CHAPTER 3
(Margie Tierno Pencils me in)
I later wondered if she thought I was incredibly stupid. I was too far away from the table to see what all she was looking at in the paperwork. I tried to play along as I honestly couldn't see what she was reading.
"Ah-ha-ha-heh-hah!" Hissed Margie from the counseling center in Philadelphia. I had to walk a good mile down the road from the halfway house to visit her. Christine Fidanza, (Our Queen B) had insisted it was mandatory that I do drug and rehab counseling despite NO DRUG HISTORY, not even failing a drug test once in my life. I was a pretty smart guy. The program came with a certificate that future employers like to see and in actuality the Halfway house supervisor was only doing me a favor. Drug and alcohol counseling. The distraction I would need in the future to keep nosy coworkers at bay. Drugs were popular in Philly and not entirely frowned upon. It was probably better my coworkers assumed I spent my free time snorting coke verses working my tiny clock smith fingers tying and twisting up those little red and black wires.
Margie continued to laugh until she realized she had to say something before I got too curious.
"Haldol! Risperdal! Lithium! Depakote!" She chuckled, "This list just goes on and on! I've never seen anything like it!"
Like I said. I couldn't SEE the paperwork. I really hoped she was only laughing at all the psychotropic meds I had taken since age 17 and not reading about the funny ding dong story Tim Mekeel wrote about my pee pee in 2005 when the Weapon's Of Mass Destruction charges came out. Anybody that knew anything or had a good memory would know that George Bush invented the words "terrorists" and "weapons of mass destruction" just to power play words and scare people. Those words do not exist in the really older generation dictionaries.
Nor does the word "tweet". That's what birds do.
I passed Margie the pamphlet I found in the rack in the lobby. It had three big bold letters on the front of it. OVR. My fellow inmates had assured me it was nicknamed the "retard" program and that I could capitalize from it somehow. In actuality the OVR stood for Occupational Vocational Rehabilitation program. It was basically meant for real stupid people or somebody just in dire need of some job training financial assistance.
Margie looked at the pamphlet as if she had seen them on a daily basis. She eyed me up and down for a split second. Even gave me a quizzical look.
"So I guess you want me to write you a note so you can enter this program?" She said.
I nodded my head.
"Sure that's no problem but I'm just curious. What occupation were you looking to do?"
"I wanna be a truck driver!"
Margie just chuckled. "Hey that's fine with me. I'll gladly write you a note to help you get into the program."
I don't fully remember what Margie wrote in that doctor's note but whatever it was worked. I had a few more hoops anyways to jump through after her note but it was definitely a good start. I was basically the only dude on the program without a drug and alcohol problem and Margie found it hilarious that I was always coming into the group wearing that Corona hat my sister gave me. My sister started out a waitress then got her bar tending license so she had a lot of access to that kind of apparel. She also got her license at Empire Beauty school but stuck with Bar managing as it proved to yield her more profit than any trucker out there on the road. Even the shirt tucking Super Truckers that clucked their false teeth to intimidate the DOT Marshals couldn't make more money than sis whipping up those drinks and lending an ear to those lonely fat boys still wearing Star Wars t-shirts. She was always professional with her endeavors especially when it came to making buddies with her X-boyfriends Parole Officers.
Margie eventually got unassigned from being my therapist just as I had anticipated. I had read once online that there were articles mentioning that phalloplasty victims had to see not just a psychiatrist but it was worded "numerous" psychiatrists. I had already surmised that the ones seeing "numerous" psychiatrists were in the same boat as me and their cases never made it into the civil courts like the well compensated other victims.
The twelve step program printed on the wall always had me chuckling during our lame group meetings. In my early high school years I despised people with chronic drug problems but the older I got that antipathy just turned into flat out envy. Like I said earlier. Numbers can't lie and always tell a story. My SSI records didn't portray me in the least bit living a life similar to "That Seventies Show". My parents were coupon clippers and I could never find a sugar momma to shoulder lean and get those fun doobie snack times in. I was always employed and companies drug tested so I was quite jealous of this "shoulder leaning" crowd cuz they were evidently leaning on somebody's shoulder to make those wild moments happen in life where Mario jumps off the television screen and onto the pillow case. Lucky lil snapper heads milking it out in momma's basement.
One good time I always remembered and giggled about was when we had our weekly co-ed counseling. We all had to sit in a circle and take turns telling the counselor what we intended to do after we got released permanently from the halfway house. I had the two girls in the room giggling when I told the counselor I was going to spend the rest of my days staring at a really big rock like a frog lost in thought. But the funniest one? Why the big well endowed 6'5" tall Muslim brother that figured out how to LEGALLY get even with society. Keep in mind we were ALL in great financial detriment.
"I'm gonna make babies! Lots and lots of babies. Like at least ten!"
It was all I could do to keep my composure. Why risk going back to jail by doing those drive by shootings when you can pick ALL the taxpayers pockets by multiplying another ten times? This man was truly a genius!
The counselor wanted to quibble with him a bit. "But you already have three!"
My man told it like it was. "I know. Now I'll have thirteen!"
I still found the whole thing amusing. I had lost everything too. Bush sent my textile job over seas so I didn't have to worry about those WIC payments coming out of MY pockets. It was sounding like my friend over there figured out a very creative way to get even with society without risking going back to jail. I just couldn't figure out why the two girls in the room were so amused about my staring at a rock comment?