Caseload

He who sits in the heavens shall laugh.

Psalm 2:4

As I pour myself a vodka and tonic, studying how the carbonation spews miniature geysers when it hits the ice, I realize how quiet life has become. I’ve seen more chaos than I have ever cared to or asked for, but Cheryl is my client. And while her perpetual need for guidance grinds on, I can’t help but notice the parallel between her quest for validation and my own crusade to jump a level. Do I honestly believe it matters anymore? I’m doing a good job, granted -- the perks are decent, but when you strip it down, I want someone to notice. Just like Cheryl.

I’m loving the solitude. Even tiny bubbles are now endlessly fascinating. When the last fizzles into a spiral, I remind myself a week has flown by without a word from her. When you consider Cheryl laments during her entire waking hours (and sometimes even in her sleep), I should be worried. Still, I wait. Looks like one more bubble struggling to the surface.

I must keep my intolerance for weakness in check. (I have to overcome it if I ever expect to sit on that tier.) I could be assigned to hopeless causes, the kind my colleague Wes deals with most of the time. Poor guy. He once pulled 24/7 duty over an eighteen-month-old locked in an attic for two weeks with a mattress, a box of Cheerios and a bowl of water. Oh yeah, and a stuffed skunk to keep him company. Wes spent most of his time diverting the rats while the baby slept, making sure the box spilled its pile of o’s on the other side of the room, or nudging Mom out of her crack haze to change her baby’s diaper. The gig took its toll: now Wes has trouble with all things circular. A mere glimpse of a glazed Krispy Kreme, even a child’s inner tube, sets him into a spin so fast that he throws up. When that happens, a tsunami hits somewhere in the world, or ten days of rain transform hillsides filled with swanky houses into mud baths. Remember when the levees broke? Wes. Can’t blame him for being on the cautious side.

It occurs to me that Cheryl’s silence could mean she checked into an Ashram, which would really piss off the Boss. When he’s forced to acknowledge one of his children in that way, no matter how many hours they’ve fasted or remained silent, he feels slighted. His orders were explicit during orientation -- avoid direct calls, handle your cases, and maintain the proper hierarchy of response. Should a client seek a rogue venue, intervene. It would be just like Cheryl to grow impatient and go right to the source. She’s that desperate for direction.

Recently, I discovered that Cheryl’s hand-wringing, brow-tightening angst could be cured with the oldest antidote in the universe. Sex.

But let’s get back to Wes. Had it not been for my dear colleague and his new assignment, I’d be marooned in India trying to convince my client that there are no shortcuts. You see, after the baby died in his arms, Wes pulled duty over David, a tween prone to inappropriate emotions. David had taken scissors to his mom’s chesterfield, shaved his head, and refused to speak to his dad. All because they tried to explain he wasn’t the reason they were splitting up.

David’s mom kicked his dad out of the house when she came back from a weekend-long soul recognition. Having had many hands laid upon her by equally troubled humans in search of their next clue, David’s mom reached an epiphany: she preferred women. That was why she ran to the guest bedroom whenever his dad proposed “a little poke.” Wes and I enjoyed a good chuckle over that one, but I digress.

We were sipping our usual V&T during a freak snowstorm (not Wes’s fault) one early spring morning, dissecting my failure to elevate Cheryl onto a new plateau. “She has money and power,” I said, “but not what she really wants, a soul mate.” Wes paused, a nuance he’s affected that makes him appear contemplative. I’ll have to try it.

“Some people resign themselves to walking the treadmill to nowhere,” he said, pointing below where frost rimed a tier neither of us wanted any part of. “You know what they say about good intentions.”

It’s true Cheryl appeared perfectly content to climb on board day in, day out, push Go and agonize over familiar terrain. For thirteen years, she hop-scotched over a checkered playing field, leaping from a dismal job as assistant to the CEO of TrueLine Hardware to community bank branch manager, Pampered Chef associate (she hates to cook), water systems analyst, and eventually, digital sign rep for the entire Northeast. As a sideline, a way to fill empty evenings, she became a certified massage therapist, which led to this mystical journey of hers. Cheryl started banging bongos in drum circles, running naked through forests chanting, “Release! Release!” until she grew hoarse and her feet bled from evergreen needles and thistle. My V&T intake increased in proportion to her enlightenment.

I tried steering her in another direction with an easy, safe stint as the CEO for a regional trade association, my answer to her restlessness. It seemed like the perfect solution. A) She was single and had to depend on her earning power. B) When she interacted with people from a position of authority, she was happy -- all that babble about chakras and the Sacred Feminine dissolved like baking soda under a hot tap. And, C) associations are recession proof as long as groups of people want discount health care.

Cheryl managed to drag herself to the interview. But when she discovered she had to wear pantyhose every day, she crossed the job off her list and cursed me for coming up with a stupid idea. Next thing I know, she’s withdrawing four hundred bucks for Soul Recognition, Part II, running through thickets of national parks, discovering her inner panther...which points to her new-found happiness and our brilliant plan.

A promotion’s on the horizon, I can feel the heat now.

You see, during the course of Wes’s encounter with young David, who moved from stabbing the chesterfield to stuffing his Suzuki music sheets into the pool filter, I sensed opportunity. David would heal if his mom found a partner.

Wes and I watch the lights of the city dim under an early spring sky as I connect the dots for him.

“David’s mom is not my assignment,” he protests, responding to my suggestion that he go beyond the minimum, his standard effort after that horrendous case he’s still trying to forget.

“Well, isn’t she?” I argue. “David’s reacting to the emotional temperature of the household, which by now must be arctic. This calls for more string pulling. C’mon, work outside the ionosphere.”

“You can’t be suggesting,” Wes says, his blue eyes turning a deep shade of lapis lazuli. He shakes his head. “I think you’ve eavesdropped on one too many soul recognitions.”

“Think about it.” I place my finger gently under his chin, guiding him back from his usual plunge into defeatist thinking. “David would be much happier if mom were, and mom would be happier if she could test her recent attraction to women on a willing subject.” I feel so certain, it could already be happening.

Wes cocks his head, shaking off some of the downy layer we shed this time of year. I pick a feather from my lip and continue. “We’ve discussed this over and over again, my dear Wesley. Cheryl simply cannot find happiness because, well...” I roll my eyes, sigh, and say it anyway, “...she’s looking for it in all the wrong places.” I hold my empty glass out for a refill. The recruits on this level are accommodating, but I’m convinced their fortitude masks for snooping. They’re soaking it all in, hoping to bump veterans like Wes and me down a tier.

I now have Wes’s full attention.

“I say we do a little matchmaking. Cheryl already knows David’s mom from the retreat, right? All they need is a little push. From you.”

Again, he bridles. “I told you David’s mom is not my responsibility!”

I recognize fear talking -- he didn’t want to chance another side effect. He constantly needs reassurance that I’d back him if anyone tries pinning the entire global warming rap on him.

“Is that you felt when that baby’s diapers finally got changed? His mom didn’t report to you either, but you made her change them. Your David’s little tantrum, stuffing the pool filter, was a step in the right direction, my friend. Got our attention.”

Wes eyes me with suspicion. “You haven’t been to the Attitude Infiltration workshop yet, have you? Sounds like you need to learn some of his new gimmicks.” He points below us. “Fools you into thinking you’re more empowered than you are.”

“My attitude has not been tarnished, rest assured. This is all for the greater good.”

He folds his arms, juts out that Michelangelo chin of his.

“Fine, then. I’ll do it. I know it’s against regulations, but I’ll take my chances. Here’s the plan. Once little David becomes even more incorrigible, mom will flee to her next retreat where Cheryl will be wrangling with that inner panther of hers. David’s mom will be primed for adventure! She’ll follow the vibration I’ll set up around Cheryl, initiate dialogue with an admission: she doesn’t know what do with little David. The two will commiserate. Cheryl’s libido will kick in - she tends to gravitate to the vulnerable - and she’ll realize the game has shifted from self-flagellation to initiating a cross-over.”

Wes drains his glass and belches.

We wait.

“Thunderstorm,” Wes announces. He swivels the ice at the bottom of his tumbler as if scrambling a bag of runes. “So how does all this brilliant scheming of yours help David?”

Perhaps my answer is a bit too smug for my own good. We are encouraged to practice humility from time to time.

“‘Love never fails’.” I wink. (Okay, slightly arrogant, I’ll take my chances.) “Corinthians.”

Wes examines his empty tumbler. “In this case, it doesn’t have the luxury.”

I knew I was on to something.

Wes didn’t like to admit it, but having David stay with his father while his mother ran through another thicket shrieking, “Evolve! Evolve!” turned out to be inspired. Armed with the confidence of a good decision, Wes and I bandied about our next assignments, feeling the end of our current cases fast approaching. As leaves crunch beneath us - we believe in walking the same paths as our clients - we entertain ourselves with the possibility of enlightening tortured souls of terrorists, surely our next assignments when we make first tier. My pager vibrates just as we begin to prepare our acceptance speeches.

“...please let this be the real thing...do you hear me? I can’t go through this all over again--” Cheryl, confused and elated as David’s mom sucked her fingers. There have been plenty of clues leading to David’s mom’s--

“Wes? ‘David’s mom” is a mouthful. What is her name? And don’t tell me it’s not your responsibility.”

“Lori.”

“Merci. Prego. Danke.”

As I was saying, Cheryl had plenty of time to recognize Lori’s increasing interest in her. But self-loathing clouded her radar.

“This is real. This is real. This is real.”

Again with the affirmations. I feel obligated to intervene, but wait until the new couple’s final farewell of the weekend.

“I don’t want this weekend to end,” Lori sobs into Cheryl’s polo. Cheryl holds fast and tight to Lori’s layers of batik.

I bend over and whisper into my client’s ear, her hair lifting with the gentle breeze: “Phone sex.”

A shiver travels down the right side of Cheryl’s body. She brightens.

“What?’ Lori snuffles.

I feel the bravado inside Cheryl swell like a bowl of sea monkeys. “We found each other at sundown, right?” She’s breathless with the realization.

Lori nods, her eyes weighted with confusion and concern.

“So, let’s make a date. Every night at sundown, we’ll call - we’ll take turns - no matter where we are.” Cheryl embraces Lori. “We’ll make love.”

Lori, her brain ticking off ways to continue this long-distance love affair with a twelve-year-old lurking about, says, “Oh my Gawd, phone sex? That’s brilliant! I could go into the study, close the door like I always do. David would think I was reading--” She plants a full-mouth kiss on Cheryl.

“Love never fails!” Cheryl chirps.

I must pay more attention to my clients’ REM state, though I am thankful Cheryl’s subconscious yielded something hopeful for a change.

When Cheryl struts back to her CR-V, her nascent confidence and her Docs tear up the ground. I take this as a good sign, far better than that inner panther of hers clawing out her insides.

Wes and I switch to White Russians, something creamy to complement this squall of a plan, one that seems to be working. We await new assignments so we’re taking advantage of the downtime. He tells me about David’s weekend with dad.

“Poor kid had had it after two days of round-the-clock ESPN, dear ol’ dad guzzling Sam Adams and digging into an endless bowl of Doritios,” Wes says.

I raise an eyebrow.

“Hey, c’mon! Dad’s not my responsibility, okay?”

I relent.

Wes preens. “David cried to go home. He got down on his knees, promising never to stuff the pool filter again or missing handing in his homework. He even promised to go back to CCD classes.” He reaches behind his back to scratch his shoulder. This molting season can be murder. “I wasn’t going to fall for any of that, of course,” he says. “I made David stay with his father the whole four days and I swear, dad was just as relieved as I to bid his only son adieu. Case closed!”

“Was that the clincher? Too much ESPN?” I say, trying to engage Wes’s full attention, but he’s already levitating, relieving an itch.

“Not sure. All I know is the night David came home, he was only too happy to stay in his room and finish his term paper about the Industrial Revolution. He remembered it was due the next day. When Lori knocked on his door around nine, he was deep into researching child labor. Lori helped him finish it.”

“Really?”

Wes nods. “David was so grateful he allowed her to read him a bedtime story.”

I hail another rookie for a bowl of butter creams. This is cause for celebration - chocolate and a White Russian? Now that’s heaven.

“That confirms my theory,” I say. “The phone sex worked. No more silly affirmations and gut-wrenching pleas for help on this end, and you won’t be losing any more feathers over young David’s outbursts.” I pop an entire disc of candy-coated chocolate into my mouth, turning it round and round, waiting for it to melt to dime size before I sip the last of my Russian. “Our clients now exist in a state of soul recognized bliss. Time well spent, dear Wesley.”

We gaze out upon the blaze of sunset, thinking it an eruption of some kind.

Turns out it’s one of those ambitious rookies floating our way, two gold envelopes fluttering in her right hand.

I open mine as a fan of light sprays the sky. I marvel at its magnificence and flag the rookie for a second round of White Russians. Wes and I have more celebrating to do.