Needle Tracks, Designer Shoes and the Bleakness of the Human Condition

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This one is for my dear friend, Jules Goodwin. Not only did she give me the idea for this piece, she also showed up every day for three decades to do an impossible job-to teach. For this she has my undying love and respect. When I talk, she gets it. We have both traveled the same road.

  “Well, I’m sittin’ here playing solitaire
With my pearl-handled deck
The County won’t give me no more methadone
They cut off your welfare check

Carmelita hold me tighter
I think I’m sinking down
And I’m all strung out on heroin
On the outskirts of town” Warren Zevon-“Carmelita”

 

As I have mentioned before, for a few years in my somewhat mediocre career in education, I worked as a school counselor. For the record I detested the job and was not very good at it. To this day I am still not sure how I got into this line of work.  I have zero empathy and I am not a particularly good listener. I think my choice of degrees was simply that I wanted a master’s degree and I had no aptitude for school administration so there were not a lot of other choices for me at North Dakota State University unless I wanted to try my hand at science, a subject I had failed at continually since seventh grade.

I thought that an advanced degree would give me the authority that at that point in my life I felt I lacked. For some reason, I had almost a primal need to be taken seriously. As my life rolled on I finally realized this was never going to happen. When I had earned my degree, I had a piece of paper, in an attractive green leather folder from a university that specialized in football and agronomists. I had spent a lot of money and time on this piece of paper and was determined to use it for the great good or at least for the extra $500 a year it would bring me. As time and misery often teach us, some things are better left alone.

My first assignment as a counselor in a public school was in Rockwood, a gritty, blighted, poverty stricken neighborhood east of Portland, west of Gresham but belonging to no particular community. It has been jokingly said that the area of Portland, east of Southeast Eighty-Second Avenue is labeled on a map as, “unexplored/uncivilized.” The longer I worked in Rockwood the more I came to believe that the statement was more fact than fiction.

One local newspaper, The Portland Tribune had this to say about the neighborhood where I worked. “It’s striking how often the word “blight” is used to describe Rockwood.  The household median income falls below the average for the Multnomah County area where it is located The existing business in the neighborhood include multiple check-cashing/payday loan establishments, small convenience stores, fast food, and bars and/or strip clubs. The coming of Light Rail was supposed to turn the neighborhood around but it actually made things worse. The passenger terminals along the line became trouble spots, places where drinking, fighting, drug-dealing and muggings were commonplace.”

Most of the housing in Rockwood consisted of rundown apartment complexes and motels owned by out-of-state landlords who would rent to anyone with a pulse and a month’s rent. The worst was the 80-unit Riviera Gardens Apartment Complex. Never had a place been so misnamed. It was a place that I came to know well during the six years I spent doing home visits, hoping in vain that I could do some good.

Even in a place where abject hopelessness is the norm, the Riviera Gardens stood alone. The apartments were moldy, roach-infested and literally without maintenance. They were also dangerous. Their reputation as a gang stronghold was so great, members of the East Metro Gang Enforcement Team refused to respond to police calls there alone.

Drug dealing, gun violence and prostitution went unchecked. It was part of the culture of the place. Residents included a mix of ex-cons, gang members, hookers, the mentally ill, all of them poor and prone to violence. Regrettably, many of the residents of this hell on earth had children who attended the school where I worked. Their welfare was my job and it was a losing battle. Still I hung in there

As a counselor in this sort of setting, I was not prepared for the strangeness and downright wretchedness of the human condition that found its way into my office on an almost hourly basis.

The paperwork was endless and non-stop. Special education forms, child abuse reports, chronic absentee follow-ups, federal ethnic and poverty questionnaires. At first I diligently tried to fill out everything often working late into the night, sometimes falling asleep at my desk. Soon pessimism set in and I began to believe that the purpose of all of it was to keep you from helping people rather than actually helping them. The attitude shift marked the beginning of my journey from modestly hopeful to irredeemable cynic. Surprisingly, it was a very short trip.

The people I came into daily contact with were something else altogether. There were teachers stressed out beyond redemption, overworked and abused, human limitations stretched to the breaking point. Our administrators for the most part, had no idea how to lead anyone anywhere, especially considering the circumstances they found themselves in. The parents ran the gamut from ignorant to angry and/or insane. Violence and rage were their automatic response to anything they considered a threat, a challenge or even remotely frustrating. In their day-to-day lives discussion, give-and-take was for the weak. Problem solving was based solely on the ability to intimidate and exert your will over others.

At the bottom of the pile were the kids.  As a whole they were unruly, rude, foul-mouthed, dirty and always hungry. The free breakfast and lunch programs were probably all that kept many of them going. Most had no respect for adult authority; except for an occasional beating or obscenity laden tirade there was none. Being civil and decent must be learned and in the case of most of these children a role model was non-existent. Survival was all that mattered. There was no room for manners or the other niceties of life.  In short my job was not even remotely doable but I kept at it. The old punch line, “With all this horseshit, there has got to be a pony in here someplace,” drove me senselessly onward.  Plus I needed the paycheck. Like the kids I worked with, I was also survival driven.

Because my office was the epicenter of all people and things in the school system that were broken, not quite right, or just downright deranged, I was not surprised one morning that I found myself agreeing to a request that in hindsight contained elements of black humor, sadness and surrealism. In short, just another day spent in Rockwood.  The request came from a first grade teacher. Her name was Claire, no nickname, nothing cutesy or cloying, Just Claire.

Claire was different from most teachers. She was neither rumpled, frumpy or beat down. While most of us toiled away in our polyester/denim, teacher uniform of the mid-eighties, Claire was different. She was very stylish, un-teacher like as it were. Her long brown hair hung to her shoulders usually falling on an expensive blouse, a sweater or a designer dress. She loved high heels, expensive stilettos. She owned a collection of shoes and boots that ranged across the spectrum of colors and materials. Her footwear was always coordinated with her outfit. In a world of sensible shoes and animal prints, she was very much out of place.

Most of her colleagues, me included wondered why she showed up day after day and had done so for the last fifteen years. She did not need the money, she was the wife of a wealthy building contractor; her style and the way she carried herself reflected that she came from money. She could leave the turmoil and despair any time she felt like it. The rest of us did not have that option.

In spite of her circumstances which normally could arouse jealousy, Claire was well-liked and well-respected by teachers, administrators and parents. Her students loved her and she loved them back. She was the first one in the building in the morning and the last one to leave at night. I had a deep abiding admiration for her, especially for the passion and concern she showed for her students. It was genuine and intense and bonded the two of us in a noble yet impossible quest.

Whenever she appeared at the door of the broom closet masquerading as my office I was always glad to see her. Regardless of the reason for her visit, she always brightened my day. This dreary, rainy blustery morning in early January was no different. The failed expectations of the recently passed holiday season still cast a sense of melancholy over the school and the neighborhood. Most of us had come to the conclusion that Santa was not coming to Rockwood this year, in fact it was likely he was never coming.

The cup of hot coffee I held to my cheek to warm it and Claire’s presence brought a temporary respite from another overwhelming day which was quickly rushing up to meet me head-on. She was not one for idle chit-chat, a trait I found refreshing. Because she exuded a sense of confidence and hope I felt that when we teamed up to tackle a problem, there was at least a 50/50 chance we could come away with a win on the behalf of a kid. The chance to do some good kept me in the game. It was my drug of choice.

This morning she was dressed in a short leather jacket, a black turtle-necked sweater and a straight black woolen skirt which hung slightly above the knee of a shapely, still youthful leg. The most striking fixture of her outfit that particular day, were a pair of black Salvatore Ferragamo stilettos. They were her signature accessory boldly standing out as always in contrast to the drab landscape we found ourselves in.

Her dark brown eyes reflected a mixture of concern and despair. Her gaze held mine.  When she paid a visit to my office, it was to get help to save yet another at-risk child and in her room most of them fell into that category.

“I am so worried about Holly,” as usual she came right to the point.” She has missed a lot of school and we are barely half way through the school year. I am afraid she needs to be tested for attention deficit but I can’t get her mom to come in and sign the papers. I’ve made appointments, she never shows.”

I was well acquainted with Holly, her “family”, and the abysmal conditions that were her day-to-day existence. “Claire, there is no good news here.” There was no sense trying to make lemonade out of this particular batch of lemons.

“There is no old man, he is locked up in the state pen, Mom is a junkie and there is a baby. I have called Children’s Services, the county attendance officer and the police. The fact of the matter is no one is going to Riviera Gardens to check up on anyone. It is not right. It is fucked up, but that is the reality. If anything at all is going happen the ball is squarely in our court.” It was a cliché but it was the best I could muster.

A silence dense and profound filled my dingy little office space. My cheery baby panda poster looked oddly out of place. The rain driven by the east wind beat incessantly on my tiny cracked window.  Not yet nine in the morning and already I was beaten. I wanted to go home, hide under the comforter my aunt had made for me. Fatigue and burnout would not let me summon the answers I needed for yet another crisis.

Without speaking we both knew what had to be done. It was a conclusion neither of us were really enthused about but fate and concern about a child’s welfare had back us into a corner. Finally I spoke. “So Claire, are you up for a visit to Riviera Gardens today?” As a lame attempt to lighten the mood I added, “I promise to check you for head lice when we are done.”

A faint smile passed briefly across her lips and an almost inaudible laugh floated through my office for the briefest of moments. “I will go arrange for a sub. I should be able to leave right after lunch. Come to the teachers’ lounge, I will be waiting for you.”

It was agreed that she would pull together some of Holly’s current work or lack thereof and I would collect the necessary forms needed to obtain permission to get her tested and possibly get her the help she needed. As extra incentive, I would pack up my file of notes I had kept detailing my calls to the county, the state and any agency that was involved in child welfare. Desperate and hopeless, I thought that possibly the information could be used as a threat, a club, a prod, anything to rouse the mother into taking some action on her daughter’s behalf. As street theater usually goes I had only a vague idea of plot or direction. My part in our Riviera Gardens production would be totally improvised.

As is usually the case, when something unpleasant awaits you time has a way of moving much faster than when you are anticipating payday, a gift or something you think you cannot live without. So it was with this particular morning. I gathered the forms and my notes for Holly, managed to defuse a crisis here and there and returned many of the phone calls, that had been dutifully kept track of by the school secretary on pink, “while you were out” slips. For some reason my mind drifted back to college and Catch 22. I remember Major Major and his strategy to avoid anything upsetting. “When I am out tell them I am in and they can wait and when I am in tell them I am out and they can come back later.” In my case even when I was in, I was out with no desire to return.

After sitting in my office and staring at my brown bag lunch, a sandwich and a yogurt, I decided I wasn’t really that hungry. I pulled on my faded blue Woolrich rain parka and my stretched out black navy watch cap and headed off to the teachers’ lounge to find Claire. I hoped that at least I had given her enough time to socialize a little and eat something. I had a feeling that our “field trip” would take all of the collective energy we could muster.

When I found her, Claire, like me, was picking at her lunch rather than eating it. I sat down next to her, made small talk with a couple of colleagues and then without speaking we both got up and headed outside. The constant morning rain had turned the parking lot into a shallow miniature lake complete with tiny blue/black waves.

We decided to take my old Ford Ranger Pickup rather than Claire’s new burgundy Mercedes convertible. In spite of the fact I longed to take a ride in a luxury convertible with a beautiful woman this was neither the time nor the place. The odds of my ordinary stripped down model pick-up being intact and still waiting for us when we returned from our home visit were much higher than if we had arrived in a brand new expensive sports car.  Save for a tape deck, there was nothing even remotely worth stealing in or on my old Ford. A Mercedes was a different case entirely. If you were at all familiar with Riviera Gardens, its grounds and parking lots, you knew that nothing was safe or secure there ever.

The drive through the wet dark streets of Rockwood was less than ten minutes, not even enough time for the heater to function in a way that would provide even a minimum of warmth and comfort. We rode along in silence, Claire shivering, seated on the cold vinyl seats. Her chic stylish wool skirt while beautiful and sexy was not enough to ward off the relentless chill blowing out of the Columbia River Gorge.

I pulled into the parking lot and found a space near the sidewalks. While they were a mass of cracks and broken cement, navigating them was preferable to traversing the unpaved areas of Riviera Gardens. Those spaces were, for the most part, mud holes littered with discarded clothing, broken toys, auto parts, as well as a liberal sprinkling of condoms and used syringes. Every building had been tagged with graffiti, each gang that resided in the complex attempting to stake a claim on a specific building and the people who resided within.

I feared that Claire would stumble and fall on the broken, wet walkway leading to Holly and her mother’s apartment. Salvatore Ferragamo Stilettos seemed like a precarious way at best to traverse such inhospitable territory. I held out my arm. She took it but with a warm smile she reminded me, “Thank you Michael, but you forget, I have been her once or twice myself, usually alone.” One a rainy miserable day she appeared quite fragile and rock-solid tough, all at the same time. In that moment I realized how formidable she was and how glad I was she had come along.

The door to the apartment was scuffed, battered and discolored. Muddy foot and toe prints covered the bottom; a sign that in this particular world, kicking at a door as opposed to knocking was the preferred way of announcing your arrival. None-the-less, we chose to ignore convention and knock. After an eternity of standing while the chill of the day gripped us even tighter, the door finally opened.

The smell was the first thing to assault my senses. It is the stench of hopeless and poverty, a combination of body order, unclean, neglected surroundings, cigarette smoke, burnt and over-cooked fried food and more often the not, the unforgettable scent of urine and or baby shit. It is universal in any location where you know that you have hit the rock bottom strata of the human condition.

The person who answered the door was a shell of what she once must have been. Her curly brown hair was a greasy mass of tangles and knots, more like a stray dog than a person. Her eyes were barely visible, sunk into the vast blue/black circles that threatened to swallow them. They spoke volumes. Like the growth circles found on tree stumps they told a story; of hard living, hard luck, physical abuse and years of being shackled to the drug abuse which presently controlled every waking moment of her life. She was barefoot, a musty army surplus blanket her only clothing. One of her sagging breasts protruded from it.

Her voice was raspy from years of chain smoking and cheap liquor. She tried to manage what would normally pass for a smile as she struggled to free her arm from the dirty fabric which shielded it from the cold. “Look Mike, my needle tracks are startin’ to dry up. I am doin’ better don’t you think?”

She longed for some sort of affirmation but I could not deliver. “Good job, Mindy. I’ll go out to the truck and get your ‘Mother of the Year,’ plaque. By the way, you ought to cover up that boob.” The sarcasm was lost on her but not on me. I had become just one more person abusing her. My intention was to help her child but the situation, the decay of Riviera Gardens and the futility of it all rendered me incapable of human decency. What was in front of me was an unending cycle that long ago had cut me off from compassion or any sort of empathetic feeling. “People get what they deserve,” had become my mantra.

Claire pulled the situation back into focus. “We have come about Holly. She is falling farther and farther behind, her absenteeism has become a serious problem and we would like to get her tested to see if she has a learning disability which I suspect she does. We would like to come in and get you to sign some papers, maybe we can all get on the same page…do the right thing for your little girl.”

Mindy looked around. The confusion in her blank eyes told me that she only partially understood what she was confronted with. The legal, moral and educational consequences appeared lost on her. She had long ago abandoned the idea that she could control life’s outcomes for her or her children. It was not a sign of defeat or of being passive, it was just the way of the world and circumstances would never change.

A shadow of awareness passed briefly across her face. Resigned rather than hospitable she mumbled,” It is too fuckin’ cold out here. I guess you should come in.”

With the curtains closed, the darkness of the apartment was both impenetrable and claustrophobic. It was as if melancholy of the place would permanently cling to your skin. Bathing would not remove it and it would remain with you forever. Somewhere at the end of the hallway, was a toddler, exploring his surroundings, seeing how things in his world worked or didn’t by touching, dropping and generally playing things he found to be interesting, i.e., overflowing ashtrays, containers of half eaten food, broken TV remotes and piles of dirty clothes interspersed with unwashed dishes. He chatted happily to himself as he explored and played in the filthy apartment.

The noise caught Mindy’s attention for the briefest of moments. “Goddamnit Holly, I told you to keep an eye on your fuckin’ little brother. Don’t make me paddle your ass.”

“Parenting at its finest,” I thought to myself. None-the-less, I held my tongue. I did not want to create a distraction that would take away from the purpose of our trip. Getting Holly back to school and getting her some help was our sole focus. Everything else would have to wait.

Claire followed closely behind me down the darkened hallway, littered with discarded clothing and random piles of garbage that had not made its way to the dumpster in the parking lot outside. In the gloom and the stench it was as if our senses could not or would not adjust to our current surroundings. Our world refused to reconcile with one we currently found ourselves in.

Unfortunately, Claire did not see the pamper full of fresh baby shit that was lying in wait on hallway floor. Her Ferragamo stiletto clad left foot landed dead center in the full pamper, the contents of which flowed over her $600 shoe like a green/brown putrid incoming tide.

A woman who was a veteran of the vagaries of public education in most challenging environment, whose trademark was composure under fire, lost her cool. “Mother-Fucker,” she cried out as she stumbled forward into the darkness of the hallway crashing against my back. She wobbled toward me wearing one high heel, the other anchored solidly by the stinking oozing mass that threatened to swallow it whole.

Suddenly the atmosphere in the dingy apartment changed. It took on a surreal serio-comic nature, hysterically funny and monumentally depressing all at the same time. Claire managed to kick her surviving shoe off while leaning against me. Sputtering and gasping for words, “My shoe, my fucking shoe,” is what she managed to get out.

She then turned her wrath on Mindy. “How could leave something like that,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at the filled to overflowing pamper, “on the floor, what is the matter with you anyway?” The answer to the question would take the length of a Russian novel to fully explore. Besides, in truth, we all knew the answer.

“I think I can help,” Mindy volunteered. She rearranged her blanket and disappeared into the garbage pile which at one time had been an apartment kitchen. Moments later she returned with a plastic grocery bag. In the meantime, Claire kicked aside her surviving shoe and put it in her purse. Her expensive sheer black nylons were the only thing between her and whatever else was lurking on the apartment’s floors.

Surprisingly, Mindy deftly plucked the submerged shoe out of the trap it had become mired in. With a filthy but damp dish towel, she dabbed gently at the pungent mass that clung stubbornly to what once had been a designer stiletto. Having done what she could, she gently dropped the damaged footwear into the plastic bag and wrapped it tightly. She looked even more forlorn than usual. In a barely audible monotone she mumbled, “I am so sorry…really sorry.” There was silence and the grim afternoon, the squalor and the darkness of winter held all of us tightly.

I felt overwhelmed, cornered and beaten. In order to keep from laughing, crying, or perhaps just screaming I suggested we sit down at the kitchen table and do what we had come here to do.

Claire and I laid the paperwork on the table and explained as best we could the special education and testing process. I was pretty sure that we might as well have been speaking first century Latin. Mindy nodded in the appropriate places, gazed vacantly around the room, picked at the scabs on her arms and finally said, “Where do I sign?” It was not so much a meeting of minds but rather a way of saying, “whatever is right. I don’t understand a single thing you are saying. This meeting is over.”

We stood up. We all agreed that Holly would be in school in the morning, if not I would be at the door by 8:15 to collect her. Holly emerged from the bedroom to give Claire a hug. She held her close and said, “I will see you tomorrow, sweetheart. Get lots of sleep, we are going to have a great day you and me.”

Mindy reached out to me for a hug. My wrestler’s arms swallowed her up. She was tiny, malnourished and fragile. Through my coat I could feel the brutality the world had visited on her. “It’s gonna be cool,” I assured her. “Just pick up the phone, ask for some help for God sakes. You know I will try to do right by you and your kids.” The words sounded more confident than I felt. As always I wondered if I was making promises I would not be able to keep.

On the way out, after much debate I finally talked Claire into wearing my semi-soggy Nike running shoes. “I have on a pair of wool socks and besides I’m tough. Remember, I grew up in Minnesota. In my book this isn’t really winter.” In that moment she looked less a beautiful stylish woman and more like a character out of a Mad Magazine Don Martin cartoon. Huge outsized blue running shoes juxtaposed next to a figure clad in black designer clothes. Our minds must have been traveling similar paths for we both burst into laughter and we made our way along the broken and cracked sidewalk side-stepping the deepest of the puddles that had collecting during the afternoon deluge.

Darkness had fallen as we reach the shelter of the pickup cab. For a while we drove in silence, comforted by the sounds of the windshield wipers and the purring of the heater fan. We had done what we had set out to do. A small victory floating in an ocean of defeats. Tomorrow was a new day or at least a used one in new packaging. Suddenly, for no logical reason, I felt the urge to celebrate.

“Claire, do you want to go get a drink? I think we’ve earned one. Something to take the chill off?” My mind was racing toward an Irish coffee or maybe even two.

“That is an excellent idea,” she said. It was the first time that day I saw her famously radiant smile. “I have an extra pair of shoes in my trunk. Let’s swing by the school and I can give you back your shoes. Will you be ok; they are kind of a wet mess.”

“I am going to be just fine. I have a hot date, the workday is over and I am still sort of sane.” For the first time all day I was able to believe in the optimism of the statement.

While Claire deposited her damaged Ferragamo stilettos in her trunk and changed shoes, I shed my wet socks and slipped on my running shoes. They were damp and cold but in comparison to wet wool the change was welcome. Besides, for the first time all day the cab of my old Ford was warm and comfortable.

We drove the short distance to Saylor’s Old Country Kitchen, a Southeast Portland landmark. It was an old time 1950’s steakhouse, the home of the 72 ounce sirloin, a legendary chunk of meat that if you could eat it and the trimmings in an hour it was yours for free. Its lounge was inviting. Dark, quiet, cheap drinks, a great bar menu and best of all a roaring gas fireplace.

Basking in the warmth of the stone fireplace, I slipped my soaking wet Nikes off. Claire held her hands out toward the warmth of the fire. In spite of the fact her she kept her leather jacket on she shivered. It may have been a combination of the cold and the stress of the day now over escaping. It was easy to see by looking at both of us we were exhausted.

We ordered two Irish Coffees and a half order of onion rings. The warmth of the whiskey quickly spread to every corner of my body. Suddenly I felt comfortable, secure. A feeling that had been absent since leaving the comfort of my bed early that morning. I looked at Claire. She held the warm drink to her face, her eyes closed. She was smiling and in that moment very beautiful. The onion rings came and we ordered another round of drinks. We enjoyed the food, good Irish whiskey and each other’s company. The silence we shared was a welcome respite from the day’s experiences. We knew tomorrow and the rest of the school year would bring more of the same. We both savored the small tranquil space that we now shared.

Claire finally spoke. “Do you think we won one today?” Her voice rose slightly above a whisper.

My answer was measured, groping for some truth, some sense to be made of it all. “I would like to think we did. You and I are good people Claire. I cannot bring myself to believe we are shoveling through this large pile of shit for no reason.” I laughed and added, “We are both smarter than that, right? Then again, maybe not.” We toasted, and finished our drinks and the onion rings. Reluctantly we pulled ourselves away from the fire and braced ourselves to face the elements.

Back at the school, I dropped her off at her Mercedes convertible. In spite of the luxury and class it usually exuded, tonight it looked small and forlorn in the darkness of the parking lot. I walked Claire to her car. “May I,” I said as I opened the door for her.

“How kind of you, sir,” she said, the playfulness and humor that was usually her trademark had returned to her voice. It was a sound I had missed.

“Just trying to dust off my manners, Ma’am. I am a small town boy, ya know, just trying to make my way in the big city.”

“I bet you tell all your lady friends that, silly boy. I am not falling for it.” Even in the darkness I could see her dark brown eyes sparkle and twinkle. The return of our customary banter was as refreshing as summer rain.

I gave her a huge hug. I knew how lucky I was to have her as a partner, a co-worker and a friend. “I guess we’ll do this again tomorrow,” I said half seriously, half-jokingly.

“Just show up in the morning, Darling, I need you.” Her voice was almost seductive, besides she knew I could not, would not let her down. With that, the Mercedes came to life, its powerful engine, the only noise in a deserted parking lot, and then she was gone.

I would like to report that we all lived happily ever after but this is a tale of real life in Rockwood so that is not the case. A pall hangs over the blighted neighborhood, the place where people live when their last hope lies slightly and forever out of reach. Such was the case with Mindy and her family and their place in the universe.

Holly was put on a list to be tested for learning disabilities. Claire and I hoped and prayed that the cumbersome process that is special education would catch up to her before fate did but this was not to be. About a month after our meeting, when hope, given what little there was of it, was at a high point, Mindy was busted for prostitution and drug possession by an undercover cop at a light rail stop. Holly and her little brother vanished overnight, taken into custody by the hell that is the state foster care system. The paperwork which Claire and I had worked so hard to get processed was more than likely thrown into a box in the special education office that was marked, “to shred.” Like so many children before her the small ray of optimism we held so tightly to, vanished in an instant.

The year ground to an unsatisfying end. Spring did not seem as bright in Rockwood as it did other places. When I returned in the fall, Claire was gone. She had left to take a part-time job at Nordstrom’s selling high end fashions to women of leisure. Her struggle was over, fifteen years of futility was enough.

We met downtown a few times for drinks. As always it was good to see her. I told her how much I missed her companionship, her tenacity and her dedication. What I did not tell her is that I was utterly lost without her.

I managed to stay on for a few more years in Rockwood, clinging with a white knuckle grip to my humanity, my sense of right and wrong and a small piece hope that one day the world would get better. That never happened. One day, in the words of Bruce Springsteen, “I cut it loose and let it drag me down.”

You cannot work in the darkness of the world without it exacting a price. Those who think otherwise are fools. This was true of me. One day the façade of bravado that for so long had defined my persona, crumbled and I was left with nothing save a nervous breakdown and a couple of failed suicide attempts. After eight months of unemployment I found work as a file clerk at the Public Defender’s office. I spent my days alone with my Walkman and my music. A photocopy machine and mounds of legal briefs that needed a place to reside were my only company. Over time I was promoted to para-legal, then field investigator. I was good at my job, tenacious, persistent, curious, and un-phased by what I encountered in the seedy strip clubs, trailer parks, meth labs and grow operations that comprised the underside of Clackamas County. The holding cell of the county jail where I did client intake interviews became a strangely comfortable office space. The .357 magnum Smith and Wesson revolver nestled against the small of my back and a pervading apathy about my life gave me the necessary courage I needed to do the job. On more than  one occasion, I turned to tequila. I appeared to be building a new life but the sadness, shame and loss of my teaching career never left my thoughts. Eventually I would return to education, the path would be long and not very easy but that is a story better left for another day.