The Loony Bin Blues

Chapter 2 It was a perfect spring morning, and Andrew Boone had taken the top and doors off his new Jeep Wrangler to soak up the sun. As he followed Riverside Drive’s winding path and watched the sun sparkle on the James River he wondered how his parents had ever convinced him to trade the life of a fishing guide for the life of an urban wage slave. He’d left their Rappahannock County farm, picked up a bachelor’s in social work from Virginia Commonwealth University and joined the rat race. The Boone family had a college graduate, but the grad had a nagging suspicion that he was supposed to be knee-deep in the Upper James, trolling for smallmouth bass. His cubicle at Child Protective Services seemed like a tiny prison, so he spent most of his time in the field, which he defined as anyplace but his office. This morning he was meeting with a young man in a treatment center and giving him some bad news. He put on his blinker, turned in the hospital's gated entrance and explained his business to the security guard. A few minutes later he was sitting in a conference room, facing a 16-year-old named Russell Moss. “Call me Andrew," he tried to put him at ease. "I’m not big on the mister stuff. I’m from Child Protective Services. Do you know what that is?” "Bodyguards for rich kids?” Russell took a stab at it. He laughed. “I wish. We investigate abuse and neglect. When we find young people in those situations we try to help them out.” He watched the young man’s expression morph from mild wariness to full-fledged suspicion. “What’s this got to do with me?” “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” “I was selling weed at school," he said with a shrug. "The cops brought in a drug dog named Officer Sniffy and he found four baggies in my locker. They gave me a lawyer and she told me to plead to possession and agree to come here. I go back to court in two weeks. They're supposed to give me probation and send me home.” Andrew studied his client. There wasn’t any good way to convey what he had to tell him. “Russell, you’re not going home when you leave here.” The young man looked stunned. “What do you mean?” “Judge Murphy asked CPS to investigate your home situation." “What’s to investigate? We live in a crappy place. My mom’s a drunk and a pothead. So what? It’s not classified information.” “And you were helping yourself to her stash and recycling it at school to cover the rent?” “Yeah. I don’t even use the shit myself.” “I believe you. I’ve heard the same story from your teachers and your school counselor. They think pretty highly of you. They showed me some of the pictures you took for the school paper and the yearbook. The judge understands your situation and he doesn’t have any problem giving you probation, but he’s not going to let you serve it under the supervision of a parent with a substance abuse problem. He wants us to place you in foster care until your eighteenth birthday.” “Eighteen! That’s a year-and-a-half from now!” “You’ll have a hearing in two weeks. They’ll give your mother a lawyer and she’ll have a chance to explain her side of things.” “Yeah, like she’ll really win that one.” “She probably won’t. That means we’ve got two weeks to find you a new home. We can go over your options now, or I can give you some time to get used to the idea and come back tomorrow.” “I’ll never touch weed again,” he bargained. “I’ll get a job. I’ll flip burgers at Mickey D’s. I’ll go to church and sing in the choir. Whatever it takes. I don't want to go to some foster home. Don't screw my life up like this.” “What about school?" Andrew asked him. "Richmond expelled you for a year. If you’re living in another district you can go back in September. Doesn’t that make more sense than sitting out your senior year?” “I don’t want to graduate from some place I've never been. You’re punishing me for my mom’s problems.” Andrew was tempted to remind him that his mother wasn’t the one who’d been selling drugs to minors, but he let it slide. “Listen, Russell, I know it’s probably hard for you to believe, but we’re trying to help you. You’ve got a rough situation and you deserve better.” “If you really want to help me, leave me alone.” “Unfortunately that’s not an option.” “If you put me in a foster care I won’t stay there.” “You can’t go home and you’ve got to live somewhere," he gave him the bottom line. "I’ll let you get used to the idea and I’ll come back in the morning and we’ll talk about it. You like to fish?” “No.” “I’ll get permission to take you out. We’ll go down to the Pony Pasture, throw our lines in the water and try to figure out the next eighteen months of your life.” “Who put you in charge of my life?” He stood up, shoved his chair and stomped angrily out of the room. Soon Andrew was back in his Jeep, retracing the path of the James River and thinking about his job. The abuse and neglect cases he investigated were usually pretty clear-cut, but this one bothered him. He’d met the boy’s mother. Grace Moss was a hopeless addict, but harmless. There was a live-and-let-live part of him that wanted to leave this young man to his own devices. It was the same part of him that was still knee-deep in the Upper James, trolling for smallmouth bass. Dr. Garcia looked up from his patient’s file. “Creez?” “That’s Chris,” the patient corrected him. “You are feeling better, Creez?” “No, I’m feeling shitty.” “Sheety?” “Yeah, sheety. I’m supposed to go home tomorrow. I’m not ready. I think I need another week or two.” He glanced at the diploma on the wall. “Universidad de Correspondencia? Is that a big school?” “Si. Berry beeg.” “What part of Mexico are you from?” “I am being from Chihuahua.” “I thought a Chihuahua was a dog.” “Si.” Now that he’d established rapport with his patient, Dr. Garcia was ready to get down to business. “The peels are being good for you, no?” “The what?” “The Buspar. You are not…” The doctor hesitated. He pulled out a pocket dictionary and paged through it until he found what he wanted. “Sad, gloomy?” “I was never sad, gloomy. I was pissed.” “Peezed?” The name on the file caught Chris’s eye. “Are you sure you don’t have me mixed up with Chris Wilson? The dude on Unit Five who slit his wrists? That’s his file. I’m Chris Dewberry.” The doctor examined the label. “Ees wrong Creez?” “I’m Chris Dewberry. Do I have to keep taking the pills, or were those for Chris Wilson?” “Ees making you better, no?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t like them.” “You are not doctor of the psychiatry, Creez. I am doctor of the psychiatry. You take peels.” “Yeah, whatever.” Tomorrow he was going home and the peels were going down the toilet.