In My Dreams the Walls Tremble

The light outside the bedroom window was too faint for my liking when the loud banging outside the house awakened me. I didn’t even have to look up at the digital clock on top of the filing cabinet—where we locked all the kid’s meds—to know it wasn’t 8 AM, the time I usually awoke on my overnight shifts.

“Man, what the fuck is that?” I heard outside in the hallway, a voice from one of the bedrooms.

After a groan, I tossed off my blanket from the futon. It was time to diffuse a potential situation. With a jolt, I sat up and reached underneath for my sandals. The rhythmic clanging was now accompanied by a nasally la-la-la-ing. It was undoubtedly C.J.

The clangs and chanting that could unsettle the strongest bowels rang through the hallway as I made my way towards them. In the backyard, standing in his matching flowery-lavender pajamas was C.J., his red & blue dreadlocks flailing as he struck the garbage and recycling bins with sticks he had procured from the yard.

“What are you doing that for?” I asked in a hoarse, groggy voice as I stepped out onto the wooden patio, my eyes squinting from the early morning sun. My question had been carefully considered. Initially, I was inclined to ask—rather say, “What are you doing,” but I knew he’d tear into me by responding in his whiny, nasal voice, “What does it look like I’m doing!” or, if he was pissy, which was usually the case, “What the fuck does it look like I’m doing!”

“Just makin’ a trash can orchestra,” he replied.

That is how my dreary Saturday morning began.

The rest of my overnight shift was a yawn—literally. I had slept about four hours. The night before, I had a tough time falling asleep after I talked to Anthony, one of the other juveniles at our group home. He had opened up to me for the first time and talked about seeing his mom get beat up by his meth-dealing stepdad when he was a kid, things I’d read about in his case history. I made the mistake of playing those scenes in my head, his words, gestures, bringing them to life. Later, I exerted my all-powerful authority as puny residential counselor/foster guardian of the State by threatening C.J. into swallowing his medication in my presence (the night before, I had given him his meds, trusting him to take them, but he didn’t, which led to his inspired early morning ruckus). I told him that if he didn’t, I would have no choice but to take his weekend privileges, such as going to shop for glittery things on Haight Street with a counselor. He pouted by storming to the living room for the rest of the morning, listening to Mariah Carey through his blaring headphones, scowling at me whenever I walked by. Mid-morning, I joked about the positive societal impact of frozen waffles with Valerie, one of the other group home residents, while distributing her Depakote, Valium, and birth control from her handy blue medication container that broke up her doses by day. After helping tall, gawky Joshua prepare breakfast for the household (rather, making the scrambled eggs and blueberry pancakes while he watched and yacked and yacked in an overly promising tone about finding a job, like he had since he came to the house, weeks before), I mowed the backyard lawn, my ears and eyes periodically turning from time to time to the house, ever mindful of any shouts, crashing sounds, or sign of trouble from the kiddos.

Meghan, the counselor who was relieving me, arrived at noon. Before leaving, I typed up my clinical, non-emotive shift report and gave her the lowdown on what happened the night before—and on what the kids’ plans were for the rest of the day.

When I descended the steps of the olive-green Victorian, the paint on its front façade peeling everywhere like a lizard in shedding, the bleak sky and light mist came over me. I gave a yawn that seemed to pull my chin to the ground as I walked towards Haight Street. When I got to the first bus stop, my eyelids felt further pulled to the grimy, spit-ridden pavement when I saw that the next bus was coming in 14 minutes. I had just missed it.

Rather than continue to wilt at the stop, I trudged along to see if continued motion—even if zombielike in cognizance—could lift the numb exhaustion I felt. When I came up to Amoeba Records, I looked into the store to avert my eyes from the supposedly homeless person, standing by the entrance, asking people for change. I continued on, past the scent of urine and popcorn wafting around the Red Vic Movie House. I merged into the waves of bubblegum-popping scenesters and tight-pant wearing hipsters who still wore their uniform large glasses on a gloomy day as they walked in and out of restaurants and shops, bags dangling in hand.

A few blocks down, I saw Cody, sitting against a storefront, a thin, tattered pant leg stretched out on the sidewalk. He used to be a resident at our group home when I first started, a year before. He was “emancipated” once he turned eighteen—a legal adult. Now he was on the street, his blonde hair disheveled and tangly, probably not washed in days, his eyes drooping, glazy, mouth hanging open as if from atrophy. Cody was strung out—not conscious to those who stepped around him—a jar with nickels and pennies beside him.

To be continued…