"How's life at the Mission?" I asked, inquiring about Karl's department of social services financed living situation.
"It's great because I left."
"Why? Does that mean you're out on the street?"
"I like the street. They can't keep such a close eye on you when you don't have an address. The man likes it when you have an address."
"Yeah, but isn't there something to be said for warmth, shelter, and three squares a day?"
"It's August, it gets a little cool at night, but it's worth the freedom."
It's sessions like this that make me question the overall utility of human services. I wasn't sure what exactly I did for old Karl except piss him off and make him more suspicious. I also wasn't sure what kept him coming, but I hazard the guess even Karl, despite all his talk, liked his monthly DSS check.
"Have you formed any positive relationships in the last week?" I hated asking cliched human services questions, but Karl had me kind of stymied.
"Positive relationships," Karl smiled out of one corner of his mouth. "Counselor, Dombrowski, do tell me what makes a relationship positive."
"You know, uh…relationships marked by…" He'd caught me spouting bullshit and he knew it. So did I. An awkward silence hung and Karl gave me a self-satisfied smile while I squirmed with really nothing of substance to say. Finally, he broke the silence.
"Do you know about the fires? Or, are you going to play dumb?"
"What fires?"
"Yep, I knew you'd play dumb."
I looked at Karl and kind of squinted, which made my head throb a bit. I really wasn't up for another go around.
"You know Karl, we've probably covered enough for today," I said.
"What ever you say commandant-I know better than to disobey. I remember what you did last time I did." I didn't.
I walked Karl out and went to see Trina about getting Karl in for a psych session with Dr. Meade as soon as possible. Trina stood at the file cabinet, up on her tiptoes, trying to water her spider plant. She wore a pair of 501's and the denim hugged every turn her body took. Her stretching to take care of her plant gave me an extra treat for which I offered the good Lord gratitude. She had the radio on the FM classic rock station.
"Trina can we get Karl into to see Meade ASAP?" She recoiled from her watering position.
"ASAP is six weeks."
"Oh, come on-really?"
"You can get him in for a med review Thursday, but for only fifteen minutes."
We only had Meade, the shrink, one day a week. It wasn't enough, but that was the world of non-profit human services in Crawford, New York.
"I'll take the med review."
"Med reviews are not to be used as a substitute for therapeutic psych visits," I heard from over my shoulder.
"Good morning, Claudia," I said to the Michelin Woman. Claudia Michelin, the clinical director and my nemesis who lived for the bureaucratic paperwork I detested. She had been trying to fire my ass for the last six years and had come close plenty of times.
"Trina, don't schedule Karl in med review spot. Give him the next available therapeutic session," Claudia said. Claudia, nearly six feet tall, with a black perm was a rice cake shy of 250 lbs, hence, my private nickname 'The Michelin Woman.'
She turned and headed toward her office. Trina rolled her brown eyes at me and I shrugged my shoulders, which made my head throb again.
"You all right?" Trina said.
"Yeah, why?"
"You just wobbled."
"Wobbled? I didn't wobble."
"You wobbled."
"Bullshit."
I didn't feel much like arguing about my gait, especially as the throbbing returned, so I turned to head toward my cubicle, when Clapton's Layla faded out, and the radio news came on.
"Six dead, twenty more hospitalized in a fire at ROTC training camp believed to be deliberately set…"
3
I started to think Karl might be on to something. Then I realized everyday there's a fire someplace, and mentioning a fire might occur somewhere in the world-with no other reference point what so ever-didn't exactly put Karl on par with Nostradamus.
I headed to the 'Y' for a quick workout and to blow off some steam. Still stiff from last week's work, but I knew if I got a workout in, the body would start to loosen up a bit. I had my sweats on and went through the process of wrapping my hands when the throbbing around my temples went up a gear. It didn't hurt a lot, but I did notice it. After a minute or two it subsided, or at least I thought it did.
The Crawford 'Y', built in the 1920's, remained an old time 'Y'. No aquamarine colored exercise machines, no tanning beds, and generally a complete absence of fad type stuff. On the other hand it had no shortage of the sort of stuff that made old time YMCAs creepy. It had too many guys in the health club who just spent too much time in the nude, walking around and doing nothing else. I'm not sure where they read watching TV with your nutbag on a vinyl couch for two hours qualified as good cardio work, but no shortage of guys who did just it every single day.
The Y also featured the dying breed of handball players. The same six or eight guys who played every day for the last 90 years and appeared to hate one another. The white hoop players and the younger black hoop players who, without really anyone saying anything, segregated themselves into two different court like at Selma, Alabama in the mid-60s. They played two styles of ball. On those rare occasions when the games somehow got integrated games the white guys tended to call more traveling calls and the black guys tended to call more fouls. Then there was Fat Eddie, the old gay guy who passed out towels from a cage located right by the showers. I'm guessing when he took his career aptitude test it recommended he throw towels to naked athletic men while sitting in a chair, eating Fritos all day. Fat Eddie had the perfect job. Recently, they added to Eddie's responsibilities and identified his station as the place to drop off the can goods for the soldiers. So, in addition to getting the chance to dry off in front of the fat man, you could also hand in a can of Spam for his 'Snack Attack' collection. Some how it made sense.
I headed down the stairs to the boxing gym, a dank room with low lighting and layers of fermented BO from years of training. No ventilation in the boxing room meant the body funk had seeped into the concrete and leather, and permeated the atmosphere. All of this made it perfect for my sport. I got in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror to warm up with shadowboxing and danced around the crack that went straight down the middle of the mirror. The crack had been there as long as I remember, and if I ever had to throw punches into a mirror without a crack I think I would get confused.
It took a long time to get warm and I couldn't figure out why. I threw jabs and methodically moved to my right-what a left-handed fighter should do-but I felt awkward from the soreness. I started to pick up the pace to get a sweat going when I heard Smitty come out of his office.
"Duff-Hold up," he said. He stood in the threshold of his little office with the plastic window so old it had yellowed. He folded his and scrunched up his forehead. Balding, his curly grayish hair framed his haggard brown face. He sighed and unfolded his arms and walked toward me.
"Go on home, Duff," he said without any expression or inflection.
"What?"
"Go on home."
"What are you talking about?"
"You ain't right, kid. You're balance is off."
"Just loosening up."
"Go on home, Duffy."
"I'm fine, really."
"Go on home-now." He increased the inflection in his voice just slightly, but that's all he ever did. I knew not to question him, but I didn't understand what the big deal was. When Smitty said you had to do something you had to. He didn't see a ton of grey in life, and I respected him even when he was wrong. Besides, I had no fights on the near horizon, so there wasn't much point in arguing.