Social Worker Dayle

Writing is my release.

It’s my anti-drug.

Check that. It’s my drug of choice.

I can sit on a train full of disgruntled, annoyed, loud, talkative people who have nothing better to do for a full hour than bitch, moan and otherwise vent their general frustrations regarding a world that is neither fair nor friendly, and lose myself completely within the text that I am writing. I have, at times, looked up to realize that I’m now at my stop and must quickly save and shut down my laptop, shove the mass into my briefcase and shoulder the whole affair while stumbling down stairs and hoping those sliding doors won’t maim either of my writing hands.

It’s a gift.

Check that also. It’s a curse.

Any writer worth their salt, and that’s all most writers make, will tell you that writing is as much rapture as it is apocalypse. There are stories that writers want to tell, and there are stories that need to be told and sometimes, if you’re very lucky, those stories will be one in the same.

The rest of the time, what flows from brain synapse to keystrokes (though a few still use pen and paper) to electronic screen is as amazing to the writer as it is (hopefully) to the reader. Some stories sit like a Nazi-monkey in khaki and jackboots on a writer’s shoulder, beating their back with a leather riding-crop and mercilessly chirping, “Write me, write me, write me,” in their abused eardrum.

The appeal to me, and I would think for most authors, is that they are the god, the Yahweh, the Jehovah of their own little created world. If they don’t like a character, or if they particularly like him/her, they can kill them off to applause of tears. If, for instance, a social worker of particular despicable abilities refuses to return calls, any number of interesting and devilish tortures can be created for hours, days, months, years of trauma.

Such visions of nasty sugarplum-coated vengeance are currently dancing in my head.

Sherman, set the Way Back Machine for, oh, September of this year. At that time, apparently, our house needed to be re-evaluated for approval as a safe place for Justice to live. We carefully hid the high explosives and blasting caps, cleaned the rust from the punji sticks and buried all the skeletons at a remote desert location. I wasn’t present for the review, which is usually a good thing as I have a tendency to become quickly and irrevocably annoyed with any agents of The Man.

The end result was that our house was certified safe once again, and Lillian was cleared to care for Justice, but that I had failed to sign some particular line of a form, and needed to be finger-printed again. Not my fault, mind you. This was a failure of the inept and poorly trained electronic finger-printing expert who took about two hours of frustrating time to actually finger-print Lil and I. Lil had to go back in for a second grueling session.

Apparently, finger-prints change as you get older.

This was pointed out to me, in excruciating detail, by the assigned home evaluator who, quite annoyingly, refused to contact me directly, but instead spoke with Lillian. Lillian, in her kind and pleasant way, kept saying, “CALL MY HUSBAND ON HIS CELL PHONE, DAMNIT!”

Alright, Lil didn’t yell and she didn’t say “damnit” but I think you’ll agree this is far more dramatic.

When I finally did speak with the home evaluator, she was quite vehement that I go in for my finger-printing. I advised her, quite calmly (no exaggeration) that at this time my work schedule was quite hectic and I would do my best to get in as soon as was possible. When she insisted that I provide her with a “when”, I’m sure my tone became slightly harsher.

“As I already said,” I said, “I will get to it as soon as possible.”

“Well,” my evaluator nemesis replied. “If you don’t do it soon then any funding or services will be cut off.”

Yes, that’s right. Justice had been in the house for over a year, and between her original placement and this conversation, with a lack of “properly signed finger-prints” on file, our house was about to be deemed ineligible for services.

In case you’re wondering, services mean Justice’s health, dental and vision care. Justice’s therapist care. Justice’s stipend for food, clothes, school supplies and any trips to the shoe-store. That’s right, we’re making a bundle off this little girl who never gives us any problems and who never grows, wears out her old clothes, eats much more than a pittance and never, ever has been sick. I’m surprised more people don’t foster simply based on how easy it is to work within the system and the large piles of cash they deliver you.

My response was simple and to the point:

“You do not need to threaten us,” I replied.

“Sir,” whenever someone calls me “sir” I know I’ve hit a mark, “I’m not threatening.”

“Ma’am,” I like to be condescending like that, “You just suggested that if we don’t do what you want us to do that you will punish us by removing a foster-child’s services. As I stated, I will get to the finger-printing as soon as I can, but right now is difficult.”

I then hung-up.

Oh, but the fun doesn’t stop there. About a month later we received two notices that Justice’s stipends and healthcare had been cut. True, I had not been finger-printed just yet, but I had made the appointment that week. Immediately, I was on the phone to Justice’s attorney, Sue, who told me that I needed to call the social worker first, but that if I didn’t get an immediate response to call her office back. I called the man, who I thought, was Justice’s social worker, Jonah.

“Oh no, Mister McCandless,” he said in his amazing amorphous African accent, “I am no longer the primary social worker for Justice. But I will call the new social worker and let her know. Here is her number.”

I waited one day, did no receive a return call, and began calling the new Social Worker Dayle. Three days later, I still had no return call. I called Justice’s lawyer again. In between Sue calling me back, I went and got my finger-prints done. While driving home, and I kid you not, while in my truck driving back to my house from taking half the day off to go get finger-printed, Lil called:

“Did you get a message from the social worker?”

“No.”

“She left a message on my phone saying they’re taking Justice out of the house on Thursday because you refused to get finger-printed.”

Metaphorically, I hit the roof. Hitting the roof literally hurts your head, hands, or whatever appendage you decided was most convenient the moment before you remember that it hurts. I don't mind anyone saying I'm annoying, rude, uncultured, self-important or self-centered egomanical letcher, but lies are something I pride myself on when I tell them. This was not one I told.

I called Social Worker Dayle, left my fifth unreturned message, and then was on the phone to Sue, the lawyer, for the second time that day.

Sue answered the phone.

Sue hit the roof.

I cannot say if it was literal or metaphorical.

I filled her in on the entire story, she then contacted Social Worker Dayle, but also received a voice mail message and then called Social Worker Dayle’s supervisor, Cathy, who had just taken over the department and had worked with Sue in the past.

There are times when utter ineptness is met with utter ability and is crushed like pepper in a mill and sprinkled on a nice salad to be chewed thoughtfully, thoroughly and then passed the bowels.

This was one of those times. Supervisor Cathy made certain that Justice’s healthcare status was reinstated, she was ordered to remain in our care, and Social Worker Dayle was ordered to contact us and give us a status report. For the moment I was sated by the exquisite taste of a successful day spent working the phones.

However, that victory was short-lived. I kept calling both Social Worker Dayle and her Supervisor Cathy. Cathy and I now have a witty repartee going, but until today I had not heard from Social Worker Dayle. This is a problem because Justice is court ordered to have a meeting with her father supervised by Justice’s therapist and an evaluation report is court ordered to be sent in prior to the December 4th trial.

Without the meeting, the therapists evaluation, and the court reading that evaluation, it's entirely possible that the trial will have to be "continued" until the following month.

Today, Wednesday, Social Worker Dayle left me a voice mail stating that she and Supervisor Cathy would like us to come in “with the child” (seriously, that’s her term, she never once said “Justice” . . . perhaps the word sticks in her throat and chokes her like a chicken-bone . . . a boy can dream) “Thursday before 4pm.” She said Thursday as if it was a week or so off and we had plenty of time to make preparations and rearrange our work schedules and lives to make this impromptu meeting, never minding such inconvenient and bothersome facts that tomorrow is Thursday.

Lovely.

I called back immediately, since I'm sure Social Worker Dayle was packing up for the day, not to be heard from or reachable by any human, alien, or telepathic means. We went through the same courtesies that a mongoose and a cobra go through upon initial introduction (by the way, I'm the mongoose). I then cut to the chase.

"We will try to be there, but this is incredibly short notice," I began going straight for her throat, and latching teeth near her spine, loathing the taste of snakey-nastiness.

"Yessss," she hissed back, "But my sssssupervisor issss going out of town sssssoon."

"We'll try," I said, trying to get a better grip on her scales with my razor-sharp teeth. "Can I ask if the father has been contacted for the visit?"

"No, not yet," she lashed with her tail trying to dislodge me.

"When will that happen?"

"Sssssssss . . ." she replied.

In my mind, I broke her back at that point and she writhed on the dirty ground of an India village garden. It's not true, of course, but this Riki-tiki-tavi fantasy is nicely gorey and has an upbeat ending, in complete contradiction to the real world.

We'll have to meet Thursday, but my teeth will be cleaned and my mongoose-ian claws will be at the ready.