That Time I Was Retarded

The fact that I’d volunteered to take Carol to her dental appointment ALONE should’ve been a huge clue to my manager that scheming was afoot.  It was completely against protocol, Carol required two staff present at all times but we’d had another mass round of folks quitting again, forces were depleted, Carol being a primary reason for this. Her behaviors were intense, she could fuck you up and the craziness of dealing with the constant threat of being attacked by a vicious, retarded girl was far too much for most people to consider at $5.25 an hour. She also happened to be just one of the 6 aggressive, mentally challenged individuals that resided at Beechwood. I had low standards in every aspect of my life at the time so I didn’t mind the meat grinder as much. Sometimes I even liked the craziness, the fear was a rush and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t take pride in the fact that it was too grueling for most. They were pussies.

Only one Dentist within 100 miles had the testicle fortitude to clean Carol’s teeth. If she had an appointment, it was imperative to keep it since the Doctor made sure he had no clients immediately before or after she came just in case she blew a gasket and tried to kick our asses, which even with her standing at only 4”9, was a real possibility. My argument was that she’d been on a good run the last couple of days, we all knew the other bitch, her other personality, came in cycles like a mental period and she wasn’t due to make us bleed for another couple days. Begrudgingly, my manager complied, allowing my stupid plan to bloom.

“No she’s doing fine” I lied into the payphone to my boss. “Seriously, I think I’m going to hit a drive through for lunch and take her to the park for awhile.”

The reality being that Carol was trippin’ pretty hard. 

During the exam, she flipped and gouged the shit out of my forearms with her nails as I tried to hold her still while Dr. Big Balls finished blasting the tartar off her molars.  She’d settled down enough to get her out the door and all the way to the back of the 15 passenger slate blue GMC van, the safest and only place for her.  Once the seat belt was buckled, Carol would usually stay put. Only on the rarest of occasions would she remove the strap and charge while we were in motion, a key reason she was all the way in the back, it allowed time to formulate a defense.  If you’ve never had your hair pulled or been choked while doing 65 mph down the freeway, I assure you that it’s just as much fun as it sounds.

Yet, I would not be deterred. We weren’t that far from Jose’s, an unusual situation that I was determined to capitalize on.  His neighborhood looked even worse in the daylight and it was startling to see so many prostitutes working the lunch hour shift on a Tuesday. They must’ve been doing well or have seriously slave driving pimps to warrant the plethora milling about like schools of decaying fish. Carol’s mood seemed to darken with every turn as if the scenery itself were controlling her, forcing the other “her” to the surface.

“I hit people bitch!!  I hit people!!”  Carol’s index finger pointed straight at her face as she threatened anyone within arm’s reach. The other one would hurt Carol as well as any unlucky soul she could sink her claws, teeth or fists into. It was worth a fresh scratch or bite mark to feed my new found addiction. We we’re so close now, 2 blocks away.

“O.k. Carol, o.k…. you want a cheeseburger?  Wouldn’t that be good?”  Desperation was the only thing that would even get me to try to reason with the evil one, it was always too late when she started that “I hit people” shit, that meant defcon 4, oblivion was emanate.

I just assumed her screaming was what stirred the concerned looks from Jose’ and his crew as we pulled to a stop in front of his crib. They were hanging out on the porch like people without jobs do in the hood on a weekday. Still cold, but actually sunny for the first time in weeks, even a piece of shit like Southwest Detroit looks more promising when it’s illuminated, draws the roaches out.

Jose’ ambled down the crooked steps of the small porch bursting with lower case G’s, an air of caution  about him that signified much more than a fear of slipping on the icy sidewalk.  His eyes squinted under his signature fitted, black ball cap.

“That’s right bitch!!! I KILL PEOPLE!!!” Carol squalled like a maniac from the back and for some reason this elicited a slow, easy smile from my human drug. Instantly Jose’ appeared at ease, turned to his audience and assured them all was well.

“Shit girl, don’t be doin’ that. You had these muh fuckers scared as hell rolling up in this fuckin thing. We thought we was straight up busted. I heard one of your people’s though, remembered that crazy shit you told me and I connected the dots.”

Unbeknownst to me, the group home van looked EXACTLY like a Detroit “Gang Squad” unit. They were identical, right down to the tinted back glass. We both used it for covert purposes, ours to conceal madness from the general public, they to mask the identity of police officers attempting to squash madness IN the hood republic.

Jose’ jumped into the passenger seat and almost immediately, Carol went dead silent.

“We were just..in the area..so, I dunno, thought I’d pop by..say “hi”.” I sounded so pitiful, like the typical dumbass bitch that gets rapped about so frequently.

“Nah..that’s cool…real cool” he almost whispered as his body strayed across the wide open space between the captain chairs, hand squeezing my right breast as hot, Dentyne breath burned my neck. I’d almost forgotten about Carol until her NICE friends came to visit.

“Ahh…ahh…ahhh…HEY…It’s a bumblebee…Heyyyyyyyyyy…it’s a BUM-BLE-bee” she sing talked while looking down the cuffs of her Parka, tiny face exploding into full bliss. This meant we were good, bumblebee’s in her coat sleeves meant drama had been abated, they chased the evil one away, she’d be fine for hours.

Jose’ stopped molesting my chest long enough to introduce himself.

“Hey Carol. What’s up girl? You got some bee’s in yo jacket? That’s fuckin’ cool as hell.”

So he was sweet in bed AND to retarded people. That was enough for me. He could be a crazy son of a bitch the rest of the time, it only added to his hotness.

Carol was over the moon. Being asked about her coat bee’s elicited a little girl’s laughter, making it simple to forget what a brutal monster lurked inside of her at all times. Something about Jose’ had charmed her. Maybe the evil “her” sensed he was more dangerous than she could ever compel Carol to become. Whatever it was, her nutty ass was completely pliable.

“Well, we we’re going to grab some lunch from Burger King. You wanna come with us?” I asked coyly, like we hadn’t fucked five times a couple of nights ago. 5 times, all ending in amazing climaxes and now I was his dick zombie, it completely controlled me.

With no shame, he made sure I was “buying” before agreeing to my proposal.

“Hey, after we eat, I got a funny fuckin’ idea we need to do if you’re down.”

I was “down” for what-ever-he-said.

After we ate in the parking lot, Jose’ instructed me to stop at a dumpy liquor store.

“Gimme 10 bucks.” He demanded before ejecting and sauntering into the dingy joint, sportin’ his best pimp stroll.

“Put this on.”

He’d purchased a plain, black ball cap very similar to his own and asked if I could pull my hair back. I started to figure out where this was going.

“Put this in.”

First song on his mixtape was Ice Cube’s “My Summer Vacation”, a tune I was very familiar with, satirically loving gangsta rap from its inception. It was something that seemed to impress him which in turn, made my crotch sweat.

“Turn here and hit this.”

I made the left while taking a toke off the blunt he’d just twisted up on the group home van’s mileage log binder. It reminded me that I’d have to come up with something good to fake the miles we were racking up.

“O.k., slow down…just creep. You seem them fools up there on the corner?”

I did.

“When I say so, fuckin’ peel, punch it, got it?” His grin was as sinister as any I’d ever seen.

“NOW!”

The small shred of responsible adult that I tried to stamp out emerged briefly as I slammed on the gas, requiring a glance in the rearview to assess Carol’s state. She and her bee’s appeared to be having the time of their lives.  Maybe we just didn’t get into enough crazy shit to satisfy her blood lust, that’s why the wickedness seeped out with no choice but to beat the crap out of us. I was totally rationalizing endangering a mentally challenged person under my care to lasso the affection of a sociopath, no qualms about it.

All nine of the dudes holding down the corner of Central and Mcgraw were clad in red and black, Latin Count colors. They didn’t notice us until we were almost right on top of them, scattering in every direction, various things from their waist bands and pockets, guns, drugs, etc… being thrown into bushes, sewer grates as they scrambled for freedom.

“Cut it up on the curb!!!”  he cried out like a general giving the final command before a crushing victory.

As any good soldier would do, I heeded my superior’s orders, in the process cutting off the escape of the fattest deserter. I figured he must’ve been the guy with the Malcom X jacket, the one that started the “Yo momma” joke about a helicopter landing on your back because he was fucking enormous and the “X” was stretched to capacity. There was another joke to be made in regards to him being a Mexican in a Malcom X coat but that would have to wait for another time. Not a drop of fighting spirit as he laced his stumpy fingers together behind his head, defeat and jail time washing over his saddened, ham eatin’ jowls.  

The windows in the front of the van were a lighter tint, just enough to shadow two people wearing hats. Jose’ slowly rolled his side down, a cloud of dank pot smoke sneaking out at an equal pace.

“What up Atomic?”  he asked our perp with the polite casualness of a waiter inquiring if he’d like to start off the meal with some jalapeno poppers.

“Jose’? You stupid muh-fucker! Damn dawg, damn! How you gonna play a nigga like that? I threw my fuckin’ dope in a goddamn snow bank Punk!!”

Jose’ was holding his sides, bent in half, howling. It went viral, I started laughing just as hard, never once contemplating what could have happened if one of those guys had been a little harder and drew on us.

“Shit” he squeezed out in between cackles “It ain’t my fault you’sa pussy ass bitch.” 

Atomic dug through the snow, still mad as he wanted to be, searching frantically for his product. 

The laughing started again, this time it was Carol. I was pretty sure she didn't understand what had just happened, it was just the chaos she found humorous. Jose’ loved her.

“That’s right Carol, Atomic’s dumb as hell. Shit’s funny ain’t it girl? Yeah it is. Stupid, fat muh-fucker.”

I could only imagine how low Atomic’s self esteem would plummet upon the discovery he was being made fun of by a retarded chick.

“Well damn, you can at least give a nigga ride after pullin’ some ho shit like that. You shut the whole fuckin’ corner down with this bullshit. Hope you happy, makin’ nigga’s lose money, shit is wack.”

To Jose’s credit, he actually asked if it was cool before telling Atomic to climb in, as if there were a chance I’d say no to any request he made. I was gone.

Our new passenger was completely comfortable with Carol, asking her questions like where she was from, did she have any brothers or sisters, stuff I never knew or cared enough to find out. She answered every question with a “yes” or “no”, elaborations beyond that were impossible for her. Then he pulled out his Glock.

“What’s this Carol?” Atomic held the gun up in the air, displaying it, causing me to tense up hard.

I glanced over at Jose’ biting my lip, fighting back my objections but to my relief he was on my side.

“Ay man, ay…” Jose said diplomatically “chill with that shit. You gon’ scare her. Put your piece away man.”  

Shockingly, before he could, Carol gave an extremely stoic answer.

“Gun.”

Atomic was thrilled. “That’s right, that’s right, and what do you do with a gun Carol?”

With a sneaky smile and without a second’s delay, she responded.

“Shoot people.”

“Oh snap!” Jose’ exclaimed. “Carol’s a fuckin’ G…ha-ha-ha….damn!”

I’d taken Carol to a dangerous neighborhood in the company van, pretended to be cops conducting a bust, and exposed her to criminals who put her in close proximity to a loaded firearm as a joke. What happened to be the worst thing I’d done in my life ironically seemed to make Carol happier than I’d ever seen her. Maybe Jose’ was right. Maybe Carol was a “G” and the evil “her” that crept out was just the part of her personality that raged with resentment for being restrained in Suburbia when she should’ve been strapped with a gat, slangin’ rocks and pimpin’ ho’s.

Maybe that was it or maybe, and probably most likely, we were both retarded.

Retarded People Kick Ass!

I had been at "Beechwood" group home for nearly 3 months before it happened. Just long enough to get complacent and think that I'd seen everything it had to offer. Everyone had acted up in some capacity by that point and I had handled myself just fine as usual. Coming from "Covington" group home where there were 6 residents who ALL had violent behaviors, "take downs" were just apart of your work day so going to "Beechwood" and it's four clients was a cake walk in my opinion.

If you're not familiar with the living situation I'm talking about, allow me to explain. The group homes I worked at were for the mentally retarded who had nowhere to go once they closed a lot of the mental institutions in Michigan because of abuse and neglect. People used to be incredibly ignorant in how they treated them. I.E.-"Stacking them" on top of each other-the workers in these places would bet on how high they could get the pile before they toppled over. "Shower time" sometimes involved a firehose and "dinner time" was "slop" doled out into a bowl and if it was stolen by another retarded person, then the victim would just go without.

Yeah, it was great.

So once the "powers that be" pulled their heads out of their asses and realized how fucked up this was, they decided to put alot of these folks in nice homes in residential areas and try to assimilate them to living in society. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it was just better than what they got in the institution. Such as being raped with broom handles like "Chuck" , one of the guys I took care of. Poor Chuck. He wasn't even retarded when he was put in a facility. He was just a hyperactive child who now a days would've been put on Ritalin but it was the 1950's and he had extremely ignorant parents. Chuck became what they call "institutionally retarded" after years of abuse. By the time I worked with him, he either talked to himself constantly OR jerked off.

"Take Downs" were something we were taught during a 2 week training course back when I started my career as a "direct care" staff in 1992. It has since become a defunct practice due to misuse. Because alot of these folks still weren't capable of acting civilized, many times they would become violent and you had to know how to physically restrain them WITHOUT hurting them. That's where the technique of "taking them down" came into play.

The teaching of this was ridiculous. The instructor told me to act as though I was attacking her so that she could show the class a choreography of an acceptable "take down". She grabbed my right wrist, pulled me towards her while spinning me around away from her. Then she grabbed my left wrist to where she had me in a wrap then started backing up till I lost my balance and lowered me to the floor where she held me like that for a minute or two. GAY.

It was gay because as I would find out, the shit didn't work when the person was trying to bite, scratch, punch, kick and jab your fucking eyes out. What I found out was that sometimes the "unacceptable" was the only way to save your ass from getting pummeled. Meaning sometimes you did things that the general public would call abusive but that's only because they weren't being attacked by a 250 pound man who wanted more dessert.

"Covington" had 6 residents. Two women and four men and in my 5 years there- I was bit, punched, had a chair broke over my back and basically had my butt kicked by all of them. It was heaven and hell in the respects that because it was such an outlaw job, it attracted a motley crew who I adored working with. We were all a little crazy and did a lot of drugs and laughed as much as we could when we weren't bandaging our wounds.

We DID take good care of these guys when they allowed us to. Trips to the circus, ice shows, Tiger's games.....we stayed on the move doing our best to integrate these people into society. We made them nutritious meals, made sure they were clean and neatly dressed and always tried to keep them entertained. The more their minds were occupied the less the bad stuff would creep in and get them stirred up. After 5 years though....I became very burned out and couldn't really handle the madness anymore so when a friend told me about "Beechwood" home and that there were only 4 dudes and only one of whom was violent, I figured I was ready for something more relaxing.

What I didn't know was that the dude (Bubba) was like all 6 of the "Covington" residents in one. He came out during my interview and I was taken a back at his size. He was 6"2 and 375 pounds. The biggest client I had ever worked with by far. When he bounded into the the living room he was humming and then stopped right in front of me and leaned down smiling showing off his IMPRESSIVE set of huge choppers that I was informed he wasn't shy about using. Especially on various body parts when he was upset. He had bitten a chunk out of the old manager's breast-hence why she was the OLD manager. She quit after that.

I should've been more intimidated than I was after reviewing each resident's written behavior plans. For Chuck, Randy, and Joe it was pretty well defined and they all kinda ended the same with you asking them to go to their rooms until they calmed down. The same thing with Bubba unless (it stipulated) he was really angry and then there was only one plan........"RUN!!!"

I was told he wouldn't attack the other residents so you didn't need to worry about protecting them, just worry about saving your own skin. I was also explained to that there were various levels to his rage and that the first two were manageable. Meaning if he came running out of his room yelling or if he was simply just wringing his hands together and trying to get in your face he generally could just be taken "forcefully" under his arm and led back to his room until he was ready to act right.

They told me I'd know when it was time to run because he would come out quick and silent and that his large pop eyes would split. One would be looking to the left and the other to the right. If I were to ever witness this, I needed to get the fuck outta there quick.

Well three months had passed and I'd never seen this demonic "eye thing" I'd been warned about. MANY times however, I'd had to lead him back to his room or give him crap about something inappropriate he'd done like stealing a whole tub of butter and eating it. We had padlocks on the fridge and cabinets because of his treachery. Once he tried to eat Cremora and it formed a big ball in his throat that he started choking on. Because of is enormous girth, we couldn't do the heimlich so we had to squash him against the counter until he coughed it up. IMMEDIATELY he grabbed the ball of Cremora, shoved it back in his mouth and started choking again.

As much as I shouldn't have been, I was still completely caught off guard when I was setting up evening snack one night when I heard my co-worker "Destiny" yell out "RUN girrrrl!!!!" He had trucked right past her but she noticed his eyes and knew instantly what we were in for. I, on the other hand thought I was dealing with "angry Bubba" and kept pouring Kool-Aid not even looking at him when I said "Get the hell outta hear Bubba, it's not ready yet."

He didn't make a move or a sound and I looked up from my toiling only to realize what the fuck they were talking about finally when it came to the "eye/split" thing. They totally were! One was looking one way and the other in the complete opposite direction. "Holy Shit!" I heard myself say and before I could even think about bolting ...he had me.

He reached out with both hands grabbing my long hair and picked me up in the air off of my feet. Once in the air he shook me around back and forth like a Pit-bull who was about to eat a kitten. I felt my hair ripping at the root and all at once he slammed me to the ground and I scrambled under the kitchen table. Destiny had grabbed a broom at this point and was yelling at him enough to distract him so that I could make my escape. "Go bitch! Go!" she cried as he went for her instead but she made her way to the pantry and locked the door while I hauled ass to the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind me.

I fumbled in my pockets for a cigarette and my hands shook violently as I attempted to light it. I could hear him coming down the hallway for me and he was making a ghastly noise that sounded worse than any shriek in any haunted house I'd ever been to. I toked long and hard on my Newport as he drew closer.

"Thank God the door's locked" I reassured myself as the door knob started to turn. What no one had known until that moment was that the lock on the door wasn't working. It only appeared to lock and as the door slowly began to open, I almost shit my pants. "Fuck!!!!" I screamed as he busted in coming right at me. I had nowhere to go as he closed in on me and so out of desperation, I tried to burn him with my cigarette. Not to be thwarted, he swiftly knocked out it of my hand like he was trained in hand to hand combat by the Navy Seals instead of fucking mentally retarded with the I.Q. of a two year old.

He grabbed me with both hands by the hair again only this time he brought those brilliantly white, huge canines out for a test drive. He was trying to pull my cheek to his mouth and bite a fucking mound off of it and in that moment, I thought I was fucking done for. I was going to be one of those sad people you see in public with some awful physical deformity that makes you feel sorry for the person and wonder what the fuck happened to them.

"NOOO!!!" I screamed defiantly and somehow managed to gather my wits. I mustered enough strength to whip my head away from him but he still had my hair wrapped in his hands. In one mighty burst of "I don't give a fuck" I just started trying to run away from him. I felt strand after strand rip from scalp as I LITERALLY ran out of my own hair. He lost his balance and leaned back against the wall and I was able to naviagate myself into the office that had a WORKING lock a get myself together. 5 minutes later he was fine and wanted me to play "poker chips" with him and I did. Fuckin' A.

It was the WORST attack I've ever suffered at the hands of a developmentally disabled person by far and my neck was messed up for about a month. Not to mention, once we picked up all my hair from the floor it filled two Ziplock freezer bags. Believe it or not I stayed there for another 5 years.

Bubba NEVER got me again though. After that, I was so in tune with his moods that I could tell as soon as his feet hit the floor what level he was at and a couple of times I ended up being "Destiny" to someone else who thought they'd seen it all or knew what Bubba was about. It was a hard lesson to learn.