From: Challenged: A Tribute

 

 

CHAPTER 1

THE RABBIT HOLE AT THE END OF THE RAINBOW

 

“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.

“You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.”

 

     That face!  That face!  That hideously gnarled, shockingly repulsive, poop-in-your-pants-inducing face!  It was a face unlike any other I’d ever encountered before.  So startling in its appearance, so vivid in its delivery, so unanticipated and abrupt on an otherwise picture-perfect afternoon.  Huge nose, droopy liver lips, plaque-riddled horse teeth, bright orange hair, and Coke-bottle glasses magnifying a lazy eye.  Looking into Sammy’s face was like being forced to watch a 3-D horror movie in extreme close-up.  It was a disfigured face of swollen, exaggerated proportions, taut, shiny skin, and a port-wine stain birthmark spilled across half of it, which forced me to wonder if maybe he had a twin brother somewhere, and when you put their heads together their faces would complete a map to buried treasure.  In short, it was one freaky-looking mug.

     Prior to this moment I’d never had much exposure to retarded people, and I found the sight of someone even microscopically disabled unnerving.  So it was probably fate that the first individual I encountered on the way to my interview would be little Sammy White.  As I sauntered across the courtyard, full of high hopes, that’s when I was suddenly and so abruptly accosted nose-to-nose, in-your-face, by Sammy The Face.  

     “Do you have five dollars?”

     Silence.

     “I said, do you have five dollars?”

     Flustered by this troll-like being before me, I fumbled and fished my pockets.  “Uh ... no, I sure don’t.”

     “I have one dollar,” The Face proclaimed with childlike pride.

     “Oh.  Well, isn’t that nice --”

     “BUT I WANT FIVE DOLLARS!”  Suddenly, The Face threw its arms around me and burrowed deep into my best shirt, sobbing relentlessly as snot erupted from its nose like tepid green lava.  I froze like the victim of a bear attack -- a bear with a killer sinus infection, no less.  Stunned into submission, I gently patted The Face on the head.  I didn’t know what to do, how to react.  Should I slowly back away and try to walk around it?  If I dared so much as twitch would the scary face eat me?  Could it smell my fear as clearly as I could smell the tuna fish casserole it had consumed for lunch?  I didn’t want any trouble.  All I wanted was to arrive on time for my interview.  But The Face refused to let me pass, clinging tightly, locked in a mortal standoff.

​

 *          *          *

​

     The year was 1982.  In my final semester at San Diego State, successful graduation required not only the completion of courses in my declared major, but also a set of “General Ed” classes -- including three credits of physical education, which I had conveniently forgotten.  I mean, who the hell goes to college to suffer through P.E. all over again?  (I mean, really.  Who?)  The only sports I’d ever excelled in were the 50-Meter Muscle Pull and the Lunch Toss.  But, alas, if I had any hopes in procuring that coveted piece of parchment, P.E. I must and so P.E. I did.

     Perusing the class schedule my options included all the customary hells of Ass Sweating 101: Softball ... Volleyball ... Track and Field ... Weight Lifting ... what’s this?  Ballroom Dancing?  The words shone from the page like a beacon of anti-athletic compassion.  No need to look further, the choice was simple.  I would undulate my way through higher education, if for nothing more than to spare the world the sight of another chubby collegiate in gym shorts.

     It was in this class I met Michelle Montgomery.  Michelle was blessed -- or, as she might say, cursed -- with the kind of beauty that only tends to blind men to her straightforward social-mindedness.  And I was no exception.  Her hair was like a cascade of champagne you could drown in.  When she spoke, her voice was rich and sensual, resonating deep from within her well-filled velveteen vest.  On a campus filled with slender tanned legs sprouting from red and black school-color shorts, Michelle’s dressy-casual chic put them all to shame.  For fifty minutes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday I devoured her with my eyes, taking full advantage of the opportunity to worship her from afar as so many other males must have done over the years.  And yet, in spite of my horny hunger, we were still able to strike up a casual friendship because I had the ability to make her laugh and, no doubt, because she considered me “safe.”  Ah, but sometimes being a funny fat guy does have its advantages, as this enabled me to enjoy eighteen wonderful weeks of arm-in-arm intimacy, all under the guise of the Fox-Trot, the Lindy, the Waltz, the Cha-Cha and, of course, the cheek-to-cheek cunning of the Tango. 

     It was there I also learned about Michelle the Good Samaritan.  In addition to school Michelle worked for Shepherd Hills Board and Care, a non-profit facility that provided residential care for the mentally retarded.  The place was located roughly a few dozen miles from where we tripped the light fantastic, safely tucked into the foothills of San Diego’s East County.  Michelle shared with me her plans to become a psychiatric social worker in the disabilities field, and how Shepherd Hills was a great training ground for just such a goal.  I greatly admired this about Michelle, her calling to help others -- and never once gave it another thought.  The last thing that interested me was the antics of a bunch of belated brains.  Not that I had anything against them, mind you, they just weren’t a priority on my get-to-know list.  I mean, if they wanted to live on their own secluded campus out in the boonies somewhere, then more power to ‘em -- so long as they didn’t bother me.  Good for them, I thought.  Good for the retarded people.  And I meant that sincerely.

     By semester’s end I graduated cum laude from the nation’s Number 4 party school, a dubious honor at best.  My original dreams when I first entered college to become a novelist and playwright had since evolved into the pursuit of a teaching credential in English and Drama.  For me, childhood had been one big, long, reclusive phase.  And yet, for some reason, I’d always been fascinated by the tribal relations of school life.  School had always offered escape, comfort, and a sense of ritual, if not, at times, refuge.  I respected the classroom and all the potential it held.  And so, my future was well-mapped.  I would continue on, acquire a credential, settle in someplace as a high school English teacher, and foster a nice little writing career on the side.  I would become Mr. G., the cool educator of radical literature and experimental drama.  The teacher with a Muppet beard who wears vintage Hawaiian shirts and Birkenstocks.  The mentor who fills young minds with inspiration and ogles the occasional student teacher a la Karen Valentine in Room 222.  And that would suit me just fine.

     Unfortunately, making my way to the head of the class required at least two more years of school, which in my case meant two more years of living with my parents -- or, more to the point, with my father.  (But more on that fanciful hell later.)  What it meant more pressingly was I now needed a summer job to replenish my share of expenses.  After a week of procrastinating and moping around the house, the time came to face the inevitable.  I dragged myself down to the student center job boards with a belly full of book smarts, a chest full of conceit and a soul full of uncertainty.  There, posted on a simple 3”x5” card, I saw the following:

 

 WANTED

SHEPHERD HILLS BOARD AND CARE

Position: Houseparent

Status: Part-Time

Wage: Minimum

NO EXPERIENCE REQUIRED

Contact: Human Resources Dept.

​

     You know those moments when a tiny star shines over your head and you try to shoo it away but it just won’t leave until it finishes guiding you to some unknown destination?  Me neither.  But as I stood there in the warm sunlight, the allure of foamy pitchers of beer calling to me from the on-campus pub nearby, the fact remained that I needed a job -- and the prospect of seeing Michelle again was just too keen to pass up.  Besides, I thought, how hard could it be to push a few kids around in wheelchairs?  Maybe even volunteer for the Special Olympics to help tie shoelaces or some deed equally noble.  Who knows?  Perhaps I’d even meet some interesting characters and have something colorful to write about.  Maybe my own version of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.  This was going to be a cinch.  A no-brainer, pardon the pun.

     Twenty-four hours later, I found myself navigating a series of back roads and cattle crossings in search of Never-Never-Land, tucked within a cluster of Cleaveresque tract homes still awaiting the arrival of modern civilization.  At last, I stumbled upon the Shepherd Hills campus.  From the street Shepherd Hills Board and Care appeared no more threatening than your average neighborhood elementary school of gated stucco-and-stone, surrounded by adequately trimmed lawns and a sentry of scrubby pine trees.  I pulled my trusty little used Honda Civic into the lot and parked.

     Applying the final touches to my application at the front desk, I made sure to slip in the fact that I, quote -- “make an awesome Santa Claus” -- unquote.  I thought for sure this would clinch things.  Last but not least, I specifically made a notation that I was interested in working in Michelle Montgomery’s department -- whatever that might incur. 

     My application was hastily swallowed by Human Resources with unbiased resolve, and I was told that they did indeed have a position available in Ms. Montgomery’s department.  In fact, if I were interested, they could get me in for an interview with the department’s supervisor right away.  Yes! I thought eagerly.  Everything was falling into place.  One brief phone call and I would be on my way to interview with a woman named Dawn Barry, head of the “Independent Training Program” -- a program for retarded adults. 

     At that, my eagerness skidded to dead stop. 

     Adults?  Aw, Jeez!  I don’t wanna work with adults.  I wanna work with kids.  Retarded kids.  You know, the way Hollywood always depicted helping sweet-little-innocent Johnny Mongoloid “find himself.”  I mean, who in their right mind wants to work with retarded adults?  But the opening in Michelle’s department was with adults, and so adults I would have to bear.

     With chin held high, I set out along a series of intertwining walkways toward my destination.  The main campus was at once serene and foreboding.  What had appeared from the street to be no bigger than a modest grade school was, in fact, a facility that engulfed a full 14 acres, governing an array of administrative offices, a central kitchen, a greenhouse, an auditorium, a small park with a sand lot, and twelve residential dormitories surrounded by an all-encompassing chain link fence.  Common areas of deep green lawns were dotted by more pine trees, a few battered picnic tables, a playground-regulation swing set, and a swimming pool securely fashioned with a wheelchair ramp.  At last, I arrived at the back gate, which opened onto a sizable off-the-street parking lot for the employees.  There, beyond the steaming blacktop, awaited the humble ITF Village; a small, separate apartment complex -- and the impending face-to-chest encounter.

​

 *          *          *

​

     After allowing The Face what I concluded was more than ample time for a good long sob, I attempted to steer it away with a sympathetic “there, there.”  But The Face tightened its clutches.  Following several more attempts, I was finally able to peel The Face off me, which in turn yielded a long, elastic stick of viscous goo linking its nose to my shirt.  The farther I pushed it away, the longer the wet green rope stretched until it finally snapped -- sss-thwop! -- and recoiled back onto my chest with a milky splash.  The Face trotted off.  I stood there trembling, dripping with neon green, the bitter taste of bile slowly rising in the back of my throat, my skin virtually crawling from a bad case of What The Fuck Was That?

     “Don’t worry about Sammy.  He likes to get up close and personal when he talks to people.  It’s just his way of being friendly.” 

     The voice I heard belonged to none other than Michelle.  Like a guardian angel, she appeared from nowhere to rescue me with a damp wash cloth.

     I quickly gathered my wits.  “Well, if he’s the welcome wagon, I’d sure hate to see his gift basket.”

     As Michelle laughed I felt the color return to my face -- as did my feelings for her.  The same college crush, the same horny hunger.  Mopping the Sammy stain from my shirt, we briefly re-acquainted over memories from the good old days of Ballroom Dance, and I eventually mustered my cool to explain I was there to interview for a position.  Oddly, Michelle didn’t seem all that impressed.  Still, I had apparently survived the first initiation: I had been snotted on and lived to retch about it.  And so, Michelle escorted me onward to Dawn’s office.  Fool in love that I was, I followed.

     Dawn Barry was a silver-haired surfer chick in her early-fifties, dressed in OP shorts and a Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes tank top.  She was currently in the middle of a debate with a small gravel-voiced man who was passionately defending the artistic merits of Lawrence Welk.  Nevertheless, Dawn greeted me professionally and -- after successfully shooing the man out the door -- sat with her back to the glare of a large picture window that looked out onto the apartment courtyard. 

     “Steve ... Gry-ger, is it?” she said, scanning my application.

     “Gree-ger,” I gently corrected.  “Like Robby Krieger from The Doors, only with a G.”  (Which is where any further comparison of me and a member of The Doors ends.)

     As she passively grilled me through the typical applicant Q & A, all I could make out was her silhouette.  Though her voice was characteristically surfer-mellow, still, conversing with a shadow was not without some degree of intimidation.  I learned that while the other dorms on the main grounds housed residents with varying levels of retardation, Dawn’s domain harbored nine “high-functioning” adults who were learning skills to achieve “normalization.”  For the crux of our interview Dawn focused primarily on two things.  On my application under hobbies I had listed cooking and drama.  She told me she liked the cooking because one of the job duties was to help teach these people to cook, and she liked the drama because houseparents were often required to teach skills through role playing.  (I neglected to mention that despite the Drama degree I had virtually no training in acting; it was hard enough just trying to act like I wanted the job.) 

     Dawn described her apartment program as different from the basic board and care provided by the main campus.  According to Dawn, her Independent Training Facility or “ITF Village” was a radical new concept for 1982.  It was a community-based, minimally-restrictive setting designed to help guide each resident into a normal, independent lifestyle.  Classes were taught in cooking, cleaning, banking and shopping; the basics needed to survive “out there.”  By providing everything from verbal demonstration to hand-over-hand assistance, the ultimate goal was for each of the ITF residents to one day move out on their own.  Dawn was also forthcoming in that she was looking to hire a male to help handle some of the “occasional aggressive behaviors” that occurred.  The only other male staff who worked there had just given notice and was in the middle of his final two weeks.  Otherwise, the remaining employees were all female.  The hours were part-time, 4 p.m. to 10 p.m., with rotating days off.  The pay was cheap, but the benefits were good.  She never once commented about my “awesome Santa Claus.”

     Meanwhile, throughout the entire interview, a stream of voices in the background wafted steadily over the courtyard, each periodically taking turns to yell at someone named Owen:

​

     “-- Shut up, Owen, before I slug ya! --”

     “-- Go away, Owen!  Get outta here! --”

     “-- Cut it out, Owen!  I punch your lights! --”

     “-- Owen did it, not me! --”

     “-- Your head, Owen! --”

​

     Plodding onward, I began to grow less enthusiastic, despite the draw to make some time with Michelle.  I shifted uneasily.  My stomach felt queasy.  Would this job really be worth it?  Didn’t I see a sign on my way here that Taco Bell was hiring?  Did I really want to spend my summer having to deal with “occasional aggressive behaviors?”

     On cue, Frankenstein’s monster entered the room.  He was brandishing a blood-stained kitchen knife.  He was tall and massive-skulled with hands the size of rakes and wild gnarls of streaky gray and white hair, and when he walked his right foot pivoted outward.  Eyeing me with contempt, the man and his knife loomed closer … closer … until he towered directly over me.  I sat there, paralyzed with fear.  What the hell is this?  First an assault by a deadly mucus and now this one’s gonna finish things by slashing my throat?

     “Dawn? ... I think I n-n-need a f-f-first aid,” he said. 

     Timidly, the colossal beast lifted his pinky finger to display a small cut, like a lion with a thorn stuck in its paw.  Rather than show concern, Dawn simply looked annoyed.  The man continued, “I c-c-couldn’t open my C-C-Coke, so I t-t-tried to twist it off with the knife and --”

     Dawn sighed wearily.  “How many times have I told you not to play with knives?  And where’s your helmet?”

     The large man grinned coyly and tucked his chin into his chest.  “I dunno.”

     Dawn sighed a second time for effect, took the man by the arm, and motioned for me to follow.  Our interview continued in the adjoining bathroom, as Dawn cleaned and dressed the man’s finger.  I offered him a broad, friendly smile, but the man would have no part of it.  The kitchen knife was nothing compared to the daggers he was shooting at me; his eyes were fixed and angry -- how dare I intrude on his territory?

     Dawn finished the dressing and patted the man’s back.  “There!  Good as new.  Cut down on the sodas, dude.  They’re hazardous to your health.”  At this point Dawn noticed the man glaring at me and playfully ruffled his hair.  “What’s the matter, big guy?  You checking him out?  Does he pass inspection?”

     Taking the initiative, I awkwardly extended my hand and asked the million dollar question.  “Hi there, are you Owen?”

     I could hear the audible sizzle of a lit fuse.

     “OWEN?!” the man shouted.  “I NOT OWEN!”

     “HEY-Hey-hey-hey-hey ...” Dawn’s voice trailed to calm.  “Lighten up.  He’s just being friendly.”  Dawn delivered the words with great distinction.  “Jackie, this is Steve.”  Then back to me, the same.  “Steve, this is Jackie.”  Her manner turned impish.  “But he and Owen are sometimes mistaken for one another because they both have such rotten tempers.  Right, Jackie?  Huh?  Hmm?  Huuuhhh?…”

     I watched with quiet admiration as Dawn masterfully channeled Jackie’s anger back into a puppy-like demeanor, complete with him giggling and laying his head on her shoulder.  This was Jackie Chuckam, the sleeping giant.  Cheerless and distrustful. 

     Dawn capped off the introduction by informing me, “Jackie and Owen are roommates.  They’ll be in your group.” 

     Hearing this, I managed an Oscar-worthy smile.  “Oh ... boy.”  I said.  “Isn’t that ...” (c’mon, you can do it, you can do it) “... ssssswell.”

     Jackie left Dawn’s office without another word.  “Don’t forget your helmet,” she called after him, just as casually as a mother reminds her child to bundle up before going out to play.  As the two of us observed him through the window, Jackie walked into the courtyard, mounted a rickety, red and white bicycle, plucked a scuffed, white plastic helmet from atop the handlebars, placed it on his head, and rode off up the driveway, chin straps dangling unclasped. 

     It was then Dawn asked me if I’d ever had any prior exposure to this population. 

     “Oh sure,” I verified.  “Once I lived near a school that had a Special Ed program and me and my friends used to walk by it every day and say hi to the kids wearing football helmets.”

     “Uh-huh,” Dawn replied.  “But nothing with retarded adults?”

     “Er ... no, not really,” I confessed.  “I need more experience, don’t I?”

     Dawn straightened.  “Not necessarily.  Tell me ... why do you really want to work here?”

     Now, there was no way I was about to tell this woman I was only there to hit on one of her employees.  Instead, I began riffing an excuse, a reason, and a justification all rolled into one.  I explained that I thought the job could be a blessing in disguise.  That I’d always had a certain curiosity about retarded people.  A place in my heart.  Not a calling, really (no, even I couldn’t pull that one off), but a certain interest ... concern ... inquisitiveness ... regard ... fascination, but in a good way ... thoughtfulness ... respect ... reverence ... self-motivation ... What was the question again?  By this point I had no idea where I was going.  I couldn’t discern truth from lie from naivete.  Ultimately, I trailed off with the first honest words I’d said that day: “I think I just want to help.”

     Dawn smiled.  It was the type of smile I couldn’t read.  Was it one of sincerity or amusement?  Or knowing?  “Well, listen,” she said, “I realize you came out here today just for the interview, but ...” her face left the shadows and brightened in the sunlight “... how about hanging around for the rest of the shift?  See how you like it.”

     With nothing to lose I decided to give it a try, despite the threat of another mucus attack or a good knifing.  “What should I do?” I asked.

     “Just observe.  Knock on a few doors and say hello.  You know ... ‘mingle’.”

     I’m not sure why, but there was something about the way she said “mingle” that didn’t sit well.  Just what the hell was I getting into?