“You want a piece of me!?!  You want a fuckin’ piece of me!?!” 

JD was screaming his lungs out at his basketball teammate and Special Counselor, me.  We were paricipating in house game of basketball for our hourly House Rec (or as I refer to it, House Wreck).  JD is the chunky “feral child” who looks like Pumba from the Lion King.  He had squared up in front of me and had his fists up to fight.

 

      “I ain’t goin’ nowhere, partnah!  You wanna piece of me, you come and get it, niggah!  I’ll beat yo ass!”  JD comes from the white-trash foothills but he took on a ghetto accent whenever he got violent, something he picked up since he got here.  His eyes were wide and he was breathing hard, each exhale blowing his lips out so you could see his underbitten teeth.

 

      “You know, JD, we’ve talked about this.  In fact, we talk about it every day.  When you threaten your peers, your program is to go directly to the house, no…”

 

      “I know, ‘no ips, ans or buts!’  But he didn’t pass me the ball – ever – and I told him I’d kick his ass if he didn’t pass me the ball AND HE FUCKIN DIDN’T!  So I ain’t goin nowhere, I’m playing basketball and plus, I’ll beat yo ass if you make me.  SO GIMME THE FUCKIN BALL!”

 

      I said, “JD, you will be going to the house, your house rec is over.  You’re not mad at me, you know the rules, you’re disappointed in yourself for losing it again.  That’s ok, we’ll try again tomorrow.  If you don’t walk up on your own, we’ll escort you, just like we always do.  Your decision.”

 

      Chris, the non-passer, was sitting on the sidelines doing his timeout and said, “Yeah, JD, a day without you getting proned is like a day without sunshine, so just serve it.”

 

      This was JD’s opportunity to lose it.  “What the fuck?  That’s it, you’re going down mutha-fucka!  I get crazy!”

 

      As JD stomped over toward the sideline, Chris just sat there with an intentionally bored look on his face, his chin resting on his fist.  JD was screeching and lathering obscenities and was walking just slow enough so that Toby and I could tackle him just before he got to Chris.  Toby and I placed JD in a prone containment on the hot asphalt, and I turned to my other teammates, Mel and Gus.

 

      “Me and Toby’ll take him up to the house.  You guys have a good game.”  Chris looked at the hysterical JD, grinned and waved a dainty goodbye.     

 

      JD’s getting better.  In a calmer moment weeks ago, he and I worked out a strict behavior contract which send him straight to the house as soon as he gets out of line, ‘no ifs, ands or buts.’  He loves to say that with me.  There was a time when he would have hurt someone, gotten into a fight or run away in these instances, and occasionally he still does, but not as often.  He was slimming down a bit due to the extra exercise and learning to trust adults, little by little.

 

      “Mutha-fuckas, let’s fight!  I’ll beat the shit out of you.  You ain’t my Special Counselor no more, niggah!  You’re just a fat bitch.  You like to get drunk and fag off with kids.”

 

      “JD, me and Toby are going to pick you up and take you to the Quiet Room.  While we do that, you can think about who you’re really talking about.”

 

      The trip back up the hill, through the weeds and to the house was really difficult.  Since JD was fighting, trying to spit and bite, it was easier to drag him up the hill backwards. 

 

      Toby said, “You know how the cops do it?  They straighten out the arm behind the perpetrator, push it into the shoulder and bend the wrist, like this.”  He demonstrated the maneuver on JD. 

 

      JD screamed, “Okay!  I’ll walk!  I’ll walk!”  Toby then moved JD’s arm back to the original position, and immediately, JD started to fight again.

 

      “Of course, we can’t do that,” said Toby.  “It would make things too easy.”

 

      We eventually dragged JD to the house and into the Quiet Room.   We pushed him in there and slammed the door.  He was livid.

 

      “Bitches better not open the door either cuz I’ll beat both your asses!”

 

      “Okay,” I said, yelling through the plexiglass window.  “Good idea.  We’ll just leave you there. Bye.”

 

      “Open the fuckin door!  Godammit!  You think I’m messing around?  I’ll show you!”  He grabbed his Shaq O’Neil jersey with two hands and ripped it down the middle.  “See?  I hate you, bitch!”

 

      I said, “Aw, JD, that was your special Shaq jersey that we got from Ross.  Remember how we had such a good time that day?”

 

      “Think I care?  WELL I DON’T!”  He took the shreds of his jersey and tied it tightly around his head.  “Now I’m gonna cut off that thing… That thing that goes in your head that you can die from…You know, what’s that thing called?”

 

      I said helpfully, “You mean you’re going to cut off your circulation.  Say it, ‘cir-cu-la-tion,’ so that you can die.  That’s called ‘com-mit-ing-su-i-cide.’  And that way I’ll get fired because it’ll be my fault because I hate kids and like to get drunk and abuse them.  But you won’t be around to see it because you’ll be dead, but it’ll be worth it because I’ll be homeless.  That’s what you meant to say, right?  Fine with me, I need the vacation.”

 

      JD pulled off one of his shoes.  He slammed it against the window over and over.  Every time he slammed it, I’d tap against the window to make a little rhythm.

 

      BOOM taptap, BOOM tap, BOOM taptap, BOOM tap.

 

      He stopped slamming and said, “Oh, you think it’s time for fun and games?  TAKE THIS!”  He walked up to the window and started ramming his head against it.  Each time he he hit it, I’d say in a falsetto, “Boopboop.”

 

      BLAM boopboop, BLAM boop, BLAM boopboop, BLAM boop. 

 

      “Hey JD, I like this rhythm better.”

 

      “I’m gonna pee in here!”

 

      “It’s gonna stink in there!”

 

      He took his shoe again.  “See this?  This is you!”  He started pulling open the top of his shoe, attempting to rip it apart.

 

      “JD, those are your Jordans.  Remember how long you worked to earn those?  Remember how proud of yourself you were when we went to Ross and got them?   I’m proud of you too, you know.”

 

      “Don’t care,” he said between gasps.  “Gonna tear ‘em apart.  You’re not proud of me, you think I suck.  I can tell.  I’m the worst piece of shit you’ve ever seen.”  He continued stretching out the shoe and I could tell it wouldn’t be long until it was in shreds.

 

      “JD, I’m not going to let you tear up your special Jordans.”

 

      “I don’t want them!”

 

      “I’m coming in there and I’m going to take your shoes so you can’t tear them up.”

 

      “That’s what I want.  So I can beat your ass!  You want to hurt me anyway, why don’t you come and do it?  I’m a retard!  And I SUCK!”  He tore at his Jordans with renewed vigor.

 

      “Why do you keep saying that?  Do you realize how much better you’ve gotten since you’ve been here?  You’re way better.  You’re getting slimmer, you don’t fight as much, you’re learning about getting along with people.  You think you’re the worst I’ve ever seen but you’re not.  Not even close.  So stop talking to me like I’m your dad.  I’m not your dad, I’m your friend.  I’ll never treat you like your dad treated you.”

 

      “Talking about my dad?  My dad’ll kick your ass!  I’M GONNA KILL YOU MUTHA-FUCKA!

 

      I opened the door which surprised JD and he took a step back in fright.  He quickly composed himself, raised his Jordan and gritted his teeth.  “You’re going down, bitch!  I’m gonna kill your ass!”

 

 

      I put my hands down by my sides, and walked slowly toward him.

     

      “I’m not gonna fight you.  I’m just not.”

 

      He swung the shoe.  I didn’t flinch.  He didn’t hit me.  He stood there for a moment, looking at me.  Then he burst into tears.

 

      “Oooh, I’m sorry.  I wish you were my dad.  Why can’t you be my dad?”  He hugged me and sobbed.

 

      “Why can’t you just adopt me?  I’d act good at your house, I promise.  Ohh, hooo.  Nobody likes me, but you do.” 

 

      “It’s gonna be ok, JD.  Better and better every day.  It’s gonna be ok.”

 

      “I don’t really hate you, Stokie.”

 

      “I know.  It’s ok.”

 

      “I was just mad.”

 

      “I know, JD.  Better and better every day.  I’m proud of you.” 

 

      “I’m proud of you, too, Stokie.  Can I try again tomorrow?”

 

            Yolanda was in a dither.

            “Damn it, I wanna know what’s goin’ on.  Something’s goin’ on with some of these boys, you can just tell.  I can feel it, somethin’ sexual is goin on and I wanna know what.  That means you staff need to be lookin out better.  I don’t want it to be easy for these boys to be havin’ sex, I want it to be hard.  So we gotta make it hard for them.  Be standing in the doorways, follow them around the corners, listen in to what they be sayin’ to each other.  Now what the hell is goin’ on on Sundays?”

            Oh, here we go.  I work on Sundays, Yolanda does not.  I’m in charge of the shift on Sundays, so now, just like so many other staff meetings like this one, Yolanda is going to end up asking me to explain something that happened on the shift.  She and I agree on just about everything in terms of supervising the boys, and sometimes prods me to spell out this agreement during staff meeting.  It’s not a bad strategy to show the rest of the staff that even thought we don’t always work together, we are still on the same page.

            She continued, “If it’s not one thing goin’ on, it’s another.  If it ain’t creepy-ass Freddie sneaking around preying on the little boys, its Michael and Francis playin’ Santa Claus sittin’ in each others’ laps.  Now what I wanna know is how Jim Beam managed to eat some more thumb tacks and ain’t no one was around to stop him.  He told me he ate them on Sunday, and I wanna know:  Is it true?  And if it’s true, how come didn’t no one stop him?”

            Jimmy Beam has a history of eating sharp and dangerous objects.  He will usually threaten to do so when he can’t get his way or he gets a consequence, like a time-out that he doesn’t agree with.

            Staff will say, “Jimmy take a time out, you can’t cuss in here.”

            “Nope, I’ll eat glass.  You can’t stop me either cuz that’s abuse.  I’ll eat this battery, I did before.  I don’t care, you can’t take care of me, I’ll eat this tack.  Fuck you, bitch, I’ll eat it then I’ll die and you’ll get fired and it’ll serve you right because you’re a cracker-ass white-Elvis looking ho.” 

            I have indeed seen him eat glass and rocks and pins.  I have taken him to the doctor myself and the doctor always tells me that Jimmy will probably pass it without any problems, and he always has.

            Yolanda’s question obviously fell on me.  “You know what?  It could be true.  I was playing chess with him that afternoon in the living room, you know how he likes that one-on-one attention.  Well, you probably read the incident report about Freddie humping the back of the couch?  Well, Freddie somehow got behind the couch and laid down behind it.  By the time I noticed he wasn’t sitting on station, he must’ve been well into it.  I heard Mel start yellin, ‘I know you ain’t fuckin’ no furniture!” and I jumped up to get him out of there.  It turns out he had his pants down to his ankles and was humping the space in between the couch and the floor.  You know how the kids fuckin’ go ballistic when they see something like that going on, well they did, and we had to try and shut the house down and get Freddie into the Quiet Room at the same time.  You know that’s a nightmare with 4 staff for 10 boys.  I think Jimmy must’ve eaten some tacks off the bulletin board as he was going back to his room.  I know he was pissed off about it because stupid-ass Freddie took all my attention away from Jimmy.”

            This is my job.

            “Well, I don’t want no kids havin no sex with each other no more,” Yolanda said.  “I’m just sick and tired trying to explain how our kids somehow manage to get it on with each other because we ain’t payin’ attention.  I would rather have someone fuck the damn couch instead of one of his peers.  We know who the sexual kids are and they should be our first priority.”

            With that, the staff meeting was over, it was time to go pick up the boys from school and time for my teammates and me to work the evening shift.  Yolanda’s speech was effective; we all seemed to have a good head of steam going into the shift, agreeing on our sight lines, which parts of the house each of us would be supervising, and which kids seemed most likely to offend.  And that shift was tight, too.  There wasn’t any wiggle room for any kids to get out of our sights and the shift ran like clockwork.  By 10pm, we were tired, but at least we had a great day.  No incident reports, clean house, all boys asleep.  All we had to do now was give Night-Awake staff the summary of the day, and we were out of there.  The four of us all greeted the Night-Awake at the kitchen counter and proceeded to give him a brief explanation of the day’s events.

            About 5 minutes into this discussion, we heard a blood-curdling scream come from one of the bathrooms.  Mellow Bill and I ran to the bathroom and opened the door.

            I was completely aghast at what I saw.  There was J’Michael, sitting naked on the toilet.  On the floor was a huge, bright red puddle of blood.  In J’Michael’s hand was his dick, spurting an impossible amount of blood all over him and the toilet.  J’Michael was screaming in agony, “I’m gon’ die!  I’m gon’ die!”

            “Holy shit!  What happened?”   I thought he might have been stabbed.

            “I, I…I was jacking off too hard!” was his reply.

            I had to think about this for a minute.  Now, when I was a teenager, say 13 or 14, I jacked off a lot.  And, I jacked off pretty hard sometimes.  But I’ll be damned if I ever jacked off so hard that my dick exploded in my hand.  No, this was a first for me.

            At any rate, this really was a medical emergency, so we wrapped him up in a sheet and Bill rushed him off to the hospital. 

This left one hell of a mop up job for me.  As I mopped and cleaned, I could only ponder what had really happened to poor J’Michael’s dick.  The answer was to come by way of Jim Beam’s teasing voice.  I looked toward his doorway and saw just his arm sticking out, waving a pair of blood soaked tidy-whities.

“Oh Stokie!  I think you better take me to the hospital, too! I told you I was gonna eat those tacks!”

It was a beautiful Sunday morning in Spring.  This morning’s team consisted of myself,
Mel, Guru and a brand new staff named Candace, who, and I’m being as sensitive and as
politically correct as possible, was a fat dyke.  She wore her opinions on her sleeve
and injected any conversation with her sexually and politically charged agenda.

 Plus, she had terrible hygiene.  When she did a sleepover, she didn’t
change the sheets.  The next sleepover, Mel, would complain that
someone had eaten cheese in the staff bed.  The first time I worked
with her, I walked into the house and asked her (after she had
gotten up) if she had cleaned the staff bathroom, as is the
sleepover’s job.

 ”Oh, yeah, I cleaned it.”

 ”Cool,” I said, and walked in to take a piss.  I noticed that, in fact, nobody had cleaned
the bathroom and there were pubic hairs in the bathtub.  Why would she lie about something like
that?  When I came out, she said, “I’m gonna kick back in the staff office for a while since we
don’t get the kids up for an hour.”

 This pissed me off forever.  I walked over to Kyle’s room and announced, “If there is
anyone who needs to work off their work details so that they can go out on the outing this
morning, they had better get up and clean the staff bathroom, especially if their name is Kyle.”

 Kyle walked out rubbing his eyes.  “Yeah, Stokie?  I’ll do it.  I wanna go on the outing.”

 ”Great Kyle.  Go knock on the staff office door and tell Candace that you need to clean
the office for work details.  She’ll help you with the rest.”

 Kyle banged on the office door until Candace opened it.  “Hi Candace, I need to clean the
staff bathroom for work details.  Can you supervise me?”
 
 ”But the staff bathroom is clean already,” said Candace.
 
 Kyle took a look and said, “No it’s not!”  He was laughing.  He grabbed the 409 from
under the sink and sprayed it all over the sink, toilet and bathtub.  He took a rag and wiped
everything spic and span.  “See Candace?  Now it’s clean.  Easy as that.”

 I yelled from the kitchen, “Thank you Kyle!  Just another training session, that’s
all!”

 ”I hear that, Stokie.  Place was humming!”

 ”Dude, sometimes you shine so bright.  No more work details, thank you.”

 She walked out and looked at me.  “Do you have a beef with me?”

 I said, “No, Candace, nothing me and Kyle can’t handle.”

 I had heard that a kid had asked her the other day if she was gay.

 ”I’m not gay, I’m queer,” was her answer.

 It was time to get the boys up, which on Sunday morning is not a big deal and can be done
in a very casual and slow manner.  The staff were split up in different sections of the house
and were helping various boys hop to.  Mel and I were having fun with Brian, who you remember
is not only conflicted about his own sexual orientation, but also comes from a household with
two moms.  Brian wanted to get one of us staff to go out and buy him a bandana which he wanted
to wear on his head. 

 I told him, “Why don’t you go ask Mel if it’s more cool to wear it around your neck. 
That’s the way Mel always wears it when he goes out.”

 In a moment Brian returned and said to me, “Mel wants to know if you think I’d look better
in a bandana that is ‘cool blue’ or ‘flaming red.” 

 And so it went until Brian came back to me and asked, “Can a person be so fat
that their ass eats their underwear?”
 
 ”Brian, I don’t know how your brain is malfunctioning, but I need you to calm down.”

 ”Okay, Stokie, but I think Candace is wearing a Mercedes Benz sign on her ass.”

 ”What are you talking about, Brian?”

 ”Just look,” he said pointing to Candace, who was squatting
down to help Freddy, who didn’t need any help, tie his shoe. 
Her jeans had sagged down to reveal her fat, pimply ass-crack
decorated with a string thong that resembled the Mercedes Benz sign. 
I rolled my eyes and groaned.

 Brian went on.  “Not only that, but she’s flirting with me,
and I think that’s inappropriate.  Every time I walk by, she shakes her tits
at me and I think she’s trying to make me get excited.  Can you tell her that I’d
never want to have sex with her because she’s fat and ugly?”

 ”Brian, I can promise you that she’s not flirting with you. You’re completely fabricating
the whole thing.  I tell you what, I will talk to her about…”

 Just then I realized what Brian was talking about.  Candace got up and turned around and
walked into the kitchen.  As she did, her big, bra-less, pendulous tits shook all around the
house and into the hearts and minds of just about every resident in it.  I wanted to strangle
her for being so naiive.  Freddy got up and waved his hand by his nose, “Whoa! Her shit smells
like hamsters!”

 ”Brian, you may not have said it in the most appropriate way, but I know exactly what
you’re talking about and I am going to help you.  I will talk to her right away and get her to
make a change, but what I need from you, right now, is to stay in your room until I can get her
to make the change.  Can you do that?”

 ”Sure Stokie, no problem.  Thanks for helping me.  I hate it when big fat bitches shake
their tits at me and make me want to have sex with them.  The last thing I’m gonna do is start
screaming, ‘GUACAMOLE!!  GUACAMOLE!!”

 It was too late.  Brian had lost it.  Much like ‘Whoa guy,’ ‘guacamole!’ was something
a kid would yell out to let everyone know that sex was in the air.  Strangely, after yelling it,
Brian calmly walked back to his room and sat down on his bed.

 However, it was enough to get the rest of the house really agitated;  voices grew louder,
kids became less and less compliant, there was more irritation. 

 I needed to to talk to Candace immediately. But how?  I was thinking that I couldn’t say,
‘Hey Candace, your floppy boobies are fucking with the kids’ minds.’  I was actually thinking
that she would try to bring a harassment suit against me or the agency if I tried to talk to her
myself, so I first called the Administrative Backup so I could get some support (and a witness)
that the confrontation was appropriate.  Our Backup today was Mike, the Supervisor for
the house next door.  I went to the staff office and called him.

 ”Mike, dude, I need some help.  You know that new staff, Candace?”

 ”Biggums?” asked Mike.

 ”Yeah, well she showed up this morning without a bra…”

 ”Oh please don’t make me come over there, Stokie.”

 ”You gotta come over.  The kids are getting all fucked up about it and I don’t want to
talk to her myself because I’m afraid she’ll sue the agency.”

 ”Good point.  I’ll be right over.”

 As Mike arrived, the boys were getting more and more agitated.  When I walked out to
greet Mike, Francis was asking Candace, “Hey Canned Ass, do you drive a Mercedes? Hee!”

 Candace was oblivious.  “I use public transportation as much as possible.”

 ”Whoa, guy!”  Francis ran back to his room.

 Mike said, “Candace, we need to talk to you in private.  Would you join us in the staff
office?”  The three of us walked in and shut the door behind us.

 I began, “Candace, I called Mike here so that I could have some Administrative support
when I tell you what I have to tell you.  I didn’t want to confront you alone.”

 ”Confront me?  There’s nothing to confront me about.  What are you talking about?”  She
put her hands on her waist which pulled her shirt tighter around her tits.  I tried to maintain
eye contact and not wince.  At the same time, I could hear yelling out on the floor.

 ”Well, the thing is, you’re not exactly dressed appropriately for the job.  I mean, some
of these boys have been sexually abused and any hint of sexuality can set them off.  I’m sure
you’ve read their case histories by now, right?”

 ”I was gonna read those on my free time. But I’m not dressed inappropriately.  Since
when are jeans and a t-shirt inappropriate?”

 ”When you’re not wearing a bra, that’s when,” said Mike.  “And you’re obviously not.”

 ”No I’m not,” said Candace.  “And I can’t think of a better way to teach kids,
especially kids who’ve been abused, that the human body is beautiful.  We’re all just people you know, and
the human body is a beautiful thing.”

 ”Not here it isn’t,” said Mike.  “Here it’s a provacative set-up. You can’t be out on the
floor like that.  Did you bring a bra?”

 ”No I didn’t.  I didn’t think this was such a draconian, backward thinking organization.”

 I heard Guru’s booming voice,”TIP THE HOUSE!”

 ”Mike, I gotta go out there and help out, it’s just the two of them out there.  I’m sure
you can finish up without me.”  I winked at him and he tried not to laugh.

 when I came out of the staff office, I saw boys running everywhere.  Guru was at the
Quiet Room door holding residents in while Mel was catching the out-of-control boys and bringing
them to Guru.  My Sunday was ruined. 
 
 There were cat-calls of “Canned Ass!” “Whoa, guy!” and “Guacamole!” along with the usual
crotch grabbing and overt finger sucking.  Where to start?

 I went over to Brian and Rudy’s room and stood in their doorway so they couldn’t get out.
As far as I could see, Guru and Mel had about 6 boys over in the Quiet Room and there
were a few who had turned on the TV and were watching without any problem. 

 I saw Mel run out of the Quiet Room Area, catch one of the kids, Manuel, and walk him to
the Quiet Room.  Manuel was a funny little Mexican, pudgy and bossy.  Whenever you gave him a
direction or a time out or generally said something he didn’t like, he would respond with,

 ”I don’t HAVE TO!  I’m gonna TELL!  Then you’re going to JAIL!  Cuz I’m gonna call the
COPS!  And then they’re gonna SHOOT YOU! Because I know the number to Nine one ONE!”
He was so authoritative, fat and pompous about it that I nicknamed him “El Presidente.”

 Mel led him by the collar and handed him off to Guru who was standing by the Quiet Room
door, holding the lock so that the 5 or so other residents could not come out.  As Guru took hold
of El Presidente, and as Mel left the area, some of the boys in the Quiet Room
managed to push the door partially open.  Instinctively, Guru pushed the door,
and El Presidente into it.  This action scraped El Presidente’s face against the door. 
El Presidente was yelling at Guru,

 ”You’re gonna go to JAIL!  I’m gonna tell on your ABUSE!  My dad’s gonna come here
and SHOOT YOU!”

 On the other side of the house, I saw Candace emerge from the staff office, arms folded,
and walk out to her car.  Mike came out after her and told me, “I already called for back-up so
there will be more staff here soon.  What do you need me to do?”

 I said, “Go help out Guru.  He’s got too many kids in the quiet room and he’s by himself.
Mel and I will watch the floor.”

 It took about an hour and a half for the house to calm down.  Even then, there was a tenuous
and uncomfortable sexualized feeling in the house.  Candace never came back.

 After lunch, I took most of the boys out onto the back porch to play basketball.
Every now and then I would glance inside to see what was going on.  At one point, I saw El
Presidente on the phone.  I figured that he had gotten permission from another staff to call
his family.  As it turned out, all of us staff had thought the same thing, wrongly.

 In a few minutes, a sheriff’s car pulled up to our house.  The deputy knocked on the door
and said, “Is there a staff here named Guru?  May I talk to him please?”

 El Presidente had called 911 and said Guru had hit him and thrown him on the floor.  El
Presidente had scrapes on his face to “prove” it.  Although Guru had explained to the deputy
what had happened, technically the intervention was illegal because Guru was handling the kid
by himself.  After interviews were conducted, Administrative staff called to the house and El
Presidente immediately transferred out of our agency and into a temporary shelter, Guru was
put on Administrative leave.  I can’t tell you how difficult it is to lose a seasoned staff member
like that.  Maybe the only thing harder is to dispel the belief in the residents that all staff
are abusive. 

 Two weeks later, Guru had been transferred to the “transition house,” the house for
17 and 18 year olds whose programs do not require hands-on. If they act up, you just
evacuate the house and call the sheriff.  I ran into Guru not long after he had been
put out to pasture.

 ”Guru, I’m really sorry about what happened.  When the whole house is blowing out like
that, it’s just impossible to go by the book.”

 Guru was philosophical.  “I’ve been here 17 years, I may be here 17 more.  This is what
I was born to do, and I’ll keep on doing it as long as I’m able.”  He pushed out his eyes for
effect, took a long draw on his cigarette and stared out into the distance.  I had to wonder if
Guru was thinking the same thing as me.  How could we have all been so stupid as to let
El Presidente and a staff named Candace who had been here for all of 2 minutes mess up
the career of a dedicated staff who had been here for 17 years?

I remember in the first couple of years after the drug Crack started becoming popular, many news agencies ran stories about crack-babies, kids born addicted to crack. Brought into this world by an array of hookers, addicts and dealers, the news media could only soberly guess what the future would hold for these unfortunate souls.

Well, I know what happens: crack-babies grow up, they become crack-kids, crack-teens and crack-adults. If you are born addicted, your teeth will grow in at all kinds of crazy angles and you will have an unusually large, oblong or small head. You will be really skinny and your limbs may grow in at different lengths and sizes. You will have a really hard time concentrating and may suffer profound irritation and mood swings. And, since your parents are idiots, you will be placed in some agency for care and grow up there.

Oscar is a crack-baby who grew up. At 14 years old, he has the build of a skinny 8 year old, a long, thin, oblong head, sleepy eyes and teeth sticking out from all over. He is black and comes from a notoriously gang-infested area of town. He peppers his speech with threats and ghetto slang. He feels that talking this way helps build his stature amongst his peers who can’t believe that he is actually a teenager. He screams in a slurry rasp, “I’m from the Westside, sucka! You don’ know me, muh-fucka! You bes’ back off, part-nuh!”

His peers, of course, love to provoke him (which is a group-home term for tease) and Oscar will attempt to hit them with his belt. He always wears a belt because he is too skinny for any pants that are long enough for his legs. This is a painful process to observe because he can’t really run; he engages his peers in a slow speed chase, right arm halfway outstretched for balance, looking like a drunken butler stumbling over an invisible flight of stairs. He marches toward his intended victim while fiddling with his belt. If he does manage to get his belt off, he waves it around his head with one hand, holds his pants up at the crotch with the other hand and screams, “I’m from the Westside muh-fucka, an’ we gon’ hoo-ride! Hoo-Ride! Westside! You know!” The entire process is excruciating in its futility and takes long enough in its build-up for staff to intervene before any serious injury can occur.

“Hoo-ride,” like “whoa-guy,” is another term I’ve only heard in a group home. Apparently its origin goes back to prison life and is the term for “riot.” It is universally recognized as the call to blow out in instances of the staff’s systematic, oppressive prejudices and unfair practices, like making the kids take a shower or eat their vegetables.

Katrina and I were lucky enough to be the ones to take Oscar and three other boys on an afternoon of miniature golf. The park is a good thirty-minute drive up the freeway, which is the perfect amount of time to provoke your peers. Jesse started in with Oscar.

Jesse “Hey Oscar, I bet you really suck at miniature golf. You can’t putt right because your head is all long and crooked .”

Oscar “Back off part-nuh, I’m from the Westside! You don’ know me, I’m gonna hoo-ride that golf-place, watch!”

Jesse “Oh that’s true, Oscar, I forgot. You gonna crack that ball. When you hit that ball, you really crack it, don’t you?”

Oscar “Watch out, muh-fucka, I’ll beat yo ass wiff my belt!”

Jesse “Okay, Oscar, I know all about your slow-speed chases. You’re flustered, you’re flustrated, don’t get shmad, so mad, so sad, too bad. Calm down.”

When we arrived, the kids opted not to play golf at all. The lure of candy and video games was too strong. After draining their money in about 10 minutes, they stood around and posed. This is important on any outing because this is the part where they pretend to talk to girls and get their phone numbers. When they get back to the group home they will brag to their peers about how they would really call a girl if only it were allowed.

On the ride home, I realized that it was Monday, and tonight we would be able to watch Monday Night Football. I asked the guys if they were interested in the game. Jesse piped up. “Ah yeah, boy, football is hecka-tight! I loves me some football. ‘Are you ready for some football?’”

He was singing the Monday Night Football song. I happily chimed in, glad that we could be relating a common interest together. These rare bits of togetherness mean so much to these kids who find it so hard to bond with adults. All they’ve known is that most adults can’t be trusted, or that they should be manipulated, so I was happy to lend my positive energy. I was singing the Monday Night Football song with the guys! All my rowdy friends are here on Monday Niiiight!

I heard Oscar’s raspy voice above the din, “You bes’ step back muh-fucka, I’m from the Westside!” Fucking Oscar was always so irritable. I just marked it down as a case of not being able to keep up with the song.

“Are you ready for some football?” we sang as we sped down the freeway.

Then suddenly a sharp pain in my shoulder. “What the fuck!” I yelled. I looked over my shoulder and sure enough, there was Oscar, swinging his belt over his head, other hand holding his crotch, standing up, albeit hunched over. The other kids ducking on the floor. “I mo light you up muh-fucka! Dis how we do it in the Westside!” He cracked me again on the arm.

Katrina yelled at him to stop and tried to grab him but she couldn’t get close enough due to the swirling belt. The slow motion crack-baby had finally caught his victim: Me! But why?

I slammed on the brakes and pulled to the shoulder. Katrina jumped out and opened the side door while I climbed back and shoved Oscar out and onto the ground. We put him in a prone-restraint right there on the side of the freeway, cars rushing by, belt lost somewhere under the van, Oscar’s pants halfway down. While he struggled in the gravel, I realized why he had become so upset:

The other kids were now chanting, “Football-head, football-head!”

And I realized that I had fallen prey to a clever attack on Oscar. The kids had me unwittingly singing the football(head) song to Oscar. They weren’t just mocking him, they were laughing at me too.

I was so fucking pissed off. I sent them all to bed and gave them each a month of outing restriction. My supervisor told me not to be so over-reactive, but I still feel conflicted wondering if they got what they really deserved.

I pulled into work one afternoon and parked right behind Toby, a tall, muscular guy with a flattop, who was still sitting in his car. I really don’t mind working with Toby that much. Although he can be a little abrasive and his childcare skills sometimes leave a lot to be desired, he also gives the kids a solid sense of safety. Beneath his loud, obnoxious and seemingly one-dimensional personality is a strong-minded character that is magnetic to kids.

He and I usually set up a good-guy, bad-guy guy dynamic. Him as the tough disciplinarian and me as the empathetic ally who can help the kids communicate their needs.

As we were walking to the staff office, Toby said, “We’re supposed to get that new kid today. I hope you’re ready to rock and roll. Apparently, he held off the cops while he was locked in his bathroom with his pit bull. I guess the cops didn’t have a choice but to shoot the dog. I’d be fucking mad about it too, but you gotta respect authority.”

I said, “It’s hard to respect authority when your parents, the ones who are supposed to be taking care of you, are out all the time dealing crack.”

We walked in and immediately heard some kind of commotion coming from one of the rooms. I said to Toby, “I think our new guest is already here.” We walked toward the noise and into one of the bedrooms where we encountered Nancy, a disheveled house therapist with enormous glasses. She was speaking to a kid I’d never seen before, apparently the new kid, who was standing on his head on his bed mattress.
Nancy turned to me and Toby and in her whiney drone said, “Oh, hi guys, I’m glad you’re here. This is Rasmus. Rasmus is new here and you know what? I think he’s feeling a little nervous about being in a brand new place.”

Nancy has a habit of baby-talking to everyone, even the adults, when she talks about a kid. This, combined with her unbrushed hair, glasses and leftover hippie clothes make her a muppet-caricature of herself.

“I ain’t nervous, bitch, I’m gonna kill myself.” Rasmus was a wiry black kid of about 12. “Alls I gotta do is let go and I could break my neck.”

Nancy nodded her head vigorously. “Okay, okay, good, good. You’re letting your feelings out. That’s a step in the right direction. It must be an icky feeling to be so scared. But do you really think you need to kill yourself to express your feelings?”

“Yes I do. But you could give me some more of them Skittles?”

Nancy reached into her purse. “You know what? Can you sit on your bed in the regular way? You know, on your bottom? So you won’t break your neck. Then I could give you some more Skittles.”

Toby and I looked at each other and sighed. Most therapists here are notorious for undermining the staff’s authority by buying off the kids. They see it as an easy way to calm a kid. However, it teaches the kids that if they just wait long enough and for the right person, they can get away with misbehavior and ultimately get rewarded for it. This makes our job of setting limits and following through with consequences, if necessary, much harder. Not to mention that we run the risk of assault when we try to enforce rules the kids are conditioned to think are irrelevant.

Toby reached into his pockets and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. With a sigh of frustration he snapped them on and said, “Me and Stokie will take it from here, Nancy. One thing we definitely won’t do is make deals with him so that he gets his way.”

Nancy, again nodding, said, “Hmm, yeah, I hear you, Toby. What I hear you saying is you don’t feel like Rasmus should be making deals. Right? Well, I’ll tell you what. This isn’t Rasmus’ deal, this will be my deal. Just for today because Rasmus is feeling a little nervous about being here.”

She offered Rasmus some Skittles and he turned over and sat down on the edge of the bed and gobbled them down.

Nancy said, “Rasmus is having a hard day, aren’t you Rasmus? Can you explain in your own words to these nice counselors how you got here today?”

“Hell no, I ain’t saying shit.”

Toby piped up, “You know something Rasmus? All you need is some good, old-fashioned discipline. I’ll tell you one thing, just because a therapist is here doesn’t mean I’m gonna take that attitude from you. I don’t care who is here, you can be respectful or you can go sit by yourself in the Quiet Room.”

Rasmus immediately stood back up on his head. “I’m gonna kill myself! If you come close to me, I’ll let go and break my neck!”

Nancy said, “Okay, okay, I hear what you’re saying Rasmus.” She turned to us. “Rasmus and I were just having a really productive conversation about his trip over here. He had been in Juvenile Hall for a couple of weeks before his social worker was able to place him here. Well Rasmus didn’t want to come here, did you Rasmus? And although it doesn’t seem fair to me, his social worker told Rasmus that they were going on a trip to 7-11. But instead of 7-11, they came here.”

I could hear Toby whisper between clenched teeth, “Fucking social workers…”

Nancy continued, “And Rasmus feels like he may have missed out on something he really wanted to do. Rasmus, is there anything else you would like to say about that? I can understand if you have some hurt feelings surrounding this issue. Sometimes things happen in life that we can’t control and we don’t feel like it’s fair. Isn’t that right?”

“I gotta take a piss!” said Rasmus. “You have to let me take a piss!”

“You don’t run the show here, Rasmus,” said Toby. “The adults do. Not you. You can sit there on your bed and wait patiently for five minutes. That way we can see that you’re calm and not just messing around.”

Nancy turned to Toby. “You know something? I’m really feeling like Rasmus wants to be trusted. You know, that feeling where you can say something and everyone knows you’re telling the truth? I really feel like Rasmus can be trusted to go pee-pee if he needs to do that.”

Toby and I shook our heads. “I don’t,” I said.

“Well, today,” said Nancy in her most hopeful nasal whine, “we’re going to show Rasmus that we think we can trust him. Rasmus? Can we trust you to go pee-pee without having any more problems?”

“Hell yeah you can trust me. Now let me go take a piss. Damn.”

Nancy nodded in agreement. “Okay, okay, good. Now, let’s just walk down the hall to the bathroom.” We all walked down the hallway, Rasmus marching in front and the adults following as if in a parade. Rasmus entered the bathroom and shut the door.

Nancy approached Toby and me. “You know something? I really feel like we made some progress today. It’s so important for a child to know he’s trusted and liked. I’m sensing you guys feel the same way. Well, isn’t this why we enjoy working with children so much? We’re really making a difference in their lives. In fact, I’m getting the chills just thinking about it. Anyway, I’m glad we could work out that little problem. Now I have another client to see but I’ll check in with Rasmus tomorrow. Thanks for your help, guys.” With that, she slipped out of the house.

I turned to Toby. “I think the really bright psychologists wind up with private practices, the ones who graduate toward the bottom of the class wind up working at places like this.”

Just then, Toby looked down at his feet. A steady stream of urine passed under the bathroom door and settled under his shoes.

Toby burst into the bathroom where Rasmus was standing on top of the toilet, still pissing.

“You little punk! If you’re gonna act like a dog, I’m gonna treat you like a dog!” Toby lunged at Rasmus, picked him up, turned him upside down and pushed his face into the puddle of piss. “This is how you train a dog not to pee in the house. Even you can learn something here!” He then carried Rasmus into the Quiet Room and plopped him down unceremoniously.

“Let me ask you something, Rasmus. Anyone ever dip you into your own piss before?”

Rasmus spoke with a blank expression and wide eyes. “No sir, they didn’t. Not even the cops. I ain’t ever doin’ that again.”

“Damn straight you’re not. Now get your shit together and get in the shower.”

“Yes sir, I will. I ain’t ever doin’ that again.”

I’m happy to report that Toby never had to resort to dipping Rasmus into his own piss again.

Ahh, Summer.  What a wonderful time of year.  School is out…the whole world opens up …

 

Unless you’re an emotionally disturbed boy growing up in a group home.  In that case, you’re a couple of years behind other kids your age.  You’re just barely catching on to trends,struggling to fit into normal society, or “the outside world.”

 

I pulled into work on a warm morning knowing that Trixie, the hot red-head and I were going to be taking a few kids to the waterslide park.  Since I hadn’t been into work during these last 3 days off, I didn’t know exactly who it would be.  I did know that we’d be packing a picnic, barbequing, watersliding and generally enjoying getting wet on a hot day.

 

Yolanda beckoned me to her office as I walked in the house.  With her was Sam, the Birkenstock-wearing, flamboyant therapist.

 

“Hey Sam.  Yolanda, what’s up?”  I was in a good mood because I knew I’d be taking the kids who’d been behaving the best for the last two weeks.  This is usually how we determine who gets to go off campus.

 

“Hi Stokie!  How you doin today?” said Yolanda.  She was smiling and I knew she was exaggerating.  “You sure look fresh and ready to go today.  And you know what?  We already packed up the van full of supplies and everything!”

 

“Oh no, Yolanda.  What are you about to tell me?”  I was laughing because we both knew very well that nothing goes as planned or smoothly in this field.

 

Yolanda continued, “Sam and I were just having a little talk about Freddy…”

 

“Oh no, no, no…”

 

“And we were just realizing that he’s been on the highest level of the house for exactly two weeks.  He hasn’t had any violence, no sexual acting out…”

 

“That we know of…”

 

“…And technically speaking, he is eligible for today’s outing.  So what do you think about that?”

 

“I think this must be the cold day in Hell that everyone talks about.”

 

Yolanda said in her sugary sweet way, “Ha.  I sure love that Stokie Jaye sense of humor.  We figured you might say something like that so we thought we would send Freddy on the outing with a one-on-one.”

 

A one-on-one is a staff member assigned to supervise and be with only one kid at all times. I liked this idea, but only slightly better.

 

“Okay, but who is it going to be?”

 

“Oh we got that covered.  We got the strongest counselor in the house:  you.”

 

“Oh shit!  I walked right into that one, didn’t I?” I laughed, still slightly incredulous.

 

I turned to Sam.  “Sam, I know you want to be Freddy’s advocate, but do you really want to be sending a known sexual predator on an outing where there will be hundreds of wet boys and girls in their swimsuits?  I mean, don’t you think there will be repercussions?”

 

Sam said, “What I think is that we should give Freddy the same chance that the other residents get when they make a high level.  The kid hasn’t been off-campus in 10 months, after all.”  He fiddled with his turquoise bracelet.

 

“Yeah, but this is the same kid who humps couch cushions and his roommate’s teddy bears. The kid will stick his dick into the dryer door if you leave him alone in the laundry room.”

 

Sam was irritated.  “I know you don’t agree with his masturbatory practices, but you’ve got to admit, you’re being passive-aggressive right now.”

 

I sighed and shook my head.  I thought back to the early days when Freddy first got here.  We were told that he was the son of a crack-whore, he was abused sexually by his crack-stepdad and his associates and had spent a great deal of time homeless.  We were told that he had been kicked out of every placement he’d ever been in due to his sexual predatory practices.

 

We came up with a strict supervisory plan for him.  We knew that he could not be trusted with a roommate, so we gave him a room to store his stuff, but not to sleep in.  He would have to remain on station, where we could see him at all times and keep him away from the other kids.

 

I remember holding a group where all the kids were gathered on the couches and Freddy sitting at his separate table. I was letting the kids know what the schedule would be like for that day, when I looked up to see Freddy sitting on his chair with his back arched, eyes closed and twisting his nipples in obvious pleasure.

 

This I had not seen before. I responded with a “Jesus Christ, Freddy!” which is, I suppose, the reaction he was hoping for. He came to and lifted one arm up in an artificial “What?” but had forgotten to release the other nipple.  There was, of course, the requisite chorus of “Whoa-Guy! I’m not like that!  Sexual!” Freddy reveled in the attention.

 

Then, of course, there was the time when I turned the corner toward the bathroom to put some towels away and discovered Freddy fucking the bathroom door.  There was Freddy, wearing just a T-shirt, hanging on the door, fingers interlocked atop the thin, top of the door, one thigh on each of the doorknobs.  He was thrusting his thighs back and forth so that the door latch would poke in and out of his ass.

 

So Sam just called me passive-aggressive because I doubted that his client could handle a trip to the waterslides. I paused and stared at Sam.  “I can’t believe you just said that.”

 

Yolanda broke the silence.  “Well, anyway, you’ll be Freddy’s one-on-one, and Trixie can handle the other 2 boys, JD and Brian.  I just know you’re going to have a lovely time!”

 

“Okay Yolanda,” I said as I now turned on my sugary facade, “And Sam, thanks for all the incredible support.”  Sam folded his arms and sighed.

 

So, resolved to my fate of hanging out with Freddy the Sexual Predator all day, we loaded up the kids and took off to the waterpark, which was about an hour away.

 

Since I was driving, the best place thing to do with Freddy was to have him ride shotgun. Freddy was beside himself.

 

“Can you believe it Stokie?  I finally get to go on an outing.  And I’m riding shotgun which is where the kids on the highest level rides.”

 

“Even a blind chicken can peck a few corn.”

 

“You’re so funny, Stokie.  Seriously, what does that mean?  You got to admit, I am a lot better.  I’ll probably be graduating in a couple months.  I’m probably the best kid in the house, don’t you think?  Are we going to be barbequing?  I probably know everything there is to know about barbequing.  Can I have some money?  I want to go to 7-11.  I go there all

the time.  I probably know where all the 7-11’s are around here…”

 

It’s only been 10 minutes and I already want to kill him.  “Dude, you don’t have any say in what we do today.  I tell you what to do, not the other way around.  We can’t trust you, that’s why you have a one-on-one.  The only reason you’re here is because your therapist wants to see how you do in public, to see if you’ve made any progress.  If you start acting out on the outing, I will pack everything back up and bring you back to the house where you can spend the rest of your outing in the Quiet Room.  And please don’t talk to me about graduating until you can admit your sexual acting out.”

 

“Geez Stokie, I don’t know why you have to throw everything in my face like that.”

 

“I do it because if nobody does it, you will stay in denial.”

 

“Well, you don’t have to do it because I don’t do that kind of stuff anymore.  I quit acting out a long time ago and you know it.”

 

“Freddy, it was 4 weeks ago that you were caught hanging on the broom closet door with your pants off.  And that’s only what we know of.  4 weeks doesn’t mean you don’t act out sexually anymore.  That’s what I mean; you’re still in denial.”

 

“I probably know how to drum to all of these songs, so I’m just going to listen to my Walkman.” He was quiet until we got to the waterpark.

 

We paid our entrance fee and as we walked in, we passed the public bathroom and changing room. Freddy suddenly perked up, “I gotta go to the bathroom!  Really bad!  I’ll be right back.”

 

I said, “No problem.  I’ll come with you.”

 

“Come on, Stokie!  I’m 14 years old, I can go by myself.  You’re embarrassing me.”

 

I said, “And let you loose in there with all those nice children and bathroom stalls? Helllllllllll no!  Are you trying to get me fired?  Now, we got to find a place for our picnic.”

 

“Actually, I don’t really have to go that bad,” he said.  “Hey there’s a good place right there,” he said, pointing to an empty picnic table next to two moms with their 3 toddlers.  “I’m probably the best at setting up picnics.  Let’s go.”

 

I looked around.  This was a really big park.  As I scanned the area, I noticed a picnic table and barbeque stand about 300 yards away from anybody. Perfect.

 

The five us us trudged out there and began setting up our lunch and getting the barbeque ready.

 

Trixie said, “Me, Brian and JD are gonna go to the waterslides.  See ya.”  She was wearing an oversized t-shirt and cargo shorts over her swimsuit.

 

I said, “Cool, have fun.  Nice outfit by the way.”

 

She said, “Wear my swimsuit in front of these guys?  And be the subject of a certain someone’s twisted fantasies?  Helllllllll no!”

 

They took off for the waterslides and Freddy looked at me like a forlorn puppy.

 

“But…When are we going to the waterslides?”

 

“You know what?  I’m not quite ready for this, Freddy.  Let’s all get settled down for a few minutes before we go out there.  Tell you what, you say you’re good at barbeques?  Can you help me cook the hamburgers?”

 

“Sure!  I’ve been barbequing for years.  I always help out the other staff when they barbeque on days you’re not working.  See, you just dump the charcoal in, make it into a big mound and light it.  Oh, I’m gonna need the matches and the lighter fluid.  I do this all the time.”

 

He reached out behind him without looking at me.  When I didn’t put anything into his hands, he snapped his fingers, still without looking at me.

 

“Freddy? Seriously, you must think I’m really dumb.  You just keep trying, don’t you?”

 

I doused the charcoal with lighter fluid and lit it.  We watched as the charcoal slowly turned white.

 

Freddy started again, “Yeah, I always cook at home.  Filet mignon, lobster, prime rib, crab legs, garlic bread, salad…”

 

“I think what you mean to say is that you’ve been to Sizzler.”

 

“I’m probably the smartest kid in the higher school.  I’ll probably be skipping a grade in a couple months.  I know all the planets.”

 

“Freddy, even a broken clock tells time correctly twice a day.”

 

We’re getting to be good buddies, aren’t we?  I probably have the best relationship with you out of any of the other kids.  That’s why we always hang out…”

 

I started spreading the charcoal out.

 

He continued, “When did you first go on a date?  What did you do?”

 

A white charcoal fell out of the stand as I was spreading it out.

 

He said, “Oh, no problem.  I’ll get it…”  And picked it up with his bare hand.  “AAAAAAAARRRRHHH! Goddammit! It fucking burns!  Owwwwww!  Shit, Stokie, why didn’t you tell me it was hot?  Your outings fucking suck!  I got a third degree burn, maybe four!  Ahhhhhhhhh!!!”

 

I stood there and stared at him calmly as he screamed. Inside I was roaring with laughter. I said, “There’s ice in the cooler, I’m sure you know what to do with it.  Sit down a while. The others are coming back and we’ll eat.  Then we’ll go to the waterslides.”

 

Lunch was uneventful as all the kids were hungry while a whimpering Freddy iced his burnt hand.

 

At long last it was time to go watersliding.  There is a long path up to the top of the waterslides. The five of us walked up together and about halfway up I stopped.  I turned to the kids.

 

“See where we are right now?  If you look up and down, you can see everything.  From the line to the slides to the pool where you land.  Freddy, I’m talking to you.  I’m going to stand right here and watch your every move.  If you dare talk to one kid who is younger than you, we’re going home.  Stick with Trixie and the other kids.”

 

They walked up to the top and to Freddy’s credit, he didn’t talk to anybody but Trixie. 

 

JD was first to go down.  He was just as happy as a clam, which was nice to see.  As he splashed down, he slowly got out of the pool and stopped right next to the female lifeguard.  He seemed unable to move as he stared wide-eyed at her chest.

 

Brian was next.  I watched as he entered one of the tunnels, but only his mat came out the other end.  Suddenly, he emerged from the tunnel, stood up and somehow started high-stepping down the waterslide, chubby belly and boy-boobies flopping the whole time.  He dove into the next tunnel.

 

Next Freddy, who slid normally and then came Trixie.  Trixie walked past JD, who was still mesmerized.  As they came walking by me, Trixie said, “How do you like JD’s pacifier?”

 

I asked Brian what he thought he was doing, running down the waterslide.

 

He said, “I fell off my mat.  What the hell was I supposed to do.”  I let it go.

 

I watched as they went up to the slides and slid down again.  I was relieved that Freddy was at least trying to behave, but under no illusions that this wouldn’t affect him.

 

And it didn’t take long.  He went head first on his third ride down, and as he emerged from the tunnel and whooshed past me, I noticed that he was humping his mat.  I went down to the pool and told him he was done for the day.

 

“Aw, come on Stokie, my therapist says it’s natural.”

 

“I bet he does, Freddy.”

 

“Well fine.  In that case, I’ll have to tell my lawyer about how you made me burn my hand.”

 

“Fine,” I said.  “Whatever story you can come up with about that, my story about you having sex with your waterslide mat will be better.”

 

Freddy sat out the rest of the day.  It was late by the time we got back to the house and it was time for the first batch of bedtimes.  I sent Freddy to bed early as well.  Since Freddy can’t have a roommate, we have him take his mattress and “sleep out.”  He makes his bed down the hallway and next to the door to the side yard.  Sleeping out is a regular occurance for a sexual predator.  The Night Awake will station himself at the end of the hallway so he can monitor Freddy.

 

After awhile, the house was quiet, kids were tired and going to bed, and Trixie and I were sitting at the kitchen counter talking.  We spoke in our usual code about drinking, going to bars and partying.  We were tired and punchy, ready to get the hell out.  We always wound up exaggerating our drinking escapades to each other.

 

I said, “It would be a good night to go out and get a couple of liters of Diet Cokes.  Try to relieve some of that frustration of the outing.”

 

“I dunno, Stokie,” she said.  “I was just at the soda fountain on Friday.  I won the soda drinking contest, like always.  I ended up sleepwalking that night.”

 

“I’ve heard about how much you like your Diet Cokes and we definitely need to have a contest. You heard about my escapades when we went out with Manny? My sleepwalking experience led me straight to the stage for my own performance.”

 

The Night-Awake arrived and while he got settled in, Trixie and I went into the staff office to gather up our stuff and leave.

 

She said, “Dude, you think that’s bad? I think back to all the Cokes I drank in college, it’s a wonder I’m still around.  Some of the crazy shit we did…starting the Blue-Star Nipple Club…that’s where those of us girls who have big boobies just drink topless.  We’d just use a Blue Sharpie to color stars around our nipples.” 

 

Trixie has a way of keeping things interesting.  I love working with her.

 

“Then there was the Ski Club.”

 

“I didn’t know you ski.”

 

“I don’t in the summer.  The Summer Ski Club was just a drinking and streaking club.  My roommates called me ‘Entrepierna del fuego.’  That means ‘Entrance of fire.’

 

“How did you get that name?” I asked.

 

“Everyone was doing keg-stands.  I was wearing a skirt with no panties.  You know.”

 

I was thinking about making up a story about how I was drinking and my cock suddenly fell out of my pants.  I couldn’t believe we were talking about this.  Was she making a pass at me or just spilling?  As I pondered this, we came out of the staff office.  I heard the door near Freddy slowly open.

 

“Oh shit, Trixie, is that Freddy?  Now what?”  We walked around the corner and into the hall. Trixie saw it first.  She covered her mouth with her hand and walked away.  I stood there and saw Freddy ejaculate onto the doorknob.  “Hey…get….out…” he struggled to say. 

 

I sent him to the Quiet Room.  I walked into the laundry room to get cleaning materials for Freddy and latex gloves for myself.  I was completely appalled and shocked.  What are you supposed to say when you see something like that?  The only thing I could think of was, “Hey Trixie, when you take off tonight, use the other door.  This one’s the new Entrance of Fire.”

As staff, we are constantly trying to teach the kids what it means to have appropriate personal boundaries. Basically put, we teach them when and where it’s okay to touch somebody. So, when I walk into the house to start a shift, a boy like Freddy, the door-humping sexual predator, may come running up, arms wide open, ready to give me a hug.

Instead of saying something like, “Get the fuck away from me you freak, why don’t you go screw the kitchen sink,” I demonstrate Appropriate Boundaries. I say,

“No, Freddy, a hug is not appropriate now. How about an elbow?” And we touch elbows.

I might give another kid a hand-shake. Or another gets a one-armed side-hug. You get the idea. We role model strict personal boundaries for kids who come from places where there are no limits at all. Otherwise, they can go from zero to sexual in no time.

All of this is everyday, common practice. So you can imagine my surprise when Jackson, a counselor from the unit next door, walked right in, past me and two other staff without saying a word and proceeded to give Freddy of all people, a full body hug complete with stroking hands up and down his back.

Now Jackson and I have already had a couple of run-ins. I had walked over to the unit next door which houses the campus’ youngest kids to borrow some eggs one morning and observed Jackson bouncing one of the boys on his lap. I asked one of the other staff on shift why he was allowed to do this and was told not to worry, he does it all the time. It’s okay, I was told, because the kids here are younger and don’t have the same issues. That may sound okay on the surface, but none of these are normal kids, not even the youngest ones.

On another occasion, I went next door to borrow some Band-aids, turned the corner to the staff office hallway and saw Jackson and a resident standing face to face, or more like waist to waist, and suddenly jump back, obviously startled to see me. I pointed in Jackson’s face and said, “You shouldn’t be anywhere near kids. I’m going to try my hardest to get you fired.” He said in his non-chalant drawl, “Aw c’mon man, you’re just being sensitive, man.” I informed his supervisor who assured me that she would talk to him about the incident. With this history, it was all the more shocking to see him brazenly walk in and feel Freddy up.

The other staff and I looked at each other and our jaws dropped. I couldn’t help but call out, “Hey, get your hands off of him!” When the other boys looked up to see what I was talking about, several of them yelled,

“Whoa!”
“Whoa guy!”
“Inappropriate!”
“I’m not like that.”
“Whoa guy!”

‘Whoa guy’ is a saying I’ve only heard in the group home. It means, “Something sexual is going on. Even though I’m pretending not to like it, I really do. So if anybody propositions me soon, I might not say ‘no.’” It is usually screamed while pointing at the offenders and staring at the staff in mock-disbelief.

I have learned to dread hearing the call of “Whoa guy!” because it usually means you’re in for a lot of work trying to keep the buds of romance from blooming. This night would be no different.

So there we were watching helplessly as Jackson the Perv mauled Freddy. In the span of 10 seconds he was undoing months of hard work on our part, keeping Freddy from touching other kids, teaching him to keep his masturbating within the confines of the bathroom and not during community group, teaching him that household objects are not romantic pleasure toys. I had the sick feeling you get when you hear chalk screeching the blackboard. It was like a cat getting rubbed backward.

“I need to talk to you right now,” I said as I separated the two like a referee pushing away two heavyweights who have locked up in the ring. I brought Jackson into the staff office. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I demanded.

“Aw, man, what’s wrong with you now?”
“Freddy’s the most sexualized kid on this campus. You walk in here like you own the place, don’t acknowledge any of the adults and proceed to feel Freddy up. You don’t think that’s going to get him riled up?”
“Okay, fine. I acknowledge you. Hello.” He was waving. “Happy now?”
“Get the fuck out of here! Your supervisor’s going to hear about this.” Jackson scampered out.

I then noticed that the other staff had gathered around to listen to the confrontation. We were all there in the staff office. Nobody out on the floor!

We rushed out and sure enough, Freddy was gone. I told the other staff to check all the doorways while I go check the broom closet. No luck. I asked one of the staff members if he was sure he checked inside the Quiet Room. He said he looked in there but didn’t see anything. I rushed over to double check. The staff didn’t see anything because he just glanced inside, he didn’t check behind the door! Freddy was there alright. He was licking and kissing the wall, had his eyes closed, his hand down his pants. He was quickly mumbling, “C’mon baby, oh yeah just like that, you know you like it baby.”

“Hey Freddy, why don’t you go into the bathroom and do that?” I tried to say this calmly and without letting on that I was disgusted.
“Hey Stokie get the hell out of here!”
“No, really man. This is not the appropriate place to do that. If you need to masturbate, go into the bathroom and do it in private.” This is a recurring conversation with Freddy.
“I don’t do that anymore and you know it.”
“You’re doing it right now!”
“I am not. I just had an itch is all. Besides, when I do it in the bathroom I can’t go all the way.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. It just doesn’t work right.”
“Have you tried using lotion?”
“Yes. Well, not really. Okay, how?”
“You just put some on your hand and use that same hand to masturbate.” We went to the hygiene closet, I gave him a bottle of lotion and ushered him to the bathroom. “Just give it a chance, Freddy, you’ll see.”

A couple of minutes passed and I figured Freddy was doing what millions of teenage boys were doing all around the world. In a weird way, I was glad that I could teach him something useful, something that may keep him from harming another human being in the long run. Perhaps, in this small way, I was helping Freddy to adjust, which would benefit the community, improve humanity.

Freddy burst out of the bathroom with a flourish. Shirt off, boner pitching a tent under his boxer shorts, he ran to the center of the living room, proud as a peacock. He held his lotion-covered hand high in the air. “Hey Stokie! Is this enough lotion?”
Up came the pitiful, yet predictable call of the wild.

“WHOA GUY!!”
“Inappropriate!”
“Whoa! I’m not like that!”
“WHOA!!”

Jackson left the agency about 2 months after that. Under increasing scrutiny from his co-workers, he said that he felt “hassled” and didn’t need to put up with our “Gestapo-like intrusions”. The thing that bothers me is that he is now the head teacher at another special education school.

The organization is in big trouble, financially. Like many non-profits, we have had to put up with our share of budget cuts, salary freezes and program reorganizations. We are situated on a huge chunk of protected, sensitive land which has been the center of a protracted battle between environmentalists and our own administration who want to sell parts of the property to developers to increase revenues. This is a fight that existed before I ever got there and will probably continue long after I am gone. For all I know, this issue may never be resolved.

In any case, one of the ways the organization has managed to generate income and services is through leasing out office and storage space at low cost to sympathetic and beneficial companies, like a certain contracting/construction company who then performs upgrades and
improvements to our physical plant at no cost. So while we staff continue to struggle through cuts in health benefits and overtime pay, we continue to see nice new gardens, white fences and newly paved roads sprout up all around the campus.

The crowning jewel is the restoration of a century old arboretum and courtyard, complete with fountain, fresh grass and cobblestones. Since we are a religiously affiliated organization with an adjoining chapel (freshly painted), many marrying couples hold a reception, for a fee, in the rejuvenated courtyard.

One such event happened to be taking place on a lovely spring morning when Michael (who you remember saw an image of Blue Boy in the wall) and Francis, another marginally developmentally delayed boy who incidentally looks just like Jughead from the Archie comic books, slipped out of the house, unnoticed.

Michael and Francis have had a history of secret, sexual escapades. Once, Francis was caught sitting on Michael’s lap, pants off, in Michael’s laundry basket. They said they were playing “Santa Claus.” Another time, Francis attempted to get Michael in trouble by revealing what a lying cheat Michael really is. He told me, “I hate Michael. He’s such a liar. He said he’d give me four batteries for my radio if I booty-bumped him. But when I did, he only gave me two, the bitch.”

A hillside overlooks the courtyard where the wedding party was taking place. Michael and Francis decided to use this as a staging area to launch their attack. At first it started as a raid to steal food and provisions for a longer and, no doubt, sexually motivated escape to calmer environs, but when the caterers caught them in the back of their van and demanded that they stop eating the pate and baguettes they had found, it became a more serious battle involving larger armies.

The boys retreated to the hillside to recoup the honor they had lost in being caught by a caterer. Their identities discovered, they began to throw rocks and sticks at the lovely couple, as well as a hundred or so stunned guests. Francis began a war-cry of “Fuck all you neegers! Heeee!” When he said this he stuck his jaw out and closed his eyes in a retard-style proclamation of self-satisfaction. Michael ad-libbed his own running commentary, “That bitch is gonna get fucked tonight just like my mama!” all the while jabbing his pointer-finger in his eye to slow the uncontrollable twitch that causes it to roll around in its socket.

They tore branches off the trees and held them out in front of their waists like giant, leafy penises, all the while screaming, “Wedding balls are ringing! Take it all, you ho! Look, I got a woody, get it?” Some of the braver male guests threw off their tuxedo jackets and attempted to scramble up the hill to intervene but quickly backed off when they were hit with dirt clods and spit.

The warriors continued their assault until two deputy sheriffs arrived. The officers moved through the wedding party to the edge of the hill. Emboldened by the sight of the law, the boys defied all demands that they surrender and put down their weapons. The officers climbed the hill and approached, commanding that the boys put their hands on their heads. Michael picked up a large branch and cracked the cop over the arm.

From the bottom of the hill, the wedding party, agency administrators and a half a dozen counselors watched the gentle orange mist of pepper spray rise above Michael’s head after it slammed into his face. The cop held the screaming and gagging Michael with his
billie-club over his neck.

Francis saw this, interlocked his fingers on top of his head and calmly turned to the other officer, “You mean like this?”

I’m driving to Juvenile Hall today. Not the nice one up the road from us, the one they call “the Country Club.”  Not the suburban Juvenile Hall where, if you’re lucky enough to be there during Halloween, they let you trick or treat from cell to cell. Not the nice Juvenile Hall.
I’m driving to the nasty, thug-ridden decrepit Juvenile Hall, the one called “Metro”. The undesirable Juvenile Hall. I’m driving to pick up J’Michael.

I’m driving three jurisdictions away because one of our star residents was upset over a perceived slight during his birthday party, snuck out in the middle of a rainy night and hasn’t been heard from for the last three days. That is until now.

For most of these guys, birthdays and holidays are the worst times of the year. They remind the boys just how unreliable and unstable their families really are, constantly letting the kids down with empty promises of lavish gifts, parties and better days. Every year the kid struggles to resolve the tension between these promises and the reality of their family situation.

J’Michael’s 13th birthday was a great chance for his special counselor, Toby to work on their relationship. If Toby could come through with a good party and gifts, he could take a step closer to earning J’Michael’s trust, getting J’Michael to open up more to Toby, clearing the way for good communication.

See, in addition to being sexualized at a very early age, J’Michael is also a notorious kleptomaniac. For months now he has been getting caught with other kids’ toys, books, toothbrushes, Gameboys, socks, food, the TV remote control, silverware – just about anything that can’t be bolted down has been discovered either in J’Michael’s room or stuffed in his clothes. He says he takes this stuff just because he can. I guess when you’ve never had anything, you steal stuff to what it feels like to own it, to control it. He says that even when he gets caught, which is often, it’s still worth it.

So for this last week, Toby has been making preparations for the party. J’Michael has been making his desires very clear: Gameboy Advanced. Mind you, Gameboys and their game cartridges are like currency here, much like cigarettes are used for bartering in prison. We make the rules very clear to the boys: No Lending or Borrowing. If someone lends you something, that means they expect something in return, and you won’t always think that “something” is nice. The things you can get when you barter in the Group Home depends on who you are. The fat kid barters for food. The sexualized kid barters for favors. Other items up for trade at any given time include hair gel, shoelaces, batteries, and candy.

When the big party finally came, we were all there. Counselors, therapists, program supervisors, and administrators. We all showed up for this kid’s birthday party to help prop up the illusion that he has some semblance of a family. We were trying to create a sense of normalcy.

With balloons all a-flutter and the table decorated with our best, used Spiderman swag, J’Michael opened up what we all assumed would be a new Gameboy Advanced. When he opened it up, however, he discovered merely a brand new Gameboy Color. (Toby told me later that he didn’t know there was a difference and frankly didn’t care). There was an audible gasp from everyone in the room. With this act of discovery, all of our illusions faded. Gone was the illusion of family. Gone was the illusion that Toby and J’Michael would become good buddies. Gone was J’Michael’s illusion that he was going to get to barter for sex.
“What the fuck is this?” he demanded. “I told this dumb-ass niggerachi that I wanted a fuckin’ Gameboy Advanced, goddamit!”

It was clear that Toby really had his work cut out for him now. Later that night, J’Michael put on his black sweatsuit and slipped out into the pouring rain, in pursuit, no doubt, of his very own Gameboy Advanced.

The next two days were filled with the usual Sheriff’s Runaway Report, a call to his family to see if he wound up there and even a search of the local community. This last bit culminated in a 2-hour search of Starbuck’s over a couple of mochas and a newspaper.

Finally we got a call from “Metro”. They had our boy and they told us that he was caught red-handed shoplifting from the downtown Toys R Us. There was no doubt in my mind what it was he was trying to steal. When I finally arrived at “Metro,” I asked him about the Gameboy. He was filthy and looked like a wet, stray dog.

“Taking the Gameboy wasn’t no problem,” he said. “It was when I got outside that I seen it didn’t have no batteries was the problem. So I went back inside and they caught me stealing the batteries.”

J’Michael was tired, dirty and sullen. The ride back was quiet except for my occasional chuckle at J’Michael’s explanation.

When we got back to the group home, I told J’Michael to take a shower. He argued, “I don’t need to. I just took one on Monday.”
“That was three days ago and you stink,” I said. Get in.”

It was then that I discovered his real prize. He had stuffed a bright yellow Juvenile Hall jumpsuit into his pants and gotten away with it.
Imagine the infinite bartering possibilities with a trophy like that!

Hank is another cube-headed kid. Originally from Guatemala, he looks as if he has had his head put in a vice to flatten out each of it sides. He is short, stocky and speaks with an unnaturally deep voice. He sounds just like one of those Budweiser frogs who croak, “Bud.”

During the middle of the morning shift, the team was working on getting the house clean when we got a phone call from the school. One of the counselors was calling to inform us that Hank had been caught eating his teacher’s lunch. During the discovery, Hank decided to throw a tantrum and now had to come up to the house for a “cool-off.” The team consisted of Bill, the ultra-mellow deadhead, Toby, the milataristic neat-freak, Rachel, the big-boobed and lazy college student we all hate to work with, and me.

Toby, latex-gloved, as always, was in the laundry room washing some kids’ clothes. He called out, “Stokie, you should go get him. If he gives you any trouble, tell him he’ll have hell to pay when he sees me.”

“Gee, thanks, Toby,” I said. “You go ahead and hone in on those laundry cleaning skills. Don’t worry about learning how to talk to the kids. We’ll be fine.”

I drove down to the school and picked up Hank who was waiting in the counselor’s office. Our drive up to the house was uneventful and Hank seemed pretty calm. I did notice that he had some remnants of what looked like a tuna sandwich stuck in his notoriously disgusting, yellow and unbrushed teeth. We parked and walked into the house.

Immediately upon entering, Hank grabbed an orange from the fruit basket on the kitchen counter and threw it across the room at the opposite wall. It left a huge splat as it exploded on the wall.

Rachel was the first to speak to Hank. “Hank, what are you doing? Can you calm down? What’s going on with you?”

“Yugoddagap!” Hank shouted, pointing at Rachel. He reached into the fruit basket and chucked another orange which left a similar splat on a different wall, “Yugoddagap!”

Toby stormed out of the laundry room and yelled, “Hank, you better calm your ass down before you get dipped!” Toby, in fact all of us, had begun calling getting put in a prone-restraint on the floor “getting dipped” ever since Toby dipped Rasmus in his own urine. “Now what the hell are you saying?”

Hank had stopped throwing the fruit for the moment and was laughing at Rachel. His manner of laughing was wheezing “hhheh, hhheh, hhheh” in that breathless squeak you get when you run out of air. He peeled back his lips to reveal his yellowed and tuna splattered teeth. He had two thin lines of spittle connecting his lips. “Yugoddagap! Yugoddagap! Hhheh, hhheh, hhheh.” He was pointing at Rachel’s crotch. He threw another orange.

Bill, Toby and I all turned to look to see what it was that Hank was pointing at. All at once, we realized the target of his ire. Rachel’s jeans were hiked up high enough to give her a most obvious camel-toe. Toby began laughing hard and walked back to the laundry room. “You got that one, Rachel? Go ahead, help him calm down.”

Bill attempted to calm Hank down. “So she’s got a gap, Hank, no use in getting upset about it. Let’s just move on.”

Hank reached into the fruit basket once again, but this time he pulled out two bananas and held them together in front of his crotch. “Your shit look like this!” he croaked. “Yugoddagap! Hhhheh, hhheh, hhheh.” I could hear Toby screaming with laughter in the
laundry room.

In the instant that I saw Rachel’s split labia through her pants and recognized how upset Hank was getting, all I could think of was, “Why? Why me? Why do these crazy things always have to happen on my shifts? What do you tell a kid about camel-toes when you can’t understand them yourself? How could this woman put on a pair of pants, yank the seam way up her vagina and go to work like it is a normal thing? It can’t be comfortable, can it? Is it an accident or does she like the feeling of it? Is it so hard to find a pair of pants that fit you without de-flowering yourself?” I stared in disbelief.

Rachel said, “Hank! That’s not nice! I don’t have a gap! Stop pointing at me!”

“Yugodda great big puthy! Look!” he was looking at Bill and me now – “Look, shegodda great big puthy. She showin’ it to everyone today. She wanna fuck somebody. Hhhehh!”

Toby called out from the laundry room, “Is that right Rachel? Is that what’s going on?”

I could see that Rachel was about to cry. I said, “Hank, yugodda get to your room right now. Either go there or to the bathroom and go handle your business. But there’s nothing to do out here except get in trouble.” I started shepherding him to his room.

“Okay, dude,” he said. “But that bitch wanna fuck somebody today. I can tell. She goddagap.”

“Alright, Hank. Let the staff take care of it. You just calm down.”

As I walked back out to the kitchen, I overheard Bill talking to Rachel. “So we were all talking about your vagina, no sense in getting upset over it. If we just all move on, we’ll all feel better about it.” Toby was pounding the washer in hysterics. I walked over
to him.

“Toby, who’s stuff is in the dryer?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s fat-ass Rusty’s stuff. It’s just about done.”

“Lemme see that,” I said, and opened the dryer. “Here we go.” I pulled out Rusty’s pair of faded green sweatpants and walked over to Rachel. “Here. Put these on. They’re baggy, so you won’t be disturbing the kids when you come to work. They should fit you just
about right.”

She protested. “Hell no, Stokie. I’m not wearing Rusty’s shit covered sweats.”

I shrugged. “Well it’s either that or walk around with your gap hanging out in front of 10 disturbed boys. Your choice.”

She took the sweats and put them on over her jeans, without another word. Toby was now on the floor of the laundry room, tears streaming down. Nothing else was ever said of this incident.

That was about a year ago. So now whenever a new staff comes in and notices the huge splats which are permenantly implanted into the walls, they invariably ask, “What happened there?”

There is only one response. In my deepest baritone voice, I say, “Yugoddagap!”