Authors: Chuck Stepanek
“Yes.” The boy was silently crying.
Mr. Thelen extended the tissue box. While the boy cleaned up, he deliberated if he was ready for the final step. They were making great progress, so he moved forward.
“But there was one other thing that we talked about last time, a reason why you weren’t ready. Do you remember?”
“Yes.” The boy looked with red eyes. “Father Milliken.”
“Well I told you last time that I would have to think about it, and I have. Let me tell you about my idea and then you decide if it’s okay.”
The therapist talked, the boy listened. As the session neared
its
conclusion it was Psycho who said: “I guess this time I’m the one who will have to think about it.”
Part 8
Whitey
Chapter 1
1
Five days later, and nearly 5 months to the day of his commitment, Whitey took his first commercial bus ride. The staff had dropped him off at the depot and then waited until he had boarded ‘Trailways – Elmwood and points west.’
He sat next to an elderly lady who took immediate interest in his appearance. “Young man, you look white as a sheet! You need to get out and play in the sunshine some more.”
Whitey thought about the last five months. The pain, self-discovery, fear, the quiet room restraints, syringes and pills. He wanted to explain it all. Instead he smiled politely: “Yes maam, I should.”
“I had a little dog once who was almost as white as you. We thought about calling her snowball but my husband, 6 years gone now the eighth of November, would have nothing to do with it, so we settled on Whitey. It’s the symbol of purity you know! But was that dog pure? Gracious no. As much as we trained her, she insisted on making chocolates on the living room rug! She would NOT go outside, I hear there’s a disease where people can’t be in the sun. You don’t have that disease do you? Well I’m not sure if dogs can get it but Whitey wouldn’t have anything to do with….”
He let the old lady’s words diffuse and focused on the rolling landscape. Had he forgotten what it was like to watch the scenery pass by? Or was this a first. The first time that he hadn’t been stoned while taking a ride in the country.
The miles clicked off, the old lady tapped her generous memory moving seamlessly from topic to topic. And Whitey, he smiled, he felt the best that he had felt in his entire life. He may not be the symbol of purity, he too had made his share of chocolates on the living room rug, would probably make many more.
But for now, everything was just fine.
2
“Glory be, if it isn’t
Casper
the Friendly Ghost!” A toothpick of a man in chambray shirt, jeans and cowboy boots greeted him from the lobby-slash-office of the Transitions program. “Just foolin’ with ya partner. My names Earl, but everybody calls me Slim.
Can’t
imagine why.” He laughed as he gave a side view of his skeletal frame.
“Hi Slim, I’m…” He hesitated and then went with the impulse. “…Whitey. My name is Whitey.” The new arrival extended his hand in greeting. “Well I’ll be dipped in Hershey’s syrup and licked clean by Christine McVee. Whitey! No shit, then Whitey it is! I knew you was commin’ Mr. Lister, he asked me to show you ‘round.”
The bus had deposited Whitey at the Trailways stop no more than ten minutes ago. It was a one block walk to Transitions. Whether it be zoning laws or the wisdom of Mr. Lister types across the country, halfway houses always seem to pop up within a stones throw of the local bus stop.
There really wasn’t much to show. Community room, combination dining room/kitchen, laundry room, and a short hallway with 10 doors, five to a side. “Whitey, you’ll be in number 6. We have our focus group in about 20 minutes, it’ll be in the community room, that’s the first room I showed ya.” Slim was genuinely overly helpful. Whitely liked him immediately. “I’ll let you get your gear unpacked. I’m in room 4, If you need
anything, you just holler or bang on the door and ole Slim will come on the lickety-split!”
“Thank you Slim, I’ll do that.” Whitey opened the door to number 6 and unloaded his duffle on the bed. He heard Slim fading down the hall: “Whitey! Imagine that! I’ll be go to hell in an Easter basket!”
It was a small disappointment and an ironic one. Whitey realized that there was only one bed in the room. He would not have a roommate. The room was small, efficient and quiet. His thoughts went to Bill and their arrangement on ‘igorettes. He even thought wistfully of centipede-faced Ed and his nonstop yammering.
This place would be different. He would be alone with his thoughts. That, or walking the hall. But even the hall was no good, it was 30 feet at best. If he walked it, he would look like one of those goofy guards at Buckingham palace. Step, step, step, turn. Step, step, step, turn. No, he would have to fill his time else-wise.
What meager clothes he had were hung lazily in the closet. His other possessions, toothpaste, toothbrush, soap, all issued by the
Minnesota
department of state institutions, were parked on the bathroom sink. That left him with a pocketful of loose change, a deck and a half of smokes, and a cheap two dollar wristwatch; a watch that he had reluctantly invested in after having arrived late at his job (former job his mind corrected) one time too often.
He looked around the room again and saw nothing. He stepped out in the hallway. Again, nothing. The thought of tapping on Slims door was in his mind when he heard the cracker-barrel cowboy yucking it up in the community room. Must be time for focus group.
3
For most folks, becoming re-acclimated to a town the size of Elmwood (after having been away for a few months) would be no trouble. Actually, it would be quite enjoyable. “Say, look who’s back! How ya been! Good to see you again!”
Not for Whitey. His arrest for pot in the school parking lot had appeared as a brief story on page three of the local paper. The outburst in the courtroom promoted him to the front page and included his photograph. People talked, people knew, people remembered.
He would have preferred to remain anonymous, hidden away in the walls of the Transition program, but after being back in the Elm for only a few days he had exhausted his supply of smokes. Unlike the mental hospital, you could smoke as much and as often as you wanted. He went from being a 3 cigarette a day smoker (one each at 10, 1 and 6) to double, triple, and had he had the resources, would have easily graduated to a pack a day.
The cigarettes gave him something to do with his hands; hands that begged to touch, to retreat, and then to touch again. The routine of lighting, drawing the filter to his lips, inhaling, even tapping the ash, was all part of a pattern that gave comfort to his mind.
But now he was smokeless. He took inventory of his small collection of change, found it to be enough, signed himself out at the attendance log and wrote: “Red Owl Grocery – Smokes.”
The three block walk to the Red Owl was inconsequential. As he crossed the parking lot, though, he had a strange sensation. Was it familiarity? Nicotine craving induced anticipation? Nostalgic bitterness over his first purchase of Pearl Drops? Something about the store felt weird.
The weird feeling was about to be validated. A bagboy was trundling a shopping cart behind a woman who was rummaging
for her car keys. They were on a direct course with Whitey. The woman retrieved her keys and looked up.
She stopped cold.
The bagboy tried to put on the skids but was too late. The front of the cart bounded into the woman’s generous behind, moving her an unwelcome two steps closer to Whitey.
“No!” She brayed. “Over there!” She pointed to another part of the parking lot, away from the approaching figure. “I’m so sorry maam.” The bagboy who barely weighed as much as the bags he was wheeling, was nearly pleading. “I didn’t see you stop…” “Just go that way!” The woman moved off at a right angle and more than doubled her pace.
“It’s not your fault young man.” She brusquely quieted the bagboys further apologies. “It’s him!” She turned to the figure now entering the store. “It’s that mental case! He’s dangerous! You come with me now and don’t you leave me until I’m in my car!”
They headed back in their original direction, the bagboy unsure about what had just transpired, but now anxious to get back inside the store so he wouldn’t miss out if there were any shootings or stabbings.
Whitey had seen the woman’s odd reaction, but he didn’t attribute it to his presence. She was just some sorry old witch who had a thing for tormenting bagboys. Besides, he had smokes on the brain and they were now almost within reach.
He entered the Red Owl.
The Tobacco section was a self-service island between the grocery aisles and the checkout lanes; a combination of convenience for the customer and security for the store. If you were in a hurry you could grab your smokes, make your purchase and be on your way. If shoplifting was your intent, you couldn’t
very well pocket a pack while in sight of a dozen checkers and sackers.
Whitey had no intention of shoplifting, still his browsing at the island did not go undetected.
Barb Svenson, mother of Timmy Svenson, and former hash-slinger at the 5 and dime (before she got let go for ‘miscounting’ customers change), was standing at the head of checkout lane three in her Red Owl smock. It was a visual message to customers: ‘my lane is open, no lines, no waiting.’ And she knew who she was looking at the minute he walked in the door.
Five months ago, Barb had spent her 8 hour shift staring at that same face. Although then it had been on page 1 of the Elmwood Tribune. The local newspaper was racked above the candy, gum, breath mints, batteries and other compulsive things that you just had to have, on the far side of her lane. And each time a customer would add that day’s edition to their purchases, voila! The creepy face did not disappear, but was replaced by the next copy in the rack.