room and actually smiled brashly as he entered it. I thought his response odd, but I attributed it to the insane psyche of Mikey Smith.

I tracked down Ronny and seized him by the arm, dragging him out of a peer’s bedroom and into the living room. I sat him down on a couch and firmly directed him to sit there quietly for a while. I then walked over to the Seclusion Room to check on Mikey.

Now, here’s where the story gets humorous.

I peered through the window of the Seclusion Room to check on Mikey. To my astonishment, inside the room with him was a podium that was usually kept just outside the Seclusion Room and used as a hard surface for staff to write on and keep up a log to document the use of the Seclusion Room. Somehow—through real magic or deception—Mikey had gotten that podium into the room with him.

Perplexed, I used my magnetic key to release the heavy electronic locks that secured the thick metal door of the Seclusion Room. With a gentle thunk the locks released and I opened the door and removed the podium.

“I don’t know how you did it, Mikey,” I said, “but don’t do it again. You need to stay in here until I let you out.” Mikey smiled mischievously. I shut the door once again, this time carefully observing to make sure the door was flush and the locks indeed fastened securely.

I didn’t know how he had done it. I thought perhaps the Seclusion Room door had malfunctioned or I had not shut it properly. Whatever happened, I didn’t feel comfortable at all being alone on the unit with Mikey and Ronny.

I then went into the staff office to call down to the gym for assistance. Ronny had remained on the couch as instructed when I had checked on Mikey, but now as I was on the phone, Ronny snuck away.

Suddenly, Mikey went running past the office window.

“What the—?” I said, then to my coworker on the phone: “Hang on, Travis, I got a kid on the loose!” I laid down the receiver and went chasing after Mikey. I was getting rather irritated now and was intent on getting Mikey back into that room. Then, I would find Ronny and give him a piece of my mind for wandering off.

I captured Mikey and then returned him to the Seclusion Room, but when I opened the door, inside stood Ronny.

“What the—?” I yanked Ronny out and threw Mikey back in, sat Ronny on the couch again, and then returned to the phone.

“Travis, you still there?”

“Yeah. What the hell’s going on up there?”

“Dude, you will not believe what has been happening. What the—?” Now, Ronny and Mikey were chasing each other in the living room, running in circles and giggling like carefree children. I dropped the receiver.

This time, as I threw Mikey back into the Seclusion Room, I checked his pockets and found a small, round piece of shiny metal in one of them. It was about the size of a dime and looked like a watch battery. It was the functioning component of a magnetic key! That’s how he was getting out of the Seclusion Room—using this key, which had obviously broken off the plastic housing of a fellow staff member’s key and which Mikey then found.

Mikey struggled with me as I took the key away from him, but I managed to seize the key and to shove him deep into the Seclusion Room as I slammed the heavy metal door shut before he could get his footing and try to dash out. His affect had changed, and now he was livid and belligerent. He began banging on the door, cussing me out, and spitting on the window. My, how the tables had turned.

Ronny came running toward the Seclusion Room when he heard the commotion, but I cut him off and told him in no uncertain terms to “Sit down!” on the couch. At that moment, the main door to the milieu opened up, and Travis and Stacy walked in with the other kids.

“What’s going on?” Travis asked.

“Dude,” I said, shaking my head, “you simply won’t believe it.”

********

© 2008 David Lee Cummings

"Interlinear"

2007-03-21T06:04:00.000-07:00

A few things to keep in mind as you read on:

- The memory is an unreliable thing; I have recollected these events to the best of my abilities.
- I’ve kept true to the events but have embellished a detail here or there for dramatic effect.
- It's becoming increasingly difficult to maintain an accurate chronological sequence of events; apologies if I begin to skip around in time.
- Unless you were present for these events, you probably wouldn't have noticed any of these issues anyway.
- Enjoy the remainder of the narrative.

David

********

© 2007 David Lee Cummings

Ugly Kid

2007-03-20T20:25:00.000-07:00

Vejee was a huge University of Kentucky sports fan. Well, a huge basketball fan; the football team's enduring struggles kept Vejee lukewarm about the pigskin program. (Indeed, everybody loves a winner.) Vejee was so crazy about UK, in fact, that he asked another staff and I to shave the letters "UK" onto his head.

It was a routine event for us to cut the kids' hair from time to time. We would get out a set of Wahl clippers and go to work -- on the boys. The girls required hairdressers of superior skills to ours. But the boys would get our standard clipper cuts with fades.

So, when another staff and I got out the clippers for the present round of hair cuts, Vejee begged us to shave "UK" onto his head.

"Please, please, please, Mr. Brent," he implored

"Are you kidding me, why would you want that trash on your scalp?" asked Brent, my coworker, fellow Purdue University alum, and longtime friend who actually got me hired at the orphanage (which is a long story and to be addressed at a later time in this narrative).

"What are you talking about? UK is the most awesomest team in the world."

"No way. Purdue is."

"Purdue sucks."

"UK sucks."

"Whatever. UK rocks."

"Whatever."

"Just do it, please?"

"Only if you say Purdue is the best team in the world and UK sucks."

"No way."

"Okay, sorry then. No UK in your head."

"Oh, alright." Vejee rolled his eyes.

"I'm waiting."

Vejee rolled his eyes again, then whined, "Purdue rocks, UK doesn't."

"That's not exactly what I said," Brent replied, at which Vejee sighed. "But it's good enough."

***

"Ha, ha, ha!" I laughed and pointed at the back of Vejee's head when Brent completed his haircut. (Brent and I had planned a little trick on Vejee.)

"What? What are you laughing at, Mr. Dave?" Vejee implored. "What did Mr. Brent do?"

"Well, he didn't shave UK in the back of your head, that's what he didn't do."

"What? Are you kidding me? What did he put? What did he put?"

"You don't want to know."

"Yes I do! What is it?"

"Um, it looks like 'PU' to me, for Purdue University."

"What? Are you joking? Mr. Brent, what did you put on my head?"

"What do you think I put? I put PU there, just like Mr. Dave said," responded Brent. "I couldn't let you go around with that other crap on your head. That just wouldn't be right."

"Yeah, Mr. Brent did you a favor, young man," I added. "You'll get your butt kicked with that UK crap. Now you'll walk around with dignity and respect from others."

Vejee looked like he was about to cry.

"Here, take this mirror and go into the bathroom and check it out," Brent told Vejee. "You'll like what you see. I promise you."

***

"You guys are not funny!" Vejee shouted at us as he returned to the main living area, where our makeshift barber shop was set up.

We busted out laughing. Brent had actually shaved "UK" onto the back of Vejee's head. We just wanted to torture him for a bit.

"Yeah, but I still didn't shave the University of Kentucky into your head," said Brent.

"Yes, you did."

"Nope. It doesn't stand for that. The UK stands for 'ugly kid.'"

"Shut up. No it doesn't."

We laughed and pointed at Vejee. "Ha, ha, ugly kid, ugly kid!"

"Shut up."

"What?" asked Brent. "No 'thank you' for your haircut?"

"Yeah, Vejee," I chimed. "You at least owe Mr. Brent a 'thank you' for your haircut."

"Whatever."

"Geesh," I said. "You do these kids a favor and they just disrespect you. What a shame."

"No matter," Brent responded. "If you're not man enough to thank me for your haircut, at least I'll be man enough to say, 'You're welcome ... ugly kid.'"

And we laughed some more.

***

We played this game a few more minutes before Brent and I finally reassured Vejee that we were just kidding and that the UK indeed stood for the University of Kentucky. Vejee had a good sense of humor, so it really didn't bother him. We picked on him like a little brother, and he enjoyed it, in spite of his ostensible protests.

In fact, to this day Vejee, at age 22, still keeps in touch with us, calling Brent and I each nearly every day. And we still dish out the insults to one another. Vejee frequently jokes that he's going to buy my four-year-old son a UK jersey; I joke that I'll burn it. We laugh. It's all in good fun.

********

© 2007 David Lee Cummings

That's Liposuction!

2007-02-27T22:26:00.000-08:00

"That's liposuction!" exclaimed D.J. out of the blue, perfectly illustrating his penchant for non sequiturs.

"What?" I said.

"I said that's liposuction!"

"Uh, okay. Where'd you learn that word from?"

"From T.V. There was a show about it one time. They suck the fat out of your butt. And then they stick it in your forehead. I saw a guy on T.V. get that done."

"Are you talking about Geraldo Rivera?"

" I don't know his name."

"Probably was. Anyway, what's liposuction -- I mean, what do you mean by, 'That's liposuction'?"

"This toy." D.J. held out a remote control car.

"What's liposuction about it?"

"It sucks. Like liposuction."

I laughed. "Okay, so what's so liposuction about it?"

"It doesn't work right. I think it needs new batteries."

I got D.J. a new set of batteries, which indeed solved the problem.

***

A couple of weeks later, D.J. had a new expression.

"That's colonial village!" he exclaimed.

"What?" I responded.

"I said, 'That's colonial village!'"

"Okay, D.J. ... What's colonial village?"

"I can't have any Flaming Hot Cheetos." The kids were being served small bags of these spicy delicacies for their afternoon snack.

"Why not?"

"I don't know."

"His mom won't let him have any," Drew spoke up. Drew was one of my shift coworkers. He was a large man with a lumberjack beard and a wolf tattooed on his hairy chest. He usually wore a flannel shirt and a tattered tan canvass baseball cap.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because it apparently makes his lips break out in cold sores."

"That's colonial village!" D.J. responded.

I laughed. "Okay, now what's up with this phrase, 'colonial village'?"

"It's what it is. It's colonial village," said D.J.

Drew added, "We took them on an outing to this place called Colonial Village the other day after school. He's been saying that name ever since."

"Oh, I see," I said.

"What's a matter with you, son?" I said to D.J. "You got Tourette's or something?" I was joking.

"Yes."

"What? You do?"

"Yup, I've been diagnosed with a slight case of it."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Mr. Dave, you're colonial village!"

"And you're liposuction, D.J."

********

© 2007 David Lee Cummings

Just Give Her a Barbecue Sandwich

2007-02-27T22:25:00.000-08:00

Donika was a rather obese girl who was diagnosed as suffering from schizoid episodes. She'd have moments in which she'd tune out, fall back against a wall, slide to the floor, and start to shake. Her eyes would become wild and glazed as they took on a "thousand mile stare." Donika's skin was very dark, which accentuated the whites and craziness of her wide open eyes during her schizoid episodes. Moreover, the fact that her hair was usually a wild mess, like a patch of tangled weeds zigzagging frantically, made her appear even more mad.

My shift coworkers and I would handle Donika's schizoid episodes by allowing her to just ride them out. She responded to nothing else we tried, so we just let her episodes run their course, usually after about 15 minutes or so. That was our approach -- that is, until one day one of our coworkers on another shift told me to offer Donika a barbecue sandwich.

"A what?" I implored.

"A barbecue sandwich," my coworker, Teri, answered.

"Huh?"

"You heard me. She fakes those so-called 'schizoid episodes.' They're nothing but for attention."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Just try it the next time she has one of those schizoid episode. You'll see."

"Okay."

***

The next time Donika had a schizoid episode, I took Teri's advice.

"Donika, are you okay?" No response. Donika just shook and gazed vacantly as she sat on the floor with her back against a wall. "Donika, I've got a barbecue sandwich in the fridge. Would you like it?" Donika slowly looked at me with her wild saucer eyes. "Would you like a barbecue sandwich?" Donika gently nodded her head. "Well, come on then, let's go get it."

With a hand from me, Donika slowly rose from the floor and followed me to the unit fridge. There was no barbecue sandwich in it. There never was.

"Oh, sorry Donika, I must have eaten it and forgot. How about something else."

"Okay," Donika grunted.

I gave her a granola bar, which she proceeded to wash down with a small carton of milk.

"So, it appears that food snaps you out of your schizoid episodes, eh?"

"Sometimes."

"Of course."

***

At some subsequent point in the future, one of my coworkers confronted Donika with the irony that food can cut off her schizoid episodes. After that, we simply ignored her schizoid episodes as much as possible. They escalated for awhile, but soon receded when she received no further edible sympathy from us. And to this day, I can't eat a barbecue sandwich without thinking of Donika.

********

© 2007 David Lee Cummings

And the Oscar Goes To ...

2007-02-24T02:01:00.000-08:00

Like many of the children, Mariah loved attention. She craved it, sought it in any way she could. If the focus wasn't on her, she did whatever it took to seize the spotlight, from screaming to belching to crying.

Once, she complained of a headache and begged for a bag of ice for her forehead. When the staff ignored her, she began screaming, "I need a bag of ice! I'm about to faint because of the pain!" Instead of a bag of ice, however, she earned a trip to the calming room, an area where out-of-control kids were placed until they usually did one of the following: 1) calmed down, 2) escalated until they became violent and had to be physically restrained on the floor, or 3) escalated until they were placed into the electromagnetically locked "seclusion room" until they calmed down.

Mariah wept and complained uneventfully until she calmed down.

***

Another time, Mariah complained of being possessed by a demon. So, a couple of the staff took her to her room and left her there alone. A loud commotion soon emanated from her room, so I went to check on her. I found her thrashing about on her bed and screaming wildly; when she paused for a moment and saw me, she escalated her undulations and shrieks. I simply stood in her doorway and watched the performance.

Gradually, other kids gathered around me to observe the show too. It went on for a couple of minutes until Mariah wore herself out. She stopped and then looked up at us, evidently caught off guard that such a big crowd had gathered to witness her dramatic display. I started clapping, and the rest of the audience joined in to give Mariah a rigorous standing ovation. Her face turned ruddy and she smiled sheepishly, and for the rest of the day her behavior was rather good.

***

Mariah never again was possessed by a demon during her time on the RTU. Who knew that social humiliation was so effective at exorcising demons?

********

© 2007 David Lee Cummings

I Like Chocolate Milk

2007-02-24T01:27:00.000-08:00

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!"

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© 2007 David Lee Cummings

Our Little Angels

2007-02-23T07:13:00.000-08:00

My first week as a brand new direct care worker was spent in trainings and observing my coworkers on the unit. One of the trainings was held in the basement of the building by the head of maintenance, a man named Hank who sported a wicked handlebar mustache. He gave a talk on hazardous materials safety, emergency escape routes, fire extinguishers, and related topics, finishing up with a tour of the laundry and other maintenance facilities.

He opened up the training with a reference that has anchored my perspective of the clients ever since I heard it. Reminding us who we're working for, he said, "We're all here for the kids, who we affectionately like to call 'our little angels.'"

Our little angels. I liked the sound of that. It reminded me that these children were innocent victims, fallen angels, angels with broken wings. And it was our job to help them fly again. I was ready for that providential duty.

***

The first group of kids I worked with was a motley crew of nine Bad News Bears:

1. Marky, a cute little eight-year-old African American boy with a robust head and body and disarming smile.

2. Calvin, a witty thirteen-year-old African American boy with sleepy eyes and a sense of humor that constantly caught you off guard.

3. Mariah, a melodramatic eleven-year-old drama queen in cat-eye glasses who loved attention and whose milk-chocolate skin was an even blend of genes from her mother (white) and father (black).

4. Doug, an anxious, freckle-faced ten-year-old Caucasian boy who could build anything out of anything -- the McGuyver of the gang, if you will.

5. Donika, an overweight eleven-year-old African American girl with schizoid episodes and a ravenous appetite.

6. D.J., a thin nine-year-old African American boy with big lips and eyes and a penchant for verbal non sequiturs and Flaming Hot Cheetos.

7. Vejee, an East Indian boy, eleven years old, with a large head, very poor impulse control, and an obsession with college sports and touching females inappropriately.

8. Lakeisha, a laconic, dark skinned, sexually charged eleven-year-old African American girl who had ghonneria when admitted and who collected diaries although she could barely read or write.

9. Kim, a stocky ten-year-old African American girl with a laid-back, street-tough demeanor and a gritty-smooth voice like a blues singer.

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© 2007 David Lee Cummings

Apple Tree Orphanage

2007-02-22T22:37:00.000-08:00

Apple Tree Orphanage was not a true orphanage anymore. At least, not the kind conjured up in ancient sepia tone photographs of little doll-faced cherubs in prim nineteenth century garb and attended by stern-faced nuns. Nor was it the kind of place you'd find little Guatemalan boys playing soccer in a dirt field, naked African children with swollen bellies and flies swarming on the crust at the corners of their eyes and mouths. No, Apple Tree Orphanage did not house real orphans anymore.

Sure, perhaps a kid here or there who passed through Apple Tree's doors really didn't have parents who were still alive. But the preponderance of them did. They just happened to not live with their mommies and daddies anymore, for one tragic reason or another.

Long ago in the days of horse-drawn carriages, and perhaps as recent as the Carter Administration, Apple Tree Orphanage was as its name implies. But as the times changed, so did the orphanage. The foster care system took over the housing of orphans, and Apple Tree, out of self-preservation, became a multifaceted treatment center for troubled youth, providing case management, after-school programs, outpatient therapy, and residential treatment, among other services. The agency kept the name, however, because it elicited sympathy in the community. Most people believed it was still an orphanage; they didn't know any better. The name was good PR, good for soliciting donations.

***

I worked on one of the two residential units of the "orphanage," the Residential Treatment Unit. (The other unit was the Crisis Treatment Unit.) The RTU was a locked unit that housed up to twelve children at a time. It consisted of a main living area, a staff office, a girls bathroom, a boys bathroom, a calming room, a seclusion room, a recreation room, a nurses' office, a storage room, and twelve bedrooms. It was pasted together in furnishings and decor of neutral, institutional tones -- mostly grays and off-whites. It was on the third and top floor of a large building complex, providing a stark view of wooded communities stretching to a large river in the distance.

The clients ranged in age from as young as five years old to about sixteen years old, all mashed together in a one-size-fits-all treatment milieu. They came to the orphanage from foster homes, group homes, other institutional facilities, and their own biological families' homes. Some were removed from their prior placements due to being the victim of some alleged or confirmed incident (e.g., physical or sexual abuse). Most, however, were removed due to their inability to play nicely with others; in other words, they assaulted their biological or foster parents or siblings, started fires, repeatedly broke curfew, ran away from home, vandalized property, inappropriately touched other children and adults, and so on. So they were sent to us to see if we could control them for the time being, and maybe even fix them a little bit.

They were broken children, shattered originally by the neglect or abuse their own flesh and blood inflicted upon them, then ground further into irreparable detritus by the system -- a system composed of well-meaning judges, guardians, case workers, therapists, direct care workers, foster parents (some of whom too often are not so well meaning), and others. And here they were in Apple Tree Orphanage, trying to put the pieces back together, trying to rebuild a city of hope from Lego pieces smashed by a sledgehammer into scattered flecks of splintered plastic. Good luck.

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© 2007 David Lee Cummings

Little Emily

2007-02-22T22:09:00.000-08:00

Truth is stranger than fiction, especially in the broken realities of broken children. Indeed, do these poor creatures have stories to tell! I am about to share but a handful of them with you now. Beginning with Little Emily.

***

On my first day on the job at the Apple Tree Orphanage, I found myself sitting on a couch in the main area, the living room, of a locked residential unit. I was naturally shy, and I had that nerve-wracking first-day-on-the-job anxiety that hovers in your throat and, from there, tenses your entire body. A pail, frail little five-year-old girl sat next to me. Her red hair was a tousled bob atop her head, her big blue eyes vast puddles of life. She wore a pair of pink shorts and a matching T-shirt, white ankle-length socks, and white tennis shoes. She seemed a normal little kid. Her name was Emily. In her hands Emily held a four-ounce milk carton embellished with multicolored shreds of tissue paper and clumps of dried Elmer's Glue.

"What you got there?" I asked quietly, timidly with my head slightly lowered. Emily handed the milk carton to me, and said it was a feelings box. Inside the feelings box were little tabs of paper with words handwritten in black ink on them. She reached into the feelings box and handed me a tab.

"What's this say?" Emily asked in a voice soft like fresh snow and just as melancholy.

I cleared my throat. "It says, 'Afraid,'" I answered.

Emily reached into the feelings box again. "What's this say?"

"'Anxious.'"

"'This?'"

"'Sad.'"

"This?"

"Scared."

And on went the exchange, until all the tabs were exhausted from the feelings box and they sat on the cushion space between us. "Let's put these back in," I suggested.

At first, we returned the tabs in silence. Then I uttered, "Cha-ching," while returning a tab. Emily smiled at me for the first time, revealing chalky, gapped teeth. She then returned a tab with a "cha-ching" herself. All the tabs returned with "cha-chings" and smiles. I then removed a tab and uttered the phrase in reverse: "ching-cha." And the activity turned into a game of "ching-chas" and "cha-chings" and lots of broad, unrestrained smiles.

"Emily, it's time to go. Get your stuff," a female voice punctuated our game. One of my new coworkers looked down at us with a faint, purse-lipped grin, the kind of grin that says, "I regret what I had to say, but it had to be said."

We returned all of the tabs with a finale of quiet "cha-chings." Emily picked up her feelings box and then jumped down from the couch, took a few steps, and stopped. She turned around and raised a pale hand. "Bye," she said quietly, and then walked out through the electromagnetically locked front door of the unit.

I never saw Emily again. That day -- my first on the job -- was Emily's last, the day of her discharge from the facility. I was with her for her final moments on the unit -- two strangers spontaneously connecting and forging an apparent friendship; but in actuality the exchange was as ephemeral as a dandelion clock blown apart by a child's breath. Poof! -- and the swiftly but solidly forged rapport was gone, water droplets embracing but then disbursed by some external force into the vast oblivion of disparate worlds forever. Paths crossed and simultaneously lost. There went Emily, strolling off into her unseen destiny ... While I sat on the couch in the orphanage, awaiting mine.

***

I later read Emily's file, which lingered a few days on the unit in a binder on a shelf in a closet. What I discovered was endearing. A psychiatrist evaluating Emily described her as "a very cute girl with large, wide-set blue eyes."

However, the file was also shattering, transforming me, giving me a new purpose. It told of Emily's stunted cognitive development and of her vicious abuse: alleged, but unconfirmed, sexual molestation by her father. During a recent therapy session, the file disclosed, this six year old stripped the clothes off of a Barbie doll, pretended to shackle it to a bed, and placed Ken on top. (Unconfirmed? What other evidence was necessary?)

The pain I felt for this poor child was overwhelming. How could anyone do such horrible things to such an angelic little girl? The depraved psyche capable of raping a child -- no less one’s own flesh and blood! -- was unfathomable.

These children suffered so tremendously. My heart bled for them. I wept over the horrors they had to endure at the perverted hands of others. I ached to heal their wounds, mend their worlds, and change them from tragic victims into triumphant victors.

I knew, from that moment on, that this work was my destiny.

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© 2007 David Lee Cummings

Introduction

2007-02-22T22:02:00.000-08:00

I am still working on an acceptable introduction. I suppose it will surface after the completion of the entire tome. For now, just accept that it will say something profound and contemplative, maybe even melodramatic.

Also understand that names, places, and other details in these stories have been changed, for obvious reasons.

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© 2007 David Lee Cummings