Tom Schreck: On the Ropes

“It’s because the farmers need the sunlight,” said Jerry Number One.

“Tell me one thing,” said Rocco. “How the hell does turning the clocks back give them more sunlight?”

“It’s simple,” said Jerry Number One. “It’s because they get sunlight earlier in the day instead of having to wait.”

“Why don’t they just get up earlier?” asked Jerry Number Two.

“They do,” said TC.

As fascinated as I was with the topic, I decided to get going and headed out the front door toward the Eldorado. From the front of AJ’s, I could see Al sitting up on the passenger seat happily chewing on one of my eight-tracks. It was the soundtrack to Paradise, Hawaiian Style, which was going to be hard to replace.

“Hey Duff-how can you tell when a Polack’s been using your computer?” Sam said. I did my best to ignore him.

“There’s Wite-Out all over your screen!” Sam laughed.

“Mornin’ Sam,” I said.

I was trying to catch up on my notes, which was mostly the equivalent to dabbling in fiction. Notes are supposed to be written in D-A-P format, which stands for Data, Assessment, and Plan. The idea is to make each session with a client sound strategic and planned so that if a third party, like an insurance company, picked up your files they could understand the direction your client’s life was going. Unfortunately, the lives of most people, let alone the people who find themselves in need of our services, rarely work out in neat, organized ways.

Take, for example, the session I did with Eli when he came back to treatment following the unfortunate Slurpee machine/public nudity incident. In our session behind closed doors, this is actually how it went:

Eli: “I was so trashed that the towel-headed woman looked like Diana Ross to me. Somehow I convinced myself that Mr. Endou was Barry Gordy and I know Mr. Motown gotta be into some kink.”

Me: “But Eli-they don’t look even slightly black, they work in a Mobil station, and she had on one of those Pakistani outfits. Besides all that, they said ‘no.’”

Eli: “To me it was just one of Diana’s funky outfits and I thought she was playing hard to get.”

Me: “Whatever, Eli-it’s pretty clear you ought to lay off the Olde English.”

Eli: “Fuck yeah-nothin’ but fuckin’ trouble.”

In my notes, that session appears:

D: Client discussed self-defeating behavior patterns related to alcohol use involving poor relationship boundaries.

A: Client struggles with personal relationships and uses alcohol to facilitate social interactions.

P: Client to identify alternative means of making social contact without alcohol.

Notes like this make it seem like Eli is chock full of insight and I am the ultimate conduit to him seeking enlightenment. It’s not easy being a professional in the business of saving lives.

I had seventy-five records with a ton of these notes, a few treatment plans, and treatment plan updates to do. It was boring and, as far as I was concerned, it didn’t really serve a whole lot of purpose, except for the anal retentive of the world. Unfortunately, my boss was captain of the all-anal all-star team. My guess was the Michelin Woman’s sphincter was so tight it would be easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it would be for a raisin to pass through the entire length of her digestive tract. My apologies to the biblical scholars of the world; I sure wish I didn’t think in such visual terms.

With the crazy phone call I got last night, I thought it would be a good idea to call and set up a session with Walanda in jail. The red tape that you had to go through to set up an in-jail appointment was a nightmare, and it would take two days to get an approved time. I called to get the ball rolling and was told Thursday afternoon about two p.m. would work. There was no point in trying to call her-I wouldn’t reach her, but if I did and she accepted, that would take up one of her two weekly phone calls. I had learned over the years that it was proper jailhouse etiquette to let the inmates call you, and even though Walanda had left a message for me, I should still wait for her to call me again. On Thursday I’d see her and it wouldn’t count against her phone calls.

I got through five or six records and I just couldn’t do it anymore. I know that’s what gets me in trouble, but I can’t bring myself to do shit that doesn’t matter. The threat of getting in trouble will only motivate me so much and fortunately, I had afternoon sessions. I’d rather spend time talking to the clients than writing about them.

One o’clock was Martha Stewart-not the one you’re thinking of. This Martha Stewart was a stack of flapjacks over three hundred pounds and had a history of (surprise!) compulsive behavior. The compulsive behavior included not only eating, but also obsessive sexual activity. In fact, I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone who had more sex with more people than Martha. Her issue, she told me, is that she just never felt fulfilled. She kept a running classified in the adult section of MetroCrawford, the local alternative magazine, letting the folks who were so inclined know that she was a BBW searching for fulfillment. Apparently, there was no shortage of men willing to lend a big, beautiful woman a hand when it came to her pursuit of fulfillment.

At two p.m., I had a session with Clogger McGraw. Clogger got his nickname from an unfortunate bathroom incident at a crowded party. Suffice it to say, Clogger conspicuously interrupted the natural flow of things at this gigantic house bash and was forever stuck with this incredibly visual moniker. Clog at one time was a talented navy pilot who spent his days landing F-something-or-others on aircraft carriers. Unfortunately, this activity was the most fun for the Clogman when he was stoned out of his mind. Amazingly, Clogger made it out of the service with an honorable discharge. The real trouble began when he flew his single engine plane upside down under a Thruway overpass.

Never a detail man, Clogger did it a quarter of a mile from a state police barracks. After the stunt, he noticed he was dangerously low on fuel and landed the plane in the right-hand lane of I-87, just south of the New Paltz exit. Clogs still had a joint going when a trooper pulled his plane over, and they got off on the wrong foot when Clogger refused to turn down the Dead on his custom plane stereo. When the trooper tried to give him a Breathalyzer, Clogger took an exaggerated inhalation on it and thanked the officer for the bong hit. He was laughing so hard when the trooper handcuffed him that he strained an abdominal muscle.

Clogger was a trip, but he rarely showed up for sessions. He recently got his wings back on a provisional basis and he was making his money flying a plane that pulled a message behind it. Most recently he was advertising a car dealership by flying the plane past Yankee Stadium during their big weekend home stands. The Clogmeister had even developed his own following. After a few games of making the pass in his little single engine, he got bored, and boredom often led to trouble for Clog. In this case, it seemed to be harmless or at least mostly harmless.

Instead of just flying by with the sign, Clogger started to do a series of acrobatic rolls through the sky. He planned it so it would occur at the end of the bottom of the fifth inning. It got to be a favorite with the crowd and Steinbrenner, ever the businessman, even got an exemption for Clogger to fly closer to the stadium. Pretty soon after that, the Yankee radio announcers also got into the act. Now, at the end of the fifth, they went to a commercial late so John Sterling, the announcer famous for saying, “Yankees win, thhhhhhhhhhhe Yankees win!” at the end of games could announce Clogger. He would announce Clog’s arrival and then after Clog did his roll, Sterling would say, “Clogger cannnnnnns it!” It got so popular that Steinbrenner had Sterling do it over the PA, in addition to the live radio broadcast. It was pure Clogger. Being a big Yankees fan myself, I had always wanted to see the Stadium from Clogger’s view and the Clogster agreed to let me be his copilot someday. I made him promise to stay off the Thruway on the way home.