A.F. Brady - The Blind

Gary slumps farther down in his chair and disengages from the discussion. Julie, the bubbly princess, pipes up that she is fearful for her safety, and she worries that she’s too physically weak and defenseless to effectively treat someone who intimidates her. Other female staff members coo in agreement. Julie has wormed her way out of taking anyone else onto her caseload for weeks.

“Why was he in jail?” Shirley.

“I honestly don’t know.” Rachel. “As I said, I have access to the same records as you, and I don’t have that information.”

“But isn’t that weird? Shouldn’t we know?” Julie.

“What difference does it make?” Me. “If he were in jail for racketeering or armed robbery or whatever. It doesn’t make a difference. It could be drugs. It could be the third offense for something small, and with the ‘three strikes, you’re out’ law, he could have been in jail forever. It’s not a sex offense, because he isn’t registered—I looked it up. It really shouldn’t matter what he was in jail for. But it’s important to know that he was in jail. His perspective is obviously altered, and he has probably been subjected to some pretty horrific stuff in there.” As I say all of this, it occurs to me that I am completely uncomfortable with not knowing why he was in prison for so long.

“I heard he doesn’t talk, at all , and that he is very aggressive. He refuses to follow protocol, he doesn’t get along with other patients, he doesn’t do paperwork.” Shirley.

“Well, I think it’s clear that he’s not cooperative with doing paperwork, but beyond that, I am going to ask everyone to chalk this all up to speculation and the tendency to fill in blanks with drama when we don’t have sufficient information. The fact of the matter is he is here, and he is going to be working with us.” Rachel is no longer looking at anyone and getting ready to drop the bomb. She’s stalling. Everyone starts to shift uncomfortably.

“Sam—” she looks up and tightly smiles in my direction “—and Gary.” He slumps back into his chair, defeated. “I’m going to put Richard with you, Gary, and Sam will be your backup. You can learn a lot from this patient, and I think you’re up for the challenge. And, Sam, you have the best success rate with difficult patients, and you’re a ranking member of the clinical staff. I prefer to start Richard with a male counselor and see how that goes. We will all be here for extra support should you need it, but I’m sure you’ll be able to handle this.”

Shirley and Julie give each other exaggerated looks of relief, and everyone breathes a sigh. David gives me a conciliatory squeeze on my shoulder. Gary huffs up to Rachel and lolls his head to the side as she hands him a copy of Richard’s intake materials. He says nothing, and instead looks to me with wide eyes and an impatient bend in his leg.

“No problem, Rachel. I’m on it.” I gather my papers and coffee, and as we all bleed into the hallway, Rachel hands me my own copy of Richard’s file.

Gary assures me that he has no problem taking Richard’s case, and I will not need to participate in his supervision. Gary is an idiot.

“Well, that’s all well and good, Gary, but I’d like you to come to my office so we can discuss a plan of action. Not because I don’t believe you can manage this, just because I want to stay in the loop if I’m going to be your backup.”

“I really don’t have time right now, and I’d like to get an initial meeting with this guy done today.” He stands at the door to the conference room with his whole body and one outstretched finger pointed toward his office.

“Come on. It’ll only take ten minutes.” He expels a giant, frustrated moan and follows me down the hallway to my door. “Sit down,” I say, waving my hand at my patient chair. He flops down dramatically and lets his Gatorade slosh onto the carpet in front of him.

“I’m going to find him on the unit and bring him to my office for a meeting this morning. I’m going to talk to him like a man, and I’m going to treat him like he’s not scary and no big deal. I’m sure all this crap about him being scary is just because he was incarcerated and prisoners scare people. Well, not me; I’m not scared.” He rubs his Gatorade spill further into my carpet with his shoe.

“This is the extent of your plan? You’re going to talk to him like a man?” I’m not even bothering to write this down.

“Yeah. It’s not rocket science, Sam. He’s a patient and I’m a counselor. So, he has to answer me. I don’t see why everyone had so much trouble before.”

I shake my fragile, hungover head to try to clear the stupidity of Gary’s response. “Can you please give me something a little bit more specific? How do you plan on getting through to him when clearly no one has been able to until now?”

“Like I said, by talking to him like a man.” He slowly enunciates the last three words.

“What does ‘like a man’ mean?” I hover my pen over my notebook and avert my eyes. I can’t look at him for fear of his response.

“You wouldn’t understand because you’re not a man.” He stands up to leave my office and pats me condescendingly on the shoulder as he leans down to add, “I’ll make another meeting with you after I’ve gotten some answers out of him, okay?” And he’s out the door.

I have been avoiding garbage day for about a week now, and the recycling bin is overflowing. There isn’t much space under the sink in my kitchen, and since I drink more than I cook, I have the big recycling bin between the front door and the fridge. It looks more like a hamper.

The blue see-through bag has been pulled under with the weight of the bottles, and I need to yank it up by the red strings to get it out of the can. The clattering sound it makes is absolutely insufferable. There is a leak at the bottom, and the putrid stench of week-old wine and booze, mixed with the acidic smell of the Tropicana bottle from this morning’s screwdrivers, is making me gag. There’s a reason I always put this chore off until the last possible minute.

The noise the bottles make as I pull it along the carpeted hallway is not as bad as it would be if I were to pick it up and haul it over my shoulder, Santa Claus–style. I will have to carry it that way when I walk down the old marble steps to the basement.

I push open the refuse-room door, and I see skittering bugs as I turn on the lights. They’ve come inside to hunker down for the winter, and this room is a veritable buffet of gnarly shit for them to feast on. I flip over my huge sack of booze bottles into an awaiting plastic can, and it sounds like several of them smash. I feel the ooze that has spilled down the back of my pajama pants, and I try to dry it off with a rag that was hanging on a hook by the door.

I get back up to my apartment and clean up the smears on the floor. I put the two forgotten bottles of beer into a fresh blue recycling bag and line the can with it. I have two bottles of scotch on my bookcase shelf that I never finish. There’s always at least four fingers left in each bottle so if I have company, it looks classy and sophisticated. I usually have a bottle or two of wine in the fridge, too. Not because I’m saving it, but because I buy in bulk.

Gary is loitering in front of my office door as I return from running a women’s group.

“Hey, Gary. Did you need something?” I can see the desperation in his eyes, and I know what he came here to discuss with me.

“Yeah, I need to talk to you. Do you have a minute?”

“I sure do, come on in.”

Gary slumps low in my patient chair and rakes his sweaty fingers through his hair. “This is making me crazy. I can’t get a word out of this guy, and I’ve had meetings with him every day since Friday.”