Fishbowl

By: David H
(© 2011 by the author)
Editor: Ken King

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

 Chapter 1

In the six years since Elias Thompson first set foot in the Administration Building of the Baur Center, the only thing that had changed was some of the artwork in the lobby.  The floors were just as he remembered them; the walls were the same color.  The lady working at the reception desk was even the same one that had been there when he was first brought in, under police escort, to the facility.  She remembered that day; she remembered him; however, seeing what he’d made of himself in the years following his departure, she was brought to tears.  His smile, one that she hadn’t seen for the first year he was there, seemed now to be almost a natural part of his being.  He was physically stronger than he had been in those days, and it was obvious that the once timid bad boy had grown into a man, filled to the brim with confidence.

It wasn’t long before Dr. Owens finished up an appointment and headed to the lobby to escort the person with whom she’d been meeting away from the building.  As he walked out, she turned her attention to Elias Thompson, a paradox and perhaps one of the worst cases she’d ever dealt with.  That day, though, she was impressed by everything about him; it was a far cry from the kid who, when he arrived, was high on heroin, skinny from not having eaten a full meal in his recent memory, and homeless.  He was no longer the kid who turned tricks in the back seats of people’s cars for money enough to eat convenience store snacks and have just enough left over for a hit.  He was a man, a confident man, a clean man, a snazzy dresser with a jovially sarcastic sense of humor.

“Well,” Dr. Owens said, “let’s step back to my office, and we’ll get this interview started.”

“All right,” Elias said as the two of them walked to the right of the reception desk, down a hallway he’d walked many, many times before.

As they strolled down the hallway, Dr. Owens turned to him.  “You know, I have seen thousands of kids come through this place,” she started, “and I am proud of everything they accomplish here.  Most of y’all do well once you get out; some don’t do so well though, while others excel and really learn to live.  I’m still proud of all of you, though.  With that being said, when your résumé came across my desk, I was brought to tears.  You and Caleb Rosario…you remember him?”

“Yes ma’am,” Elias smiled.

“The two of you have really taken life by the horns and… thrived,” she said, as if picking her word carefully.  “It makes doing this thankless job a little bit better.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m sure that I wouldn’t be where I am without you and this place,” he added as they walked into Dr. Owens’ seemingly cluttered yet meticulously organized office.  She smiled in thanks, as she invited him to sit in a chair next to a small table that was covered with folders and papers stacked according to the organization in her mind.

“So would you like some coffee or something?” she asked as he took a seat.

“That would be nice,” he told her.

“So.  The Board of Directors, a couple of years ago asked me to start taping interviews for professional positions.  Normally, I wouldn’t warn a person until the interview was about to start, but knowing the questions that I’m going to have to ask you, I wanted to give you some heads up.”

“What kinds of questions?”

“Questions about the past,” she told him as she handed him a Styrofoam cup filled with the black elixir before she sat down in front of him.  “You need to be as honest as possible, but if there is something you’re not comfortable with, I will understand.  The Board already knows that you were a student here at one point.”

“And they didn’t have a problem with it?” he asked.

“Not at all.  Normally, I choose who I interview and then they select the person that gets the position,” she told him.  “That’s why we video tape it,” she said as she grabbed a remote.  “We’ll start when you’re ready.”

“OK…” he replied as he took a deep breath and smiled, motioning for her to proceed. 

“My name is Donna Owens, and I am interviewing Elias Thompson for the position of Masters-level Art Therapist.  It’s June 12^th, 2006, at…” she stopped to look at her watch, “2:15 in the afternoon.”  She smiled at her former student before interlacing her fingers and placing her hands in her lap.  “So Elias, why don’t you take a moment and tell the Board a little bit about yourself.”

“Well.  I am a native of Birmingham, born and raised here.  I’m 25 years old, and I have two bachelor’s degrees, one in Art and one Psychology. I recently completed my Master’s degree in Counseling, with an emphasis in Art Therapy for Adolescents and Adults.”

“Very nice,” Dr. Owens nodded as she took a folder from the top of one of the piles and opened it up.  “Now, Elias, There are some questions specific to this position that I will be asking you today.  As I mentioned, the Board of Directors knows that you were once a student here, and so if there is a question that you don’t feel comfortable answering for personal reasons, that will be fine.”

“To be honest, Dr. Owens, one thing that I learned at this place is that if one is to fully embrace life, he has to be honest with himself and with others about where he came from.  So with that being said,” he stated confidently, “ask away.”

“All right…” she smiled.  “The position of Art Therapist will require you to work with students through the mediums of drawing, painting, and photography both on a one-on-one basis and in group settings.  Is this what you were expecting when you applied for this position?”

“Yes,” Elias answered.  “Art, for me, drawing in particular, has always been something that I’ve enjoyed doing.  It’s always been very… very… helpful to me when dealing with things that are on my mind and such.”

“OK…” she smiled.  “Tell me about a time when… when… Oh hell…” she said as she closed the folder.  “Elias.  Rather than asking you these questions, I would like you to tell me about when you first realized that art was important to you.”

“I was eight or so.  My mom had been gone a year, and I’d never met my father.  I was in foster home number three by that point.  It was around Christmas, and the only thing that I could think of that I wanted was some nice, white paper like the teacher would give us at school and some colored pencils.  I used to draw images of what I thought my dad would look like, and I would also draw pictures of my mother… from before she started getting… um… involved with drugs and a lot of different kinds of men.  So that’s what I got… Then, when I was moved into foster home number four, the couple that I was living with had six other foster children and very rigid rules.  We got spanked for the smallest things.  The lady locked the fridge with a padlock so that we couldn’t get in, and if we were caught with food outside of meal time, we were put into a dark room for the rest of that day and through the night.  While I was in there, I would imagine being a super hero, like a comic book guy or an X-man or something similar.  I would imagine myself having super powers or something,” he smiled.  “When they would let me out in the morning, I would rush to the bedroom, take out a piece of paper, and draw the super hero that I’d been the evening before.  I would always destroy them, though, because these people were ‘good Christians’ and didn’t allow such things.”

“How long were you there?” she asked, explaining a second later that she remembered, but wanted the board to know.

“I was only there for a few months, until they told the social worker that I couldn’t be handled,” Elias explained.  “So I went from home to home until I’d finally had enough of hearing about how I was a horrible kid who didn’t deserve a family, so I ran away.”

“How old were you?”

“When I first ran away, I was 13.”

“Where did you go?”

“The streets,” he said honestly.  “The first few nights were horrible.  It was cold, and so I had to find a way to stay warm… to eat…”

“And then what?”

“This person that I met, he was probably eighteen or nineteen, a drug addict,” Elias remembered vividly as he recounted the details, “taught me how to steal from grocery stories and gas stations.  He is also the one that… got me into… other things.”

“What other things?” she asked, knowing the answer.

“Drugs… It’s because of him that I was addicted to heroin by the time I was 14.  Then… he would explain that I owed him for helping me and he would… sell me to friends, at first, and then to anyone that wanted me.”

“Were you arrested?”

“Not until I was about to turn 15, in ’96, the early part of the year.  I had been on the streets for nearly two years at that point.  I had stunted, growth-wise, and couldn’t help but be strung out all the time.  It was really the only way that I could get through having to have sex with all those people.”

“Would you like me to turn the video off for a moment, so that you can collect your thoughts?”

“No,” Elias answered.  “They should see what they’re getting,” he smiled.

“What are they getting, Elias?” Dr. Owens asked.

“When a kid comes here, if he makes it through and leaves, regardless of what he does with himself, he still has the scars.  He might not think about them all the time, but they’re still there.  It’s actually why I know I would do some good here… I know what these kids are going through, because I’ve been there.”

“Good,” Dr. Owens smiled.

“But… as I was saying… the night I got arrested, I had stolen some… of all things… Little Debbie Nutty Bars, a stupid costume jewelry bracelet, and some condoms from a store on the Southside. As I was walking out, the guy behind the counter stopped me and asked me to empty out my pockets.  I ran; he called the police, and it wasn’t but a few seconds later that they caught up with me.  I was in jail for three or four days until I went before a Juvenile Court judge.  My social worker was there, as were my last foster parents.  They told the judge that I wouldn’t be welcome back at their house; the social worker said that I was a flight risk and that she would have a hard time finding a family that would be willing to take me.  The judge, after thinking about everything and talking to a couple of people, came back into to the courtroom and told me that he was going to give me a second chance, that he was sending me here, to the BC, and that, as long as I stayed out of trouble and got clean, he wouldn’t send me to juvie.”

“Describe your first day here,” she told him.

“Oh God!  I didn’t want to be here.  I had already started detoxing, I wanted… something… anything… It was painful.  I wanted to run away from here within just a few minutes of arriving, find a trick and score enough H for a couple of highs.”

“And how did you get through it?”

“My roommate, his name was Caleb Rosario.  I’d seen him on the streets a couple of times; he was doing his thing, and I was doing mine.  We never talked or interacted in any way, really, until my first day there.  He sat with me on the edge of my bed for the rest of the day as I was going through withdrawals.  He made sure I had a cold compress close by at all times, that I had plenty of water to drink.  Perhaps the best thing he did for me, though, was to tell me that I was going to be OK.  I don’t know what it was that he saw in me, but for the first two weeks I was here, he never left my side.  He showed me around, protected me from a couple of… evil people.  He explained the benefits of counseling when I bitched about it all.  It was really because of him, learning from his example, that after I finished the program here with a diploma in hand I was able to make my way through college, both undergrad and graduate school.”

“So what is your philosophy on counseling?”

“That everyone has the potential to be great, and that, through art, individuals can work through their problems in a productive way.   Y’'know… not everyone can talk about their past, and not everyone can write about it.  Not everyone can draw it even, but there is a way to touch everyone, to help everyone, and it’s just a matter of finding it and then encouraging the positive flow of energy so that the patient, the client, can recover from whatever trauma they’ve suffered,” Elias explained, confidently.

“So what if you’ve got a difficult patient that doesn’t want to be helped?” Donna smiled.

“Are you talking about me?” he joked, remembering how it took him a while to warm up to the idea of being there and letting a professional help him with his problems.

“No!  You were never difficult!” she joked.

“Well.  I learned through being here and being in my counseling classes that the most obstinate patients are just those that are crying the loudest for help.  You can’t force a person to make counseling work, but you can be patient with them until they make the decision to let someone help, to trust them enough to allow them into their soul,” Elias answered.

The interview continued for another half hour as they talked about his work experience and the two internships he completed during graduate school, one with a drug abuse group in Birmingham and another working with HIV patients at a center downtown.  When it was over, Dr. Owens turned off the camera and allowed him to sit there for a moment to collect his breath.

“At this point,” she smiled, “I would normally lead the candidate around the facility, but since you know the place…”

“I would love to, actually,” Elias confessed.  “This was, after all, my first real home.”  The two of them smiled at each other.

Most everything was as he remembered it.  In the library at the class building, pictures and poems of former students were framed and hanging on the wall.  He was almost moved when he saw “Super E” hanging on the wall where he’d left him.  Super E was his superhero persona.  He was tall and handsome, strong and powerful.  He could defeat anything the forces of evil could throw at him.

As they returned to the lobby, it was already almost five o’clock, so with a hug Elias took his leave of Dr. Owens.  As he walked toward his car, the sound of birds chirping and kids playing on a soccer field just behind the Admin building filled the air with a reminder that life really was a precious thing. 

*************** 

Returning to his car, the first thing he did after starting it up was to grab his cell phone and look to see how many calls and texts he’d missed while in the interview.  His best friend Jenny had called him a dozen times and left him several text messages asking how the day had gone.  With a smile, he dialed her number as he pulled the car out of the space and began to drive away.  He told her that the interview had gone well, but that it had been a little emotional to be there after all that time had elapsed, to be at the place where he’d actually been able to be a kid for a little while.  He didn’t have many friends, as he was the kind of guy that just didn’t associate with too many people, but of those that were fortunate enough to spend some time with him, Jenny was the only one who knew all about his past.  It was something he never talked about, and he would always skate around the issue when asked about it.

Since it was almost quitting time on her end, she invited him to have dinner, an invitation that he gladly accepted.  As he drove around I-459 and then down I-65 away from Birmingham, the two discussed their options and eventually decided to eat at a small Mexican restaurant in Alabaster called Del Toro.

It was a place where they’d both eaten a million times since their freshman year of college.  Today, though, the place seemed somehow different to Elias.  The red walls looked more vibrant than he’d noticed in a while; a mural on one wall depicted various images from Mexican history.  Today those scenes seemed more colorful and lifelike. As he was being seated to wait on Jenny’s arrival, he ordered a soda, a Mountain Dew.  He usually ordered sweet tea, but something on his tongue was craving the satisfying texture and flavor of the soda.

As his drink was coming to the table, Jenny arrived.  He noticed her luscious brown locks and the way her eyes always had a constant flame.  It was almost as if passion and mischief had mixed together to form those beautiful brown gems.

“Hey…” she said as she sat down opposite him, facing the back of the restaurant as he faced the door.  “You OK?” she asked.

“Yeah…” he answered as the waiter rushed back over to take her drink order.

“OK… You’re so convincing,” she purred sarcastically.

“I’m just in thought about some things,” he explained.

“Good?  Bad?  Order takeout and rent some movies on the PPV at my place?” she asked.

He took a deep breath.  “Jenny.  I am very, very thankful for everything that I have in my life, you and your family included.”

“Uh huh…”

“But being at that place this afternoon has just made me think about a lot of things, and I think that now, perhaps more than ever before, I really appreciate you. A lot ... You’re like the sister that I never had.”

“Awww…” she said as she smiled, a witty comeback on the tip of her tongue.  She didn’t say it, though, because in her mind it might not be the most appropriate moment to make a mocking comment about Elias being a butt pirate.  “Thank you, sweetie,” she said, instead.  “By the way, Mom wanted me to ask you if you were coming to 4^th of July.”

“I would love to, if I’m not working,” he said as he took the first sip of the soda.  It really was refreshing, in a way he couldn’t describe with words.  It was like parts of him that had been asleep for so long were awakening again.

“I’ll let her know,” Jenny smiled.  “So what else is on your mind?”

“In part of the interview, I had to relive some experiences in my mind that I haven’t had to in a while.”

“So that’s what’s got you pensive and such?” Jenny figured out.

“Yeah…” he looked away.  “It just makes me wish I was normal, that I wasn’t commitment phobic with everyone but you…”

“And I’m not letting you just push me away, punk.  I’ll push back.”

“Yeah,” he smiled.  “Thank you for that.”

“Rule for the evening: no more thanking me for shit,” she smiled.

“Yes ma’am,” he said as the waiter returned with her drink and to take their orders.

“Could you do me a favor?” he asked the waiter.

“Of course…” the guy said.

“Would you surprise me this evening?  Bring me something that doesn’t have seafood, but is a complete and total surprise.”

“OK…” the guy looked at Elias oddly at first, but he then grinned and nodded.

“Same here!” Jenny looked at him, smiling back.

The waiter took Jenny and Elias at their collective word. He shortly delivered plate after plate of Americanized Mexican fare was brought to their table.  They had tostadas and fajitas, rice and beans, and both crunchy and soft tacos as well. Toward the end of their meal, two plates of flan were brought out by the chef himself.  He asked if they enjoyed the food and then thanked them for creating a challenge that he’d rarely encountered before.  When it came time for the check, Jenny grabbed it before Elias could get anything out.

“It’s my turn,” Elias smiled as he reached for his wallet.

“No it’s not, and I’m about to start my period, so don’t argue!” she advised, sternfully joking as she gave him a look. 

“Yes ma’am,” he smiled as he shoved his old, tattered, brown leather wallet back into his pocket.

As they were leaving, it was still early, and neither of them wanted to head home just yet, so they went to a shopping center just up the road and piddled through a few stores as the darkness set in over the town.  After a final round of hugs, the two friends eventually parted company for the evening.  Jenny left for her apartment in Calera, just off Highway 31, while Elias returned to his small, one bedroom place just off Highway 119 in Montevallo.

Changing his clothes almost as soon as he walked in, Elias thought about the day.  It was short, but it was long.  It was good, but it wasn’t so much.  It was happy, and it was sad, all at the same time. 

Looking around his place, just as he had at Del Toro, things seemed somehow different.  From his beat up sofa that had seen its share of abuse over the years from various owners to his crappy 13-inch TV that was connected to a fancy DVD player and digital cable box, everything in that place was his.  Every single object he’d worked his ass for, from the nice bed in his bedroom to the mismatched silverware in the drawer, those things were the representation of just how far he’d come since he cast himself onto the streets a decade before.  While some people would have scoffed at it and dismissed it as junk, to him it was all treasure.

Sitting down to watch an episode of Star Trek: Enterprise that he’d DVR’d during the day, he allowed himself to smile a little bit. 

*************** 

At around ten that evening, after watching King of the Hill on the Cartoon Network, he stripped himself of all his clothes and went in for his nightly shower.  After the hot water had done its job and he was clean and dry, he walked stark naked through his apartment and into the bedroom.  Climbing beneath the soft cotton sheets, he quickly drifted into the land of dreams. 

That night, though, the dreams weren’t very pleasant.  He was 14 again, standing at the entrance to George Ward Park, just off Green Springs Highway in Birmingham.  The thing was, he knew everything that happened after that.  Why was he there?  He was sad, angry, worried, in pain from the lack of drugs flowing through his system.  He looked around as people began approaching him.  They were old, ugly, ravenous men who wanted something that he’d, at one point in his life, been more than willing to give them in exchange for a few dollars or a couple of days worth of H. 

Of the voices that were distinct in his mind, one faceless, nameless man was throwing money at him.  Another was calling him “nasty” and “faggot.”  Another was drooling as he lifted up the tattered shirt that he was wearing.   One was wrapping a latex tourniquet around his left arm.  It hurt so bad, but as he subconsciously cried, he was powerless to stop another man who was sticking a needle into his arm and releasing the hot, burning venom into his arm.

From behind, someone else pushed him to the ground and laughed ravenously as they ripped off the unwashed jeans that covered him.  He wanted to scream from the pain inflicted by the man forcing himself into Elias’ tender body, but he couldn’t; his head was being forced onto the stinky dirt below him. 

“It’ll only hurt for a minute,” a familiar voice told him.  It was Giovanni, the 19 year-old that he’d met on the streets, his protector, his pimp, the man that could take what he wanted from him, even the last thing in the world that had been his─his innocence.

As he pissed himself in the dream, he pissed his bed in the real world.  His breathing became deep and labored; his conscious mind pulled him, none too soon, back into a world in which he was real, where he was safe.  Crying, his heart racing, his stomach churning, he climbed from the bed and ran through the kitchen toward the bathroom.  Before he could get himself to the toilet, though, he fell to his knees, sobbing between volleys of vomit hurling toward the floor.

Sure that he wasn’t going to throw up any more, he sat on his knees and took a deep breath as he begged for some sort of reprieve.  Elias’s entire life, it had been one thing after another, and he was tired.  He was 25 and still wet his bed; there were times when he still felt like an outsider everywhere he went, even though he knew he wasn’t.  He wanted, more than anything else, just to ... be… normal. 

*************** 

After he cleaned up the mess and changed the sheets on his bed, he lay back down.  He didn’t want to sleep, but he eventually slipped into a shallow darkness as his body recovered from the fatigue. 

At 8:03 the next morning, as he continued to sleep, Dr. Owens called and left a short and simple message on his voicemail: “Hey Elias.  I just wanted to call you and give you a heads up.  In a couple of days, you will be receiving a formal offer of employment in the mail.  Get back with me once you get it, and we’ll discuss everything.”

To be continued...

Posted: 09/09/11