Tom Schreck - On the Ropes

I fed Al and took him for a walk down Route 9R. He needed the walk, and I needed to unwind a bit. I took a Schlitz along with me, though I was going to need a lot more than one to settle down. Al was happy to be out and got busy sniffing every foot of land we covered on our walk, stopping to give extra attention to any vertical object stuck into the ground.

I didn’t feel completely okay with what had just happened. I was okay with the first three punches because he had them coming for a couple of reasons. One reason was the abuse he’d been giving Sherrie and another reason was I had to hit him to subdue him, so he could be arrested. The last reason had more to do with street shit. I didn’t like him mocking my ability to fight and spreading his nose all over his face was something he was asking for by disrespecting me. Different jungles have different rules and he violated one of his own jungle’s rules. If you’re going to sell wolf tickets you have to be prepared for someone to cash one in once in a while.

Smashing his head into the bumper was an act of rage. I didn’t have to do it to protect myself or to make sure the cops would get him or even to make the point that he shouldn’t hit a young girl like Sherrie. It left him unconscious and maybe seriously hurt, and that was more than the situation called for. Maybe it was the bourbon, maybe it was Sherrie, or maybe I was getting my shit off from my own frustration. It didn’t feel completely right.

It probably is inconsistent with good social work practice as well, but I cared less about that. If I had followed protocol, Sherrie would have taken another beating and a lot of other useless bullshit would’ve gone on, not to help anyone, but to cover a lot of administrative ass. Of course, smashing someone’s head into a bumper probably isn’t the most acceptable therapeutic intervention for couples that aren’t getting along.

It also wasn’t fair to Kelley, who had to go clean up the situation. Clearly, he would have to face questions about how he knew about the situation and how he got tipped off. Kelley could finesse his way around all of that, but that wasn’t the point. He shouldn’t have to do that because his social-work friend wanted to play Robin Hood. I owed Kelley more than a drink.

Al finished sniffing and leaving his own biological calling card along Route 9R, and we headed to the Moody Blue. It wasn’t until that point that I realized my right hand had swollen up. Later, when I washed my hands I noticed I had scraped the skin on my first two knuckles. They were so covered in Calabreso’s blood that I just figured the blood wasn’t mine. I drank another Schlitz and sprayed as much lemon-scented deodorizer around the trailer as I could. Despite the fact that I just made my living space smell like lemony dog shit, I fell asleep hard with Al next to me.

The next day Sam greeted me before I even made it to my cubicle.

“Hey Duff,” he said. “Didya hear about the Polack who wore a condom on each ear?”

“Mornin’, Sam.”

“He didn’t want to get hearing aids.”

Sam moved on, and I sat at my desk to go through my mail, e-mail, and interoffice stuff. Monique poked her head into my cubicle on her way back from getting coffee.

“Did you read the paper this morning?” she said.

“Nah.”

“Sherrie’s boyfriend was busted on stolen merchandise, but not before he took a pretty good beating.”

“No shit?” I said.

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, huh?”

“Ain’t that the truth.” I tried not to give it my full concentration.

“When are you seeing her again?” Monique asked. “It will be interesting to see how she handles it.”

“I’m supposed to see her this afternoon.”

“Sometimes women in abusive relationships have bizarre reactions to this sort of thing.”

Monique knew a lot about the dynamics of abuse. I wasn’t 100 percent sure, but I believe she had some personal experience with it. I knew she tended to get most of the clients with that kind of background on her caseload. She was comfortable with their issues, and I don’t think she got drunk and drove around town looking to beat up their boyfriends.

I got the office paper and went through the local section. On the second page there was a story about Calabreso’s arrest.

Off-Duty Cop Comes Across Stolen Merchandise

Off-duty Crawford Police Officer Michael Kelley came across a suspicious vehicle last night and made an arrest for stolen property estimated at over $20,000. Charged with possession of stolen property was 24-year-old Michael Calabreso. Calabreso is likely to face additional charges. It appeared as if a deal for the stolen property had gone wrong as Calabreso had been found unconscious and taped to his own steering wheel.

“The alert actions of Officer Kelley have resulted in the recovery of stolen property and the apprehension of one of the city’s kingpins in contraband and stolen merchandise,” said Crawford’s Police department spokesperson, Randy Weiser.

Calabreso is recovering and is listed in stable condition at Good Samaritan Hospital.

That was a relief. I was glad Calabreso wasn’t going to be crippled or brain dead. I was also relieved to read that it didn’t look like Kelley was going to be in any trouble. The fact that he was being made out as a hero wouldn’t please him, and he’d still be plenty pissed, but at least he wasn’t facing any problems on the job.

I headed to the medical center to see Eli and Mikey and to talk to Rudy. The Michelin Woman wouldn’t approve, but I could say I was doing a session within the hospital or I was providing support or some shit. In reality, I wanted to get a handle on what to expect in terms of a prognosis for each of the guys and visit with them. Neither of them had any family and the people they hung out with were the type of friends whose lives centered around drugs and tricking. Those peer groups had a silent code that when you’re gone-gone being in jail, in the hospital, or dead-you’re gone. Taking into consideration the dangers of that type of lifestyle, it was a necessary mindset.

I got Mikey’s and Eli’s room numbers and they were both on the seventh floor, which I figured was the cancer floor. Like most people, I felt squirrelly in hospitals, but I tried not to let it get to me. Mikey’s room was all the way at the end of the wing, and when I got there, the door was closed. There was a warning on the door.

WARNING! No visitors-Radioactive treatment in process.

I definitely needed to talk to Rudy.

I checked the number for Eli’s room and it was right across the hall from Mikey’s. It had the same sign.

I skipped the elevator and ran down the steps to Rudy’s office. As always, he was sweating in front of his monitor and he had jelly-donut stains on the front of his lab coat.

“Rude-what the fuck is up with this radioactive shit?”

“What happened to ‘Good morning’?” He didn’t look at me and kept typing. “Hang on, just a second.”

He finished up typing with his two fat index fingers and looked up.

“That’s how you treat cancer aggressively. They’re being treated with something called cesium. It’s very powerful,” Rudy said.

“How come no visitors?” I asked.

“This shit is no joke-if you’re around someone who’s radioactive, you can be exposed to harmful levels.”

“So they’re in there alone?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Of course they get their cheery visits from Dr. DAT and a few of his international med students,” Rudy said.

“Gee whiz, now I feel a whole lot better.”

“Yeah, I know, they’re all kind of a Hindu candy striper detail.”

I was back to the office around lunchtime. It seemed bizarre to me that two guys would get beat up in the same park at roughly the same time, require pretty similar medical treatment, and then both be diagnosed with advanced cancer even though they hadn’t complained about anything before. I never quite made it to medical school but, just the same, my instincts told me something wasn’t the way it should be.