On the Ropes addm-1 Read online

  “Let’s go, Al.” I made the decision to go with the shortened version of his name, not out of disrespect to his faith, but rather out of convenience. I headed toward the Eldorado, and a somewhat reluctant Al followed along. I opened the passenger-side door for Al to hop in, but he just sat there on the curb.

  “C’mon boy, up you go,” I said.

  Not only did Al not move, but he also growled a little and had a look on his face like he resented being called “boy.” Suddenly, I felt a bit like a white devil. I leaned over and grabbed Al under his front paws and hefted him up.

  Al probably weighed about eighty pounds, but it wasn’t a neatly balanced eighty pounds, and his back legs hung down while I kind of flopped his front legs onto my front seat. The landing caused a rush of flatulence to escape out of Al’s ass, which was perfectly positioned a mere eight inches from my face. Judging from the fragrance of his landing, I thought maybe Al’s diet would be enhanced with some pork. We headed back toward my place when I realized I was going to need some dog supplies, so I changed directions and drove toward PetSmart. Al had his eyes closed and looked to be making his lifestyle adjustment by sleeping. A pool of slobber gunked up the velour on my front seat.

  Walanda had been a client of mine on and off for five years. There was no doubt she was nuts and addicted. Of course, if I had her background I don’t know if I could function as well as she, at least sometimes, did. She was sexually abused all through her childhood by her stepfather and several of his friends, got into prostitution at thirteen, and was addicted by fourteen. Her five kids by four different men were taken away from her six years ago because she was whoring and using, and she didn’t have a chance at getting them back.

  I had never heard of a stepdaughter, but she lived the kind of lifestyle where family was a broad term. The interesting thing about people like Walanda was that most people write them off because they don’t ever seem to get better and because they just continue to do shit that gets them in trouble. Somehow, that qualifies people to devalue the Walandas of the world by calling them “hos” or “crackheads.” The reality is that these folks are flesh and blood, and from a very early age, the cards they were dealt weren’t winning hands.

  That’s not to say that they have no responsibility for how their lives turn out, but it means you’ve got to do some thinking when you look at people and the places they have found for themselves in life. It would be simple to suggest that they should just pull themselves out of their miserable existence and better themselves. I tend to think that if your existence has been miserable enough, then you may not have what it takes to pull yourself out of it.

  Unfortunately, it’s much easier to devalue folks, and some people take great pride in looking down their noses at folks like Walanda. Giving them a label like “ho” or “crackhead” makes it easier to not see them as being human. Most people would much rather head to the mall, watch Survivor, and get in their SUV than give this shit any thought at all.

  All of Walanda’s men were abusive and at least two of them pimped her out on the street for their drugs. There was a brief period when she joined the Nation of Islam, and for eight months she was clean, sober, and working. I don’t know if she ever even understood the principles of Islam, but the discipline and structure sure made a difference in her life. Then she found out her oldest son had been stabbed and killed in the boys’ home he was in and that was it-Walanda went back to her old lifestyle.

  She keeps about half of her appointments with me, which means I see her about twice a month. Most of the time we just shoot the shit, but that’s an hour when she’s not getting high or turning a trick. Sometimes in her sessions, she actually sets some decent goals for herself. Recently, she was talking about getting some training to be a nurse’s aid. That was before the Dollarama arrest and lots of crack. I haven’t seen her in a couple of weeks, which probably meant she was on a binge, getting into that ugly cycle of getting high and whoring around the clock. Walanda knew what happened when she got into the crack and though she could compartmentalize her behavior to a degree, it left scars on her psyche and, more importantly, her soul. Though often hard to recognize under the addiction and the craziness, Walanda cared about things and valued her family. It would be easy to say that she valued crack more, but that was an oversimplification of what was going on.

  Al started to make a low humming noise and he shifted position. Anything he did seemed to require intense effort because of his belly. He stretched a bit, seemed to yawn, and then barfed into my carpeting. Once he got things out of his system, he shuffled about in the front seat until he was comfortable and then, when he was convinced he had found the exact right spot, he laid down and started a new puddle of drool on my front seat.

  It was fun having a pet.

  I got the essentials for Al, made sure he had a bowl of food and water, and headed back to the office. The Michelin Woman confronted me the second I walked in.

  “Where have you been?” she asked.

  “Home visit with Walanda-she got arrested and was having a tough time,” I said.

  “Considering our discussion this morning, Duffy, that’s not a good use of time. You need to focus on your records.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I wouldn’t want the people on my caseload to get in the way of writing about them in their records,” I said.

  “Duffy, one of your issues is your inability to set appropriate boundaries. You don’t let your clients feel the responsibility for their self-defeating behavior. They seek attention and you give it to them,” she said.

  “Gee whiz, boss. I never thought of it that way. Let me get after those records,” I said.

  Fortunately, Trina buzzed Michelin’s phone, giving me a bit of a reprieve. As Claudia left to get the phone, I looked around the corner and gave Trina a thumbs-up and mouthed a “thank you.” She winked at me and seemed to hold her eyes on mine for a second or two longer than she had to. It was summer and Trina’s skin was smooth and tan and it contrasted nicely with the plain white collared shirt she wore. Her dark brown, almost black hair seemed to gather light and her teeth were flawless, as were most of her body parts.

  I grabbed some records and headed back to the cubicle, ready to start on Eli’s chart again. Monique, the caseworker whose cubicle was just across the small aisle made by the partitions, rolled back in her office chair.

  “Why do you bait her like that?” Monique said. “It only makes it worse for you. Can’t you just let it go?”

  “If I can piss her off and not cave under her bullshit, I feel a little redeemed,” I said.

  “Talk about self defeating…” she said.

  Monique was all right. She’s a forty-two-year-old black lesbian with a cold veneer. She had her shit together and somehow was able to balance being good with her clients, getting her paperwork done, and keeping the Michelin Woman off her back. Monique tended to wear baggy clothes, often with an African print, which offset her almost midnight-black skin.

  I liked and respected Monique and, though she often rolled her eyes at the things I did, I got the sense she respected me. She was for helping people, and she knew I was too. Even though I was Walanda’s primary counselor, Monique had her in group and it was often the case that the client’s group counselor would have different information on the clients. I filled her in about Walanda and her claims about her stepdaughter Shondeneisha and the whole Webster deal.

  “In group, she used to talk all the time about Shony,” she said. “She was the kid of one of the men she was involved with but didn’t marry. For whatever reason, Walanda bonded with her, I think, as a reaction to the death of her son. That kid was her pride and joy.”

  “I wonder why she didn’t bring it up in our sessions,” I said.

  “It’s a motherhood thing, Duff,” Monique said. “She talked about it with other women when the topic came up. She didn’t talk a lot about it because it wasn’t a problem for her. At least not until all this.”

  “I
’m trying to remember if she ever mentioned the father,” I said. “It’s not easy keeping track of Walanda’s men.”

  “You’re right, you just described every single guy she was ever involved with.”

  “What about Webster-does that sound familiar in any way?” I asked.

  “Webster?” she said. “That doesn’t ring any bells. I don’t remember any men with that name. You got me on that one.”

  “Yeah, me either.”

  Before Monique and I could do any more problem solving on Walanda’s mysterious ramblings, Trina buzzed me to let me know the Abermans were here for their couple’s session. The Abermans were one of the few Jewish clients we had, which was kind of ironic considering the name of the clinic.

  Morris and Michelle had been married for seventeen years and they hated each other, which strangely enough seemed to be what bonded them. Their therapy sessions consisted of them bitching at each other, ignoring anything I said, and then leaving with absolutely no intention of changing anything at all about their lives.

  I would like to say that the session with the Abermans would take my mind off Walanda, but it had just the opposite effect. Michelle was droning on about how Morris swam to the opposite side of the pool during adult swim at the Crawford Jewish Community Center and totally ignored her. I couldn’t blame Morris-hell, if I had to swim with Michelle, I’d try to break the record for holding my breath underwater.

  I know I’m not supposed to allow it to, but the lives of my clients get to me. Not the Abermans’ chlorinated crisis-shit, that was all their own doing. Walanda never had a chance, and all psychobabble bullshit aside, what was there in her life to be hopeful about?

  I stewed while the Abermans bickered. Morris had moved on to the pressing issue of Michelle’s refusal to attend Morris’s college debate team reunion. I decided we didn’t have enough time to tackle such an emotionally challenging issue this week and I politely ushered the lovely couple out.

  Right after the Abermans, I had an appointment with Michael Osborne.

  “Mikey,” as he preferred to be called, was a flaming gay guy who hung around Jefferson Park taking hits of poppers and engaging in anonymous sex with the crowd of gay men who frequented the park. There was also fairly consistent traffic of straight men that seemed to gravitate to the park to play an anonymous game of kielbasa hockey with guys like Mikey. Mikey spent a lot of time in women’s clothing and some of what he talked about in sessions was the idea of getting the series of operations to get transgendered. He wasn’t terribly committed to it, so it was never really pursued. Mikey favored leather skirts and they were usually of a color not found in nature like electric pink or purple, but it worked for Mikey-that is, if you liked a really hairy calf coming up from a stiletto pump.

  Mikey got into treatment because he was forever getting arrested for his park activities and he always had some drugs on him. My concern for Mikey was that he was either undiagnosed with HIV or he was bound to catch it very soon. The goal of treatment was to get him out of the park and out from behind the bushes. His lifestyle excited him and he was addicted to all of it, not just the drugs or the sex-it was all of it together.

  Mikey always made his sessions and he usually was fun to talk with. He played the flamer role to the max and with it came a terrific sarcastic sense of humor. Several times when he talked about how his family disowned him or his lifelong failure to sustain any kind of normal relationship he’d break down and sob. He cried so hard one day I hugged him and he shook and cried until he seemed exhausted. When he was done, he broke our hug by goosing me and then winking at me.

  That was kind of a microcosm of who Mikey was. There were layers of hurt that he would get to and touch, but as soon as he could muster the strength, he would gather it and assume his role. It was the shell he’d retreat into to feel safe.

  Mikey didn’t show for his session, which was very unusual for him. That would’ve given me time to get after some more notes, but I just wasn’t in the mood. That meant that for the day my bookkeeping took a few steps forward and a few more steps back, but I didn’t care. Honestly, it made me feel a bit uneasy, but not uneasy enough to stick around writing.

  4

  I got home just after six; I was exhausted and had picked up a cup of coffee on my way home. I live in a 1968, twenty-seven-foot Airstream Overlander trailer on some land out on Route 9R that belongs to Doctor Rudy. There’s nothing on 9R in either direction from my place, it is just a series of stretches of land east of the industrial section of Crawford. The area’s environmentalists insist that the fields on 9R are polluted from SGG Industries, a multinational corporation that used to be headquartered in Crawford. SGG made those hockey-puck-shaped disinfectant things that go in urinals and other plastics up until the mid-seventies when they moved to Bolivia. For twenty-five years, their sewage emptied into Cramer’s Creek, which runs about 250 yards from my trailer. I’ve lived on 9R for the last six years, and I still don’t glow in the dark and I haven’t grown a third ear in the middle of my back or anything. My environmentalist social worker friends insist something like that is coming real soon.

  Airstreams are those shiny, silver, bullet-shaped trailers you still occasionally see on the highway, usually attached to pickup trucks and driven by senior citizens. My Airstream is named “The Moody Blue” after the last song Elvis had a hit with, at least while he was alive. Mine hadn’t been pulled behind a senior citizen in a long time. Rudy’s uncle died and left him the Airstream in his will and Rudy, a wealthy doctor, didn’t have much use for it.

  The thing is a marvel of efficiency. Everything you could imagine is in it and most of it is bolted to the floor. I’ve actually built an addition onto it so both the living room and the bedroom would be bigger. I also stuffed an air conditioner into one of the small windows, though I had to plug a lot of insulation around it and use about three rolls of duct tape to jerry-rig the thing in there. Around the middle of August every year, in the middle of a heat spell, it usually falls out.

  I was curious to see how my new Muslim brother had spent the day in his new digs. As I approached the door to the Blue, I listened and heard nothing, which I took as a good sign. I came in the door, flicked on the light, and there was Al, spiritedly chewing on the foam rubber that made up the inside of my couch cushions. The reason he was chewing on the foam rubber was because he had already chewed through the velour cover, which was now shredded and on the ground underneath him.

  Al had eaten about a quarter of the way through the foam rubber when my entrance got his attention. He cocked his head at me, took a dramatic pause, and sprang to his feet. Sprang may be a bit of an overstatement, considering his legs are about three and a half inches long and his belly only allowed for about a half inch of ground clearance.

  Seeing me, he clearly got excited, started barking his baritone, and sprinted to meet me at the door. When Al got within three feet of me, the excitement got the better of him and he hurled himself like some sort of long-eared, heat-seeking missile in my direction. I watched in amazement as this overweight canine went airborne and transformed himself into a black, brown, and white fur-covered projectile.

  My amazement quickly changed into horror when Al’s front paws, which, by the way, looked liked he bought them used off a mastiff, came crashing in full flight on my nuts. My knees buckled, the coffee in my hand blew across my face and chest, and I fell back on my ass, hitting the back of my head against the door. As I tried to reach over to console and comfort my poor nuts, Al head-butted me as he walked the remaining length of my torso to lick my face.

  Ahh… it was good to be home.

  I forgot about the coffee and figured it was time to forget about this day being productive in any way. I went to the fridge and cracked open an ice-cold Schlitz. Al followed on my heels wherever I went throughout the Blue and it got on my nerves. I sat down on the good side of my couch, took a hit of the Schlitz, and hit the button on my message machine. There were a few messages for me.r />
  The first was from Smitty, who ran the gym inside the old Crawford YMCA. Anyone could use the boxing gym in the Y, but there was sort of a Darwinian law at work that kept the place from getting too crowded. Fighters are generally suspicious people, and it takes awhile to warm up to them. Most people who think it would be neat fun to learn how to box usually rethink it after someone punches them in the head. People come and people go and there’s no point in making friends with guys until they earn their stripes.

  Smitty acted as my default manager. A promoter from Kentucky had a fight offer for me as a main event on a card he was having in Lexington. Kentucky is famous for lousy boxing and lousy pay, and though it would be cool to be in a main event and actually have a chance to win, I didn’t feel like driving all that way for what would probably amount to seven hundred bucks in my pocket. With gas, tolls, motels along the way, and all the little expenses that get taken up with travel, the two-thousand-dollar purse would be gone in no time. It’s the sort of stuff that Oscar de la Hoya doesn’t have to spend a lot of time thinking about. I wanted to think about it before I made any decisions.

  The second call was from Lisa, the woman I had been dating. We’d been seeing each other for about seven months, and for about the last three weeks she’d been acting weird. There were nights when she seemed pretty normal, happy to be with me, and, frankly, interested in the things that people who date are interested in, namely sex. Then there’d be times when she was distant and seemed to take everything I said as an offense. Though I would never say it out loud in front of her or, for that matter, anyone else carrying two X chromosomes, I might think it was PMS. Actually, if it wasn’t PMS, it could be “the time right before” or “right after” or any of a number of those coded expressions women use to explain why they’re being weird. The way I had it figured, women could excuse their mood and behavior about twenty-seven out of every thirty days in the month if they tried hard enough.