Monday, October 11, 2004
Baron Samedi is sitting in the chair looking very uncomfortable. “Why can’t I smoke? I always smoke.”
“No smoking is allowed in the facility, Mr. Samedi. We went over that completely during orientation,” the counselor notes. “You signed the behavior contract."
"How about if I slip you a twenty?" Samedi asks, pulling out a wad of bills and assorted offerings. "Maybe a watch? A ring?"
"Mr. Samedi, that's very counterproductive to your recovery."
Samedi sits glowering, thinking fucker'll wish for that twenty when I get back to my room and pull out the doll...
"Now, this is a group session. I expect everyone to participate. Mr. Billdoug?”
“I am just so happy to be on the road to recovery. I feel my inner Republican growing stronger every day.”
“Was there a note of sarcasm in your voice, Mr. Billdoug?”
“Don’t be absurd. I am incapable of sarcasm, irony, parody or farce. My medications, you know,” the Mullah says, tapping his skull with his forefinger.
“Hm,” the counselor hums, making a note on a legal pad. “And you, Mr. Siddhartha?”
“Fuck off, you old bat. Goatama Muthafuckah takes no shit from nobody.”
“I see you’re improving, Mr. Siddhartha. Just last week you were still showing some signs of serenity, and then this week, not even one.”
“Bite my ass, you leaky sack of donkey puke.”
“And you, Mr. Yahweh? How are we today?” Long pause. Yahweh stares sullenly at the tiled floor, arms crossed over his chest. “Mr. Yahweh?” Pause. The only sound is the air conditioning. “Ahum. All right, then, Mr. Yahweh,” the counselor warns, “play your little silent game. Play it as long as you want, but you’ll never get better.”
“I will NOT share heaven with Satan! Or any of these, these other wannabes! And that’s final!” Yahweh shouts. “I don’t care what Mary says. If that’s a sickness, well, too bad!” And he crosses his arms again, and sits tightlipped.
The counselor makes a note, clucking slightly. Adjust meds. Yahweh: Oppositional-defiant disorder worse. Increase by 30mg.