A rumpled red construction paper cutout of a heart
Dotted with glue and dusted with sparkles
Adorned with five crayon letters:
I-L-V-Y-U
Held aloft between index and thumb nails
And with a single match
Burned in effigy
Your feet are too cold
That joke isn't funny anymore
You've had a headache for two months now
I never liked your pot roast
You used to be so much fun
Why are you staying out so late?
Don't start that again
Pick up your own dry cleaning
Mother said you were bad news
Whose hair is this?
I'm too old for this shit.
28 May 2009
05 May 2009
First Chakra: Work
De-de-de-de... De-de-de-de... De-de-de-de...
Alarm clock.
But not the usual one.
I ignore it. My eyes open. Early sunlight seeping in hits the TV screen, stuck on the DVD menu which has been looping ad nauseaum for too many hours. A hand brushes my shoulder. I start to glance, and suddenly a bounding elephant charges from behind the couch and lumbers down the hall. BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM slam! a bedroom door closes.
Christ, the kids are awake?
Sandpapery mouth, my head hits the armrest as I reach above me to turn off the travel alarm clock sitting on the endtable. Got an hour before staff arrives. Much work to do.
First thing to do is ditch the evidence. The bottle and any remnants of cork are gathered and taken out to the car; put in the trunk next to the paraphenalia ditched the night before. Then check the kids. All of them in their beds, splayed in every direction, gaping mouths drooling, snoring like buzzsaws. All except one: a neat egg-shaped mound enrobed in a perfectly turned-down comforter.
Now we clean. Everything. In essence, at least...
Laundry switched from washer to dryer. Bathrooms look okay, and they'll be cleaned three more times today. Dishes left over from last night's snack. Floors? Meh. Same goes to vacuuming.
And now the paperwork. Sleep checklists, med sheets, activity reports. Nothing out of the ordinary to report, right? No nightmares, blow-ups, emergencies? No, I would've remembered...
Set the morning meds out, too. Just to be nice.
As I'm calling in the shift report, the Overnight Sleep staff (the one paid specifically to do just that) leaves unceremoniously. And then Robin shows up, early, as usual. With her around I excuse myself to grab a quick shower.
The hangover persists as I rouse the kids up and get their day started. Some wake up with the slightest bed shake, some are so medicated it'll take two hours and a bulldozer to get them up, if at all. The egg-shaped mound takes a shake, pause, shake, and unzips seamlessly from the comforter, fully-dressed, wry smile on his face, plodding down the hall to breakfast. Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom.
Big, tall, strong kid. They're bad when they blow up. But you can expect it and prepare. It's the scrawny medium-sized ones that are worst. Never know what sets them off, and they're relentless.
The AM shift is rather rigidly structured. After breakfast, hygiene, and Morning Tasks, the day students arrive. Then it's down into the basement for calisthenics. Everything the kids do is set to a point system. Waking, cleaning, going to class, good behavior, eating, participating, working with their behavior program, taking meds, pooping, not getting out of line. The more points they earn, the more freedoms they receive. And no one wants to be put on Restriction. Or sent to the Hospital for medwash.
My title is Mental Health Professional. Really I'm a babysitter/Teacher's Aide with an appropriate degree. My job, aside from observing and recording notes on half the house's residents, spans from preparing meals and meds to leading a lesson plan in American History to driving the kids to and fro wherever they're supposed to go to talking them down when they get agitated. And be a role model. Ever a role model. Because these kids are a diverse cocktail of Abnormal Psych diagnoses: Schizophrenia, Autism, Bi-polar Affective Disorder, CHARGE Syndrome. Heartbreaking histories of neglect, abuse. Plenty of sexual assault stories, and only some are victims. The remainder had the choice of prison or here. Most of the kids here are 21 and under, with a couple older ones slipping through cracks, the oldest being one year younger than I am now.
Many of them will never live independently.
A couple of them have no family, not even parents.
And all of them are Deaf.
Robin's hands fly effortlessly as she lays out the directives for the day. She's very good, a dedicated Deaf Ed graduate with her first full-time teaching job out of school. Hearing people without Deaf relatives who get involved with Deaf Culture fascinate me. I always have to ask why, and I rarely remember their answers. Her's didn't really matter, though, after you saw how much she loved her job. A short Aries brunette, but oh, so much presence. Sharp eyes, a winning smile, and a can-do attitude who saw promise in all the kids, no matter how complex. I was a dark brooding Libra, her complete opposite, so we worked well off each other that year.
Never in my life have I done so much signing. Every day at work was like living in a country where the primary language is ASL. Hearing people were, in fact, the minority in the house. Even with what I know I find myself floundering for a long time, at first getting used to rhythm and regularity after living brother-free in Iowa forever, not to mention all the new technical jargon the DSM-IV has to offer, to later figuring out how to present Algebra and Poetry lessons at moment's notice. Just the kind of issues total immersion is meant for.
After Morning Classes and breaks for Snacks and Lunch, we may go outside for games if the weather's good, or we stay inside for an activity. By that time the day students are starting to be bussed back home and the residents wind down with homework or free time while staff discusses behavior, tallies up points, and gets to the ubiquitous paperwork. Here, now, and at lunch, are probably the times when the division between Hearing and Deaf are at their most evident. Staff, mostly Hearing, band together and discuss how the kids did without them knowing. Deaf Staff are addressed to discuss vague bits and pieces, but they never get the full discussion, especially when the subject spreads off-topic. Which it does often. Sometimes, just because it can. It's inadvertent but undeniable.
The day's scheduled to end at 3:30. Subject to change at any time. Which it does. But no one got violent and had to be taken down. And paperwork might just get done on time. And replacement staff is showing up just as planned.
At this house, anyway.
The phone rings just as I hang up from my second shift report of the day.
It's the head office.
Someone didn't show up at House II.
Would anyone there care for a double?
Robin's going out to pick china patterns with her fiance.
The other staff have returned to their care facilities.
I got NOTHING better to do tonight.
And extra money sounds good with my rent-free lifestyle.
Besides, PMs are much easier.
I accept and get in my car to head on over.
The clients we care for are split up by age and level of functionality, spread out over three houses in a North Chicagoland suburban village. In these houses the kids do everything: School, Work, and Everyday Life. If they're on Restriction they never leave, needing to earn enough points just to step onto the back patio. Three undisclosed, unsuspecting cookie-cutter homes. Could've been living right next to you. In fact, if there were no registered sex offenders in the house, the neighbors needn't know a single thing. Which, I believe, is the point of the whole program.
The house I left was older kids (aged 13-21) with high-level functioning (remedial to mainstream intellect, self-regulatory, low dependence), and I was driving to the low-level functioning older kids (mental retardation/autistic, developmentally delayed, high-dependence). As I walk in the front door I am treated like a rockstar. These boys were all bussed to my house earlier today, Robin being the sole teacher for both houses. They're both confused and overjoyed at the fact I'm here right now. And Jesse breathes a sigh of relief as well. She's the other staff, the one who showed up. The boys adore her, and why shouldn't they? She's profoundly Deaf herself and quite gorgeous. Plus, unbeknownst to them, she's an actress and a lesbian. She and I did a show together last year. And she makes the most seductive throaty sounds without ever knowing it.
PM shifts are more free-form, more laissez-faire. Homework gets finished up, and the kitchen gets prepared for dinner. The houses get catered food for every meal, but the boys have a budget for groceries and usually cook for themselves. It's good for them, and the food is usually better than whatever gets sent to us. After dinner and Evening Tasks is Free Time, either video games, a movie, or activities inside, or games outside. Tonight a client from House III, where I started my day, comes over. It's Mr. Egg-Shaped Mound, wry smile and all, basketball in hand, wanting to shoot hoops in the backyard. So he and another client step out the sliding door, Boom b-boom b-boom b-boom, Jesse following along to monitor them, while I sit in the living room watching TV and starting on paperwork.
During the course of the evening things on the back patio get loud. Mr. Egg-Shape, who stands 6'3" and weighs as much as I do, is getting pissed off. He's winning, but his lower-functioning counterpart is getting away with flagrant fouls, and Jesse's not calling anything. His yells shudder the glass of the sliding doors. I get up from the couch and cross over to the threshold, open the door and stand, not blocking the entrance, hands folded by my waist in front of me, still keeping an eye on the kids watching the movie. This is non-violent crisis management in action. We get him to stop the tirade and express his feelings. Between Jesse and I, we talk him down from agitation to mature discussion. He's responding well to his behavior program, and is able to talk things out without resorting to violence. This is subtle but it is progress. In fact, relative to his case study, it's profound progress. He won't earn the maximum points for the evening, but he won't lose many. And that's good enough.
The movie's winding down, as is the scene outside. Dusk settled in nicely, stars are starting to twinkle, and the House III staff arrives to take Eggy back home. Crisis averted. Perhaps this mild flurry of late-day activity will help him sleep through the whole night. Right after he leaves another one of the residents picks up the phone receiver and places it on the TTY.
NO SORRY CAN'T USE PHONE NOW, I sign.
CALL DAD NOW
TOO-LATE
I point to a piece of paper taped on the wall near the phone.
RULES SAY USE PHONE AFTER DINNER. TOO-LATE NOW. TIME BED.
MUST CALL DAD NOW. ALWAYS CALL DAD EVERY-NIGHT.
SORRY TOO-LATE. TIME READY BED. HANG-UP-PHONE PLEASE.
And the kid loses it. In one motion he screams, slams his hand on the kitchen table, picks up a chair and heaves it, metal legs whizzing by my face, almost hitting a resident behind me and breaking a window. Then he charges me. His wiry arm and hand reaches up and smacks the shock off my face. The other clients panic and scatter, not leaving the room, shouting or cowering behind pillows. Jesse hops on the TTY, tapping out pages for backup. The kid gets a good couple shots in on me before I get my head in the game. He misses a connection and, while off-balance, I get behind him and secure both arms, take his knee out with mine so we both drop slowly to the floor on our butts, him sitting in front of me facing away like teammates in a bobsled. I wrap his arms around him like a straitjacket does, loosely but firmly, and slip my legs over his to keep them both spread apart. This move is called a basket hold. It's usually meant for younger kids small enough for one person to restrain them. His head comes up to my shoulders, so it's effective in subduing him, but he refuses to give up, ramming the back of his head into my chest. On one of his backswings I tuck my chin into my chest, using the top of my head to press against the back of his, stopping the blows. I can hear Jesse, now off the phone, hands slapping together rapidly, trying to calm him down. He can't sign back; I've got his arms pinned against him, and right now he's too tense and agitated for me to let up. After about 10 minutes of this the Night Supervisor shows up with the Nurse and one PM Staff from House III. Like a game of Improv Freeze Tag I get tapped out and everyone except Nurse take over restraints. I stand next to Nurse and he mediates a breakdown of the incident between the kid and me. It's all formulaic song-and-dance. When he's calm enough he can count out of restraints one limb at a time. Once he can sign we enter the Incident Questionnaire:
WHAT HAPPEN?
THAT FOLLOW RULES?
WHAT YOU DO?
IS APPROPRIATE?
WHAT IS APPROPRIATE?
WHAT YOU DO NEXT-TIME?
FEEL SORRY?
WANT TELL STAFF SORRY? TELL CLIENT SORRY?
Stock apologies given all around. This whole rigamarole takes two hours. Nurse tells me he'll be on Restriction here on out but doesn't tell the kid that. With his evening meds he's given his PRN for agitation. Then it's calm-down time for the house. I go out to the front lawn for a cigarette. Nurse joins me.
"Whoa, sorry about that, Kevin. That's quite a scuffle you had there. You okay?"
Yeah. I'm not bleedin'. Got a couple good shots in on me.
"Still got a hand outline on your face. Get you some ice for that."
Thanks.
"Hey, hate to do this to you, but we had a call out at House I for overnight. It's Sleep Staff, though."
Overnight Sleep Staff. $50 to crash at one of the houses as passive back-up, for worst-case scenarios. Rarely ever used in that capacity.
"You think you might...?"
I got NOTHING better to do tonight.
$50 is $50, and an easy $50 at that.
Sure. Why not?
"You're the best, Kevin. The Best."
Yeah. Thanks.
Still got paperwork to do, though.
Now more than usual.
It's well after midnight when I get out of there. House I is all young kids (ages 6-13) with assorted functionalities. There's even a girl or two living there. All of the residents were put to bed hours ago. Only Anton, the Hearing Overnight Awake Staff, is awake. He's very hip, a tall gangly soul dressed all in black, very mystic, very austere. He has no Deaf affiliation but has worked many care facilities before. He's well-read in occult subjects, something I'm quickly gaining interest in, and he has done Tarot card readings for me before at work.
"Heard you were coming. Was very pleased. Rough day, huh?"
I start to recount the evening when Anton's face pulls sharply away from me, to the stairs behind me.
No, he signs weakly, time bed. go room.
Th-thoom th-thoom th-thoom, the little feet pound the steps unknowingly, down to our level, stopping right behind me sitting on the couch. Before I can turn around to see I feel a small hand pat me on the head gently. Then immediately a leather belt whips from behind the couch around my throat and is held there, loosely but firmly, for a few long seconds. Just as danger registers in my brain the belt slowly, smoothly retracts back behind the couch, th-thoom th-thoom th-thoom from behind around the side, now facing Anton and me.
His toothy, beaming grin is one of the most adorable I've ever seen. Two foot tall, pajama bottoms with the booties sewn on, Chicago Bears T-shirt, glisten of drool round his lips, wide sparkly eyes. And that smile. This 6-year-old's so cute he could hawk Gerber Baby Food.
The leather belt lays limp in his hands like a dead snake.
The same belt wrapped around my neck just now.
His chart will make you weep.
And make you fighting mad.
"He likes you," Anton chortles to me.
I stare blankly.
go bed, Anton signs. now.
The 6-year-old chuckles like a cherub, th-thoom th-thoom th-thoom up the stairs, belt dragging behind him, all the way down the hall upstairs until he gets swallowed by the blackness of his room.
I bury my head in my hands.
"C'mon," Anton says, "let's step outside."
Two more are already on the front lawn, PM staff from Houses I and III. Anton grabs the glass pipe between them and reloads it from the stash in his pocket. It's usually weed, but Anton has been known to bring opium before. A couple rounds between the four of us, and fingers start flying wildly, as well as a general disregard for volume control; stories from today, war stories from before, general bullshit. Why should we care? No one in the house can hear, they'll sleep through the night without consequences. Out on the lawn all we need is a keg, some cups, a few other people, and it'd be just like most college house parties I've been to. An unsavory scene, yet nothing feels more familiar than this.
One more puff and the whole day catches up with me. My head feels like a throbbing brick, and my muscles are made of molten lead. I excuse myself.
"All right, brother. I'll be watching Highlander if you care to join."
Grab my overnight bag and head to the basement. It's been recently redone, and the cool cement walls feel welcoming. A rickety second-hand futon sits in the corner, my nest for the night. Don't trust the frame, so I pull off the mattress, very like an untenderized slab of chuck steak, and lay it on the bare cement floor. Travel alarm clock set for one hour before work tomorrow. I've got Mr. Egg-Shape and Mr. Restriction to look forward to come daylight.
That's the last thought going through my mind as I drift off into narcotic slumber.
Alarm clock.
But not the usual one.
I ignore it. My eyes open. Early sunlight seeping in hits the TV screen, stuck on the DVD menu which has been looping ad nauseaum for too many hours. A hand brushes my shoulder. I start to glance, and suddenly a bounding elephant charges from behind the couch and lumbers down the hall. BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM slam! a bedroom door closes.
Christ, the kids are awake?
Sandpapery mouth, my head hits the armrest as I reach above me to turn off the travel alarm clock sitting on the endtable. Got an hour before staff arrives. Much work to do.
First thing to do is ditch the evidence. The bottle and any remnants of cork are gathered and taken out to the car; put in the trunk next to the paraphenalia ditched the night before. Then check the kids. All of them in their beds, splayed in every direction, gaping mouths drooling, snoring like buzzsaws. All except one: a neat egg-shaped mound enrobed in a perfectly turned-down comforter.
Now we clean. Everything. In essence, at least...
Laundry switched from washer to dryer. Bathrooms look okay, and they'll be cleaned three more times today. Dishes left over from last night's snack. Floors? Meh. Same goes to vacuuming.
And now the paperwork. Sleep checklists, med sheets, activity reports. Nothing out of the ordinary to report, right? No nightmares, blow-ups, emergencies? No, I would've remembered...
Set the morning meds out, too. Just to be nice.
As I'm calling in the shift report, the Overnight Sleep staff (the one paid specifically to do just that) leaves unceremoniously. And then Robin shows up, early, as usual. With her around I excuse myself to grab a quick shower.
The hangover persists as I rouse the kids up and get their day started. Some wake up with the slightest bed shake, some are so medicated it'll take two hours and a bulldozer to get them up, if at all. The egg-shaped mound takes a shake, pause, shake, and unzips seamlessly from the comforter, fully-dressed, wry smile on his face, plodding down the hall to breakfast. Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom.
Big, tall, strong kid. They're bad when they blow up. But you can expect it and prepare. It's the scrawny medium-sized ones that are worst. Never know what sets them off, and they're relentless.
The AM shift is rather rigidly structured. After breakfast, hygiene, and Morning Tasks, the day students arrive. Then it's down into the basement for calisthenics. Everything the kids do is set to a point system. Waking, cleaning, going to class, good behavior, eating, participating, working with their behavior program, taking meds, pooping, not getting out of line. The more points they earn, the more freedoms they receive. And no one wants to be put on Restriction. Or sent to the Hospital for medwash.
My title is Mental Health Professional. Really I'm a babysitter/Teacher's Aide with an appropriate degree. My job, aside from observing and recording notes on half the house's residents, spans from preparing meals and meds to leading a lesson plan in American History to driving the kids to and fro wherever they're supposed to go to talking them down when they get agitated. And be a role model. Ever a role model. Because these kids are a diverse cocktail of Abnormal Psych diagnoses: Schizophrenia, Autism, Bi-polar Affective Disorder, CHARGE Syndrome. Heartbreaking histories of neglect, abuse. Plenty of sexual assault stories, and only some are victims. The remainder had the choice of prison or here. Most of the kids here are 21 and under, with a couple older ones slipping through cracks, the oldest being one year younger than I am now.
Many of them will never live independently.
A couple of them have no family, not even parents.
And all of them are Deaf.
Robin's hands fly effortlessly as she lays out the directives for the day. She's very good, a dedicated Deaf Ed graduate with her first full-time teaching job out of school. Hearing people without Deaf relatives who get involved with Deaf Culture fascinate me. I always have to ask why, and I rarely remember their answers. Her's didn't really matter, though, after you saw how much she loved her job. A short Aries brunette, but oh, so much presence. Sharp eyes, a winning smile, and a can-do attitude who saw promise in all the kids, no matter how complex. I was a dark brooding Libra, her complete opposite, so we worked well off each other that year.
Never in my life have I done so much signing. Every day at work was like living in a country where the primary language is ASL. Hearing people were, in fact, the minority in the house. Even with what I know I find myself floundering for a long time, at first getting used to rhythm and regularity after living brother-free in Iowa forever, not to mention all the new technical jargon the DSM-IV has to offer, to later figuring out how to present Algebra and Poetry lessons at moment's notice. Just the kind of issues total immersion is meant for.
After Morning Classes and breaks for Snacks and Lunch, we may go outside for games if the weather's good, or we stay inside for an activity. By that time the day students are starting to be bussed back home and the residents wind down with homework or free time while staff discusses behavior, tallies up points, and gets to the ubiquitous paperwork. Here, now, and at lunch, are probably the times when the division between Hearing and Deaf are at their most evident. Staff, mostly Hearing, band together and discuss how the kids did without them knowing. Deaf Staff are addressed to discuss vague bits and pieces, but they never get the full discussion, especially when the subject spreads off-topic. Which it does often. Sometimes, just because it can. It's inadvertent but undeniable.
The day's scheduled to end at 3:30. Subject to change at any time. Which it does. But no one got violent and had to be taken down. And paperwork might just get done on time. And replacement staff is showing up just as planned.
At this house, anyway.
The phone rings just as I hang up from my second shift report of the day.
It's the head office.
Someone didn't show up at House II.
Would anyone there care for a double?
Robin's going out to pick china patterns with her fiance.
The other staff have returned to their care facilities.
I got NOTHING better to do tonight.
And extra money sounds good with my rent-free lifestyle.
Besides, PMs are much easier.
I accept and get in my car to head on over.
The clients we care for are split up by age and level of functionality, spread out over three houses in a North Chicagoland suburban village. In these houses the kids do everything: School, Work, and Everyday Life. If they're on Restriction they never leave, needing to earn enough points just to step onto the back patio. Three undisclosed, unsuspecting cookie-cutter homes. Could've been living right next to you. In fact, if there were no registered sex offenders in the house, the neighbors needn't know a single thing. Which, I believe, is the point of the whole program.
The house I left was older kids (aged 13-21) with high-level functioning (remedial to mainstream intellect, self-regulatory, low dependence), and I was driving to the low-level functioning older kids (mental retardation/autistic, developmentally delayed, high-dependence). As I walk in the front door I am treated like a rockstar. These boys were all bussed to my house earlier today, Robin being the sole teacher for both houses. They're both confused and overjoyed at the fact I'm here right now. And Jesse breathes a sigh of relief as well. She's the other staff, the one who showed up. The boys adore her, and why shouldn't they? She's profoundly Deaf herself and quite gorgeous. Plus, unbeknownst to them, she's an actress and a lesbian. She and I did a show together last year. And she makes the most seductive throaty sounds without ever knowing it.
PM shifts are more free-form, more laissez-faire. Homework gets finished up, and the kitchen gets prepared for dinner. The houses get catered food for every meal, but the boys have a budget for groceries and usually cook for themselves. It's good for them, and the food is usually better than whatever gets sent to us. After dinner and Evening Tasks is Free Time, either video games, a movie, or activities inside, or games outside. Tonight a client from House III, where I started my day, comes over. It's Mr. Egg-Shaped Mound, wry smile and all, basketball in hand, wanting to shoot hoops in the backyard. So he and another client step out the sliding door, Boom b-boom b-boom b-boom, Jesse following along to monitor them, while I sit in the living room watching TV and starting on paperwork.
During the course of the evening things on the back patio get loud. Mr. Egg-Shape, who stands 6'3" and weighs as much as I do, is getting pissed off. He's winning, but his lower-functioning counterpart is getting away with flagrant fouls, and Jesse's not calling anything. His yells shudder the glass of the sliding doors. I get up from the couch and cross over to the threshold, open the door and stand, not blocking the entrance, hands folded by my waist in front of me, still keeping an eye on the kids watching the movie. This is non-violent crisis management in action. We get him to stop the tirade and express his feelings. Between Jesse and I, we talk him down from agitation to mature discussion. He's responding well to his behavior program, and is able to talk things out without resorting to violence. This is subtle but it is progress. In fact, relative to his case study, it's profound progress. He won't earn the maximum points for the evening, but he won't lose many. And that's good enough.
The movie's winding down, as is the scene outside. Dusk settled in nicely, stars are starting to twinkle, and the House III staff arrives to take Eggy back home. Crisis averted. Perhaps this mild flurry of late-day activity will help him sleep through the whole night. Right after he leaves another one of the residents picks up the phone receiver and places it on the TTY.
NO SORRY CAN'T USE PHONE NOW, I sign.
CALL DAD NOW
TOO-LATE
I point to a piece of paper taped on the wall near the phone.
RULES SAY USE PHONE AFTER DINNER. TOO-LATE NOW. TIME BED.
MUST CALL DAD NOW. ALWAYS CALL DAD EVERY-NIGHT.
SORRY TOO-LATE. TIME READY BED. HANG-UP-PHONE PLEASE.
And the kid loses it. In one motion he screams, slams his hand on the kitchen table, picks up a chair and heaves it, metal legs whizzing by my face, almost hitting a resident behind me and breaking a window. Then he charges me. His wiry arm and hand reaches up and smacks the shock off my face. The other clients panic and scatter, not leaving the room, shouting or cowering behind pillows. Jesse hops on the TTY, tapping out pages for backup. The kid gets a good couple shots in on me before I get my head in the game. He misses a connection and, while off-balance, I get behind him and secure both arms, take his knee out with mine so we both drop slowly to the floor on our butts, him sitting in front of me facing away like teammates in a bobsled. I wrap his arms around him like a straitjacket does, loosely but firmly, and slip my legs over his to keep them both spread apart. This move is called a basket hold. It's usually meant for younger kids small enough for one person to restrain them. His head comes up to my shoulders, so it's effective in subduing him, but he refuses to give up, ramming the back of his head into my chest. On one of his backswings I tuck my chin into my chest, using the top of my head to press against the back of his, stopping the blows. I can hear Jesse, now off the phone, hands slapping together rapidly, trying to calm him down. He can't sign back; I've got his arms pinned against him, and right now he's too tense and agitated for me to let up. After about 10 minutes of this the Night Supervisor shows up with the Nurse and one PM Staff from House III. Like a game of Improv Freeze Tag I get tapped out and everyone except Nurse take over restraints. I stand next to Nurse and he mediates a breakdown of the incident between the kid and me. It's all formulaic song-and-dance. When he's calm enough he can count out of restraints one limb at a time. Once he can sign we enter the Incident Questionnaire:
WHAT HAPPEN?
THAT FOLLOW RULES?
WHAT YOU DO?
IS APPROPRIATE?
WHAT IS APPROPRIATE?
WHAT YOU DO NEXT-TIME?
FEEL SORRY?
WANT TELL STAFF SORRY? TELL CLIENT SORRY?
Stock apologies given all around. This whole rigamarole takes two hours. Nurse tells me he'll be on Restriction here on out but doesn't tell the kid that. With his evening meds he's given his PRN for agitation. Then it's calm-down time for the house. I go out to the front lawn for a cigarette. Nurse joins me.
"Whoa, sorry about that, Kevin. That's quite a scuffle you had there. You okay?"
Yeah. I'm not bleedin'. Got a couple good shots in on me.
"Still got a hand outline on your face. Get you some ice for that."
Thanks.
"Hey, hate to do this to you, but we had a call out at House I for overnight. It's Sleep Staff, though."
Overnight Sleep Staff. $50 to crash at one of the houses as passive back-up, for worst-case scenarios. Rarely ever used in that capacity.
"You think you might...?"
I got NOTHING better to do tonight.
$50 is $50, and an easy $50 at that.
Sure. Why not?
"You're the best, Kevin. The Best."
Yeah. Thanks.
Still got paperwork to do, though.
Now more than usual.
It's well after midnight when I get out of there. House I is all young kids (ages 6-13) with assorted functionalities. There's even a girl or two living there. All of the residents were put to bed hours ago. Only Anton, the Hearing Overnight Awake Staff, is awake. He's very hip, a tall gangly soul dressed all in black, very mystic, very austere. He has no Deaf affiliation but has worked many care facilities before. He's well-read in occult subjects, something I'm quickly gaining interest in, and he has done Tarot card readings for me before at work.
"Heard you were coming. Was very pleased. Rough day, huh?"
I start to recount the evening when Anton's face pulls sharply away from me, to the stairs behind me.
No, he signs weakly, time bed. go room.
Th-thoom th-thoom th-thoom, the little feet pound the steps unknowingly, down to our level, stopping right behind me sitting on the couch. Before I can turn around to see I feel a small hand pat me on the head gently. Then immediately a leather belt whips from behind the couch around my throat and is held there, loosely but firmly, for a few long seconds. Just as danger registers in my brain the belt slowly, smoothly retracts back behind the couch, th-thoom th-thoom th-thoom from behind around the side, now facing Anton and me.
His toothy, beaming grin is one of the most adorable I've ever seen. Two foot tall, pajama bottoms with the booties sewn on, Chicago Bears T-shirt, glisten of drool round his lips, wide sparkly eyes. And that smile. This 6-year-old's so cute he could hawk Gerber Baby Food.
The leather belt lays limp in his hands like a dead snake.
The same belt wrapped around my neck just now.
His chart will make you weep.
And make you fighting mad.
"He likes you," Anton chortles to me.
I stare blankly.
go bed, Anton signs. now.
The 6-year-old chuckles like a cherub, th-thoom th-thoom th-thoom up the stairs, belt dragging behind him, all the way down the hall upstairs until he gets swallowed by the blackness of his room.
I bury my head in my hands.
"C'mon," Anton says, "let's step outside."
Two more are already on the front lawn, PM staff from Houses I and III. Anton grabs the glass pipe between them and reloads it from the stash in his pocket. It's usually weed, but Anton has been known to bring opium before. A couple rounds between the four of us, and fingers start flying wildly, as well as a general disregard for volume control; stories from today, war stories from before, general bullshit. Why should we care? No one in the house can hear, they'll sleep through the night without consequences. Out on the lawn all we need is a keg, some cups, a few other people, and it'd be just like most college house parties I've been to. An unsavory scene, yet nothing feels more familiar than this.
One more puff and the whole day catches up with me. My head feels like a throbbing brick, and my muscles are made of molten lead. I excuse myself.
"All right, brother. I'll be watching Highlander if you care to join."
Grab my overnight bag and head to the basement. It's been recently redone, and the cool cement walls feel welcoming. A rickety second-hand futon sits in the corner, my nest for the night. Don't trust the frame, so I pull off the mattress, very like an untenderized slab of chuck steak, and lay it on the bare cement floor. Travel alarm clock set for one hour before work tomorrow. I've got Mr. Egg-Shape and Mr. Restriction to look forward to come daylight.
That's the last thought going through my mind as I drift off into narcotic slumber.
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