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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
The Tull Unification - 2. Chapter 2: Mike Tulley
font>Dear reader: This is technically chapter two, the first having been the short story 'Jack in the Green'. You can read this without the other, but by the third chapter things will make more sense if read in order. I'd like to thank Paul and Nigel for beta reading, Cole for editing and my friend Cathy for the technical details on the professional end of this chapter.
The waiting room was small and about half full. After checking in I glanced around to find a place to sit that wasn't too close to anyone else. Doctors waiting rooms were like elevators, in my opinion - what else is there to do besides not talk to the other person? I sat across from a lady who appeared to be Latino and a kid who was of indeterminate age - or species. A large hat covered its tilted-forward head and white wires snaked up underneath, undoubtedly blocking out all interaction with the outside world.
In a way, I envied it. One thing I liked about going home was blocking out the rest of the world. Of course, then I invited it in by getting online or watching TV. I glanced at the magazines and began to sift through them. Woman's Day. Good Housekeeping. Bellybutton Lint Collectors Monthly. Oh well, maybe I could nap. A man behind me burst into a coughing fit and I sighed, giving up the stupid idea of napping.
“Colin.” The Latina was looking at the lump, who apparently was male. “Colin,” she touched his arm and he lifted up his arm and dragged one white wire away from his head. “Why don't you do some of your reading homework?”
“I forgot it at school,” came the mumbled response.
“Well, why don't you read a magazine? Here, let's find one.” She stood up and made her way to the table next to me. I pulled out my phone and checked my email, a tad embarrassed to have overheard her; it was a breach of waiting room etiquette, after all. The lady moved the magazines around and the lump put the wire back up the the side of his head.
“For the love of Pete, don't they have anything besides gardening and home improvement?” she muttered.
“Not on that table,” I replied. Another breach - I was a regular social rebel today.
“Oh great.” She put her hands on her hips and smiled. “I'd let him look at the swimsuit issue if I thought he'd actually hold paper in his hands.”
He's a big reader, huh?”
“He is, actually. He must not like the assignment, I guess.” She frowned at him. “Leaving the work at school is his way of rebelling.”
The lump moved and dislodged the other wire in the process. His black tee shirt was too large and the bud at the end of the wire was eluding his grasp, hiding within the folds. He sat up and grunted in exasperation when the second wire dropped from his other ear. He sat forward in frustration as he let the music player dangle in order to get a grip on the headphones and I could see the name of the band: Jethro Tull.
“Fan of seventeenth century agriculture, are you? You don't look the type, but plenty of gardening magazines over here if you are.” I commented. He glanced up and, with a start, realized I was talking to him.
“Gardening? Um, no.” He struggled for a moment and then asked, “Why did you ask that?”
I pointed at his shirt. “Jethro Tull was a seventeenth century agriculturist.”
He glanced down and rolled his eyes. “It's a band.”
“Yes, but...” I leaned forward, “the band used to play in London when they were trying to get discovered. They used to change the name of the band every night.”
“Why'd they do that?” he asked, the player forgotten in his hands.
“When they first got together they were having trouble getting more than one booking on the club circuit. New bands will go play at different places in the hope they get invited back. So they kept changing their band name so that people wouldn't realize that they had already played there before. The night they were invited back – which was also the night they were signed to a record label - they were playing under the name 'Jethro Tull'.”
“That's cool.” He grabbed the ends of his headphones and plugged back in signaling the end of the conversation.
“Colin?” the nurse called.
No response.
“Colin!” the Latina repeated, but he was gone again. She walked over and nudged him and he glanced up, once more removing an ear bud. “They're ready for you.”
He glanced at the nurse and nodded, got up and went into the back. The lady sat down and smiled at me. “You have kids?”
“Me? Oh, no. Not really a kid person, I guess.” I leaned back and pretended to look at my phone. She sat down next to me and I half glanced her way.
"I find that hard to believe,” she said. “This is very unusual, but have you ever considered foster care?” she asked.
“No. I live alone, have a dog but other than that...I have freedom. Kids would be a huge life change.” I put my phone away and wondered when I'd get called to the exam room.
“Oh yes, a huge change is the truth! But, i'd imagine you work, that must get you out of the house? You come home and what? Feed the dog, watch the TV?” she pressed.
“Hey now,” I said defensively, “My dog and my TV aren't really your business now, are they?”
“Uh huh,” she said and leaned back in her chair, regarding me. “But you do work, so you contribute to society. Have a home. Pay bills.”
“Who doesn't?” I was uncertain now instead of indignant. Who was this lady, IRS? She made me feel like I was sitting in the vice-principal's office while she fished around and probed to find out whatever I was doing wrong – whether I was doing it or not.
“Oh, lots of people. But you know, not everyone can just get a kid to respond to him, to engage in conversation.” She leaned back a bit and took off her glasses, allowing them to dangle from one arm. “No sir, you strike me as a man in search of a challenge.”
“I get that every night; you obviously haven't met my dog,” I snorted. “Besides, a kid is a far cry from that.”
“Oh, you are right about that!” She chuckled, “A kid has infinite possibilities and infinite complexities. But the benefits for you, and he, can be tremendous!”
“Yeah but...”
“But yes, they take more time – as you said, a huge life change. But when you make a difference, and believe me you can, there is no feeling like it in the world.” She allowed her smile to fade. “The problem is people. They like to complain about kids – how they have no respect and no appreciation, but where do the kids learn these things?”
“Uh...”
“Right! They need adults! The worst part is that the kids who need the adults the most are the ones that are hardest to reach.” She looked away and then gave me a sad look. “It breaks my heart to see these kids in the news everyday – the ones that never got any help - the ones nobody could talk to.”
I sat in silence with such a bummer of a conversation. This was like the appeals I got to adopt animals; I just couldn't care for more than the one spoiled, demanding dog I had. I had a hard time taking care of myself. How could I even think of looking after someone else? I mentally ran down the litany of faults I had, ticking them off a mental list.
I didn't cook regularly; in fact my specialty was microwave dinners. Except that I had to zap a piece of chicken and cut it for the dog each night, but I still used the microwave. I wasn't even sure my stove worked. I was a horrible housekeeper. I barely remembered to pay my bills on time unless harassed. Laundry piled up and was done in fits and starts and always at the last minute. Were those traits I really wanted to pass on to some random kid?
“I can see your wheels turning - you're thinking you could never be a good role model, am I right? Well, what would you say is better – an unsure role model or none at all?” She leaned forward and pushed her hand out to me and I reflexively reached to meet her hand. She passed a card to me and said quietly, “I can help you answer those questions.”
I glanced down at the card. Gloria DeJesus, Case Worker for the New York State Department of Child Welfare. I wasn't sure what to make of this, it all made no sense. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say at this point, but then I'd felt this way since she started talking. All of a sudden I wished I had a music player to block out all conversation - and thought, in fact I made a mental note, to download music today.
“Think about it, honey; you could do great things.” She patted my hand and got up to resume her seat across from me. I sat in uncomfortable silence, wishing they would come out and call me in for my appointment. I pretended to look on my phone for new mail again and was finally allowed some relief when the nurse called me in.
“Okay.” The nurse smiled as he took me behind the door. “Let's get a urine sample first -” he glanced at the clipboard and back at me, “-then we can get your blood drawn. The doctor will see you after that.” He gave me a small cup and pointed me to the bathroom. “When you're done put the cup on the metal shelf and close the door.”
I closed the door and unzipped. One thing that always worried me about these urine samples was getting it in the cup. I mean, I've seen my own bathroom floor and I'm always surprised at how much escapes the bowl. Also it takes some precision to not overflow the cup and whiz on your hand. I stopped and suddenly wondered how women accomplished this. I mean, they can't see so, what - do they hand women little mirrors to help them aim? Or do they just squat and hope for the best? Small wonder I wasn't going to Harvard, I thought.
After filling the cup I opened the little door in the wall, but lost my grip on the handle and the door slapped shut on it's little metal hinge. I tried to open it again, but it was stuck. I heard the door on the other side swing shut and my little door popped open so fast it surprised me and I lost my grip on it, letting it pop closed again. I heard the door on the other side scrape open and I stood there, feeling like an idiot. Obviously the door had an interlocking mechanism that only allowed one door to be open at a time. I heard a little mutter and the other door closed. I opened mine carefully and placed my sample on the shelf and let the door close.
I exited the bathroom and the nurse appeared a minute later from the room next door, a lab. He waved me in and as I entered he directed me to sit in the chair for drawing blood. Taking a seat I saw the little door and groaned to myself, knowing I'd just been annoying this guy who was about to stab me with a needle. He took what seemed like twenty seven vials of blood. Aren't I supposed to get a cookie or something for that?
He dumped me off in the room and told me to put on the backward dress that never stayed closed. He left and I stripped down to my underclothes and put the flimsy garment on, hopped up on the table and waited while listening to the crinkle of the paper under me when I moved. A knock at the door and the PA was in to see me, a young lady.
“So, how are we?” She took a seat and scanned my record she held open in front of me.
“Good; just here for my three year annual check up.”
“Mmm hmm,” she nodded and fixed me with a friendly stare. “So why so long?”
I shrugged. “My neighbor smells funny and I heard if you inhale around rats you can get sick.”
She let her glasses slide down her nose and looked at me. “Really?”
“Actually, I was wondering something. How do women give urine samples? I mean, how do you aim?”
She burst out laughing and closed my folder, “We just do. Let's listen to your lungs, heart and then do a hernia check.” So she put the icicle on my back and I inhaled and exhaled on command, then lifted up my reverse dress and lowered my undies. When she grabbed hold I coughed involuntarily; there is just nothing nice about being grabbed like that. She removed her hand and snapped off the rubber glove, opened my folder and began to write.
“So what made you ask about women giving urine samples?”
I explained my thought process and she shook her head, trying to keep giggles in. I then related the weirdness with the little door you put the urine sample into, which resulted in another round of laughter.
“Well, why does the door close? It's not like I'm standing on the the other side with my drawers down to flash the nurse. Wait, do people do that?”
“Your mind works in very interesting ways.” She glanced at my folder and then back at me. “I'll call you when the blood tests are back. Otherwise, we'll see you in a year, yes?”
“Yes dear.” She rolled her eyes and left the room. I got dressed and made my way to the front, took care of my co-pay and headed out of the building. Back in the bright sunshine I put the magnetic clips on my glasses to block out some of the early spring glare. I headed out to my vehicle and, glancing at my watch, decided there was no point in going back to work. Instead I went to the local burger joint and snagged one for me and a plain one for the dog. I can't enter my home with a burger and not get attacked if I don't give him one too.
We ate and then sat on the couch in silence. I glanced down and ruffled his ears. “Jasper, what do you think about kids?” He made no response. “I met this weird lady today, you think it means something?” He farted. I wasn't sure if it was in response to me or the burger. “We're comfortable bachelors, right Jasper?” I rubbed his side and he rolled to get his belly rubbed. I started digging my fingers into his sides and he wagged, quickly rolling over and barking. He dashed off the couch and got his toy with which we played tug 'o war for a few minutes until he got the whole thing slobbery and I let go.
I kicked my shoes off and turned on the TV, which put me to sleep in mere minutes.
I awoke stiff on the couch early in the morning, far too early, but I found I was wide awake and there was an infomercial on. I shut off the TV and set up the coffee pot before showering and going about the rest of my morning routine. By the time I poured my first cup the sun was thinking about making an appearance and in the light of that early day I glanced around my house and realized that it seemed kind of empty. Jasper wandered in and began drinking from his dish, noisily making the sound echo off the walls, reinforcing the emptiness of the house.
This was maudlin, I decided, and I headed out the door. I stopped for a little breakfast and then went in to the office. I sat behind my desk and began looking at the overnight emails and things I may have missed by being out the previous afternoon. As I began typing a response to an email my screen suddenly went dark.
“What the hell?” I muttered. The flat panel had no sides to hit; it gave me a pang for my old CRT monitor. I glanced down at my tower tucked away under my desk and noted a foul odor. Egads, what the holy hell was that? I started to pull the tower out and, the farther out it got, the worse the smell was. What, in a computer, could smell so bad? I leaned back and appraised the little box and decided I recognized a job for the IT department when I saw one. I got up and walked back to where their department was located and leaned on the cubicle wall of Tech 2, Tricia Repecki.
“Trish, my computer stinks,” I complained.
“Get over it, they all do,” she said without looking at me.
“No, I mean...literally.”
She rolled one eye to look at me and groaned. “Mike, it's too early for this.”
“Tricia, have I ever lied to you?” I asked while taking a seat next to her desk. “And how do you roll just one eye? That's just creepy.”
“Mike, do we really want to go there?” She laughed then said, “I need a few minutes - the email server just puked.”
“Okay, I can wait.” I bounced a bit in the chair. “And I can do it right here.”
“You're still going to have to wait,” she growled. I remained silent while she began tapping keys and looking at whatever the hell she sees when she looks at that scrolling line of gobbledy gook. I glanced around her cube and took in all the knicknacks, the tacked up memos and family photos. I studied one photo she had of a building in Romania where she'd adopted her daughter.
There it was again, kids. What the hell was going on that all of a sudden I was seeing kids everywhere? It was the same phenomenon that happened when you bought a car – all of a sudden you saw your car everywhere. Was this some kind of cosmic 'screw your bachelor ways'? I glanced around and looked at the pictures of her daughter and grew curious in spite of myself.
“Hey Tricia, did you think you were...I don't know, ready for kids?” She turned her head and looked at me as if I were a moron.
“Do you have any idea how expensive overseas adoption is?” she asked.
“No, not really.”
“Well,” she leaned back in her chair and swiveled a bit to look at me, “it's huge. Babies are hard to get, and doing so overseas makes it really tough. We were really lucky to get Michelle, it was right around the time the Romanian government was shutting down foreign adoptions.”
“Wow, why'd they do that?”
“People were taking the kids and putting them into human trafficking. Heartless bastards whose balls should have rotted off if there were any justice.” She grimaced and glanced at her screen before returning her attention to me. “But yeah, it was expensive as hell.”
“Would you say it was worth it?” I asked tentatively, realizing it could sound a little offensive.
“Oh yeah. She drives me crazy, but I wouldn't want it any other way.” She grinned. “Why all the questions?”
“Oh, well...” I hesitated and decided I might as well tell her. “This lady in the doctors office, she kind of accosted me about being a foster parent.”
“Foster parenting is tough. My sister did it and the office really jerked her around. Like-” she glanced at her screen again and held up a finger. “Hold on, I need to get a new diagnostic running.” She tapped a few keys and moved her mouse around. Meanwhile, I glanced at the family pictures again. I didn't have any of those, at least not hanging. Maybe they were in the boxes in the attic - a leftover from moving day.
“Yeah so, Lisa did the foster parent thing and the local office lied to her. It was terrible.” She'd swiveled back to face me.
“How?”
“Well, she lost a son when he was really young and she's always had a hole in her from that, you know? So she told the foster people she wanted a kid whose parental rights had been terminated because she was looking at adoption.”
“Wow, that's pretty specific I guess.” I leaned back in the uncomfortable chair.
“I know, right? So the kid she ended up with wasn't anything like that. The mom was a druggie and the grandmother was almost worse, but she was fighting for custody and the DCW was bending over backwards to force family visits and stuff, keeping that whole unhealthy and confusing situation going.” She put a hand on her forehead. “But after about a year and a half the courts finally terminated the parental rights and paved the way for her to get adopted. I mean, she's happy now to have her but it was a real struggle.”
“Wow, I had no idea,” I said in shock. “I mean, the whole conversation was surreal to start with but now that you say this...”
“So, wait, tell me the whole thing?” she asked.
So I related the conversation, all of the three sentences I'd had with the little Tull fan and then let the silence spool out between us while she was alternatively thinking about what I'd experienced and glancing at her screen.
“That's really unusual that she was selling you on foster care like that. Usually they sit in booths at public events, things like that. Either she's just a hardcore recruiter or you did something special without realizing it. Maybe that kid usually doesn't take the headphones out for anything.”
“Weirder still, now I'm seeing kids everywhere and feeling like my house is empty or something.” I groaned. Tricia just smiled.
“Listen, I know Jasper is your baby but you two could use a change of pace. I think this is something you should at least get more information on.” She glanced at her screen and gave it a grim smile and flipped her middle finger at the screen. “Damn right. Okay, let's go look at your computer.”
We entered my cubicle and, in my absence, the smell had multiplied. I stopped, again reminding myself this had to be handled by the experts. I raised an eyebrow at Tricia.
“Oh, please no.” She fluttered her hands with indecision then stuck her head into the hallway for a few deep breaths before she dove under my desk to disconnect the tower and put it on my desk. With the side open the culprit was readily visible: one dead mouse. Kentucky fried.
“Okay, that's just...I hate my job.” She waved her hand in front of her face. “I'll figure out if anything is toast and reorder, we'll get a temporary PC in as soon as we can. Any questions?”
“Yeah...how do women give urine samples?”
“Mike...” She fixed me with a stare, “Any questions about the computer?”
“Oh. No, thanks.” I smiled and she rolled her eyes. She headed down the hallway with my suicidal mouse and dead computer and I walked across the hall to my boss's office and tapped on the half closed door.
“Come in.”
“Hey Sandy, my computer is down and I was wondering...” I glanced at the card I pulled out from my wallet which was far too worn after being in my possession for less than 24 hours. “Can I head out? I can't do much anyway and I was going to head over to the state Children's Services building...”
“Children's Services?” She leaned back in her chair. “You don't have kids, Mike. What's going on?”
I edited the story a bit but ended with telling her that I wanted to look into the foster care idea. She took off her glasses and considered me for a few minutes.
“You know, that seems like a good idea. Sure, not like you can work now anyway. Hey,” she wrinkled her nose, “what is that smell?”
“A mouse committed suicide in my tower.”
“Seriously?”
“Tricia has both corpses.”
“Both...oh, right.” she smiled and shook her head, “Only you. Let me know how you make out.”
So that's how I found myself at the front of the New York State Office of of Children and Family Services building, or NYSOCFS. It seemed kind of plain, and I was thinking this must be newer construction. I liked the old public buildings with the marble floors and the decorations over the windows. This was a box, a square box with no character and not a single bit of color, nothing to break up the gray. I walked up, all the while wondering if I was doing the right thing. The smart thing. Was I being an idiot? Was I ready for this? No, of course I wasn't. Then why was I opening the door?
“Help you?” the security guard asked.
“Um, I'm here to see-” I pulled the card out again, “-Gloria DeJesus?”
“Have some ID?”
“Yes.”
“Well?
“Well what?”
“Give it here! This is a government building, you have to show ID!” the guard huffed.
“Oh, sorry. First time here.” I pulled out my ID and he signed me in, directing me to the third floor. The stairs were open in the lobby, no fire door blocking them, so I went up to the third floor and began hunting around. The space was largely open, no walls except for a few offices set along the perimeters of the room, probably hemmed in by the outer wall of the building. I turned around and tried to spot the office where Gloria would be, but the guard had given me directions based on the elevator so now I had no landmark to work from.
“Came to get some answers, did you?”
I turned and there was Gloria DeJesus, smiling like she'd won something. “Uh, no, just delivered a pizza. How are you?”
She laughed and put a hand on my upper arm, steering me to her office. Oh, there was the elevator; it all made sense now. Her office was cramped, one small chair in front of a very small desk. Files were stacked precariously and boxes lined the floor and were stacked three and four high. She moved past them, causing one stack to sway a bit before settling back in. She took a seat and waved me to the other chair.
“So, let's get started, shall we?”
“Okay, so look...” I said while running my hands over my pants restlessly. “I moved into my house about a month ago, I have a dog, I'm single and gay.”
“None of those disqualifies you. Your dog does need to be up to date on his shots and we need a note that says as much from your vet. Go on.”
“Really? Being gay and single isn't a 'get out of kids free' card?”
“Not a chance,” she said with a smile. “We have kids that need good people. I've had straight folks that can't hack kids and I've had gay folks that couldn't either. I've also had singles and couples from each persuasion succeed splendidly!” She leaned forward and put her elbows on her desk, supporting her chin with her hands. “Some single folks choose to do weekend respite and some go full time foster – same thing with couples. It all depends on the person and the child.”
“So...if I wanted to...I could just be, like, a weekend babysitter or I could go as far as...what?”
“Adoption, go big!” She said with a laugh. “We need both kinds of foster parents. Respite families, for a weekend? Priceless. When a family has a foster child, I won't kid you, it can be tough. Our families need breaks, and getting a weekend to yourself is a huge thing to a family that is working hard to connect with their foster kids and help them. Kids can be exhausting.”
“One weekend a month? Like National Guard duty? You're not painting a pretty picture here, Gloria.”
“Our kids can be very damaged, Mike. They can be neglected, abused, some were molested or any other of a hundred things under the sun. I won't sugar coat it – but the thing to remember is that you have support and the rewards can be unending.”
“Do you...get to choose a child?”
“There are lots of factors that go into a placement, and your preferences are a big part of that. If they are really narrow, it may be very hard to meet those preferences, but we will call you and let you make that choice. You don't have to take a child simply because there is one available. We've had African-American families who had to send kids back because the foster child was raised in a violently racist household. We've had others that managed to break through that learned hatred and changed a life.”
“Why would you send a racist kid into a house...”
“Well, we don't always know these things. Children can come into foster care for a variety of reasons – neglect, abuse, family issues – but we don't often know if the child is racist, or was raised that way. We don't know if they are gay or of they have other personality traits. We learn about them after they come into the system and, frequently, the removal process is very quick. Ten minutes, tossing their clothes into garbage bags because it's fast and getting that child out of a bad situation is often urgent. Would you like some coffee?”
“Uh, yes, please.”
“Give me a second,” she said while smiling and stepping out of the office. I thought of my own childhood, of how there were no other gay kids – or gay people – and wondered how my life would have been different if I'd had someone to compare myself to. Talk to. Moments later Gloria was back with two Styrofoam cups and pulled creamers and sugar packets from her pockets.
“To continue down that line of questioning,” she said while settling back behind her desk and opening a sugar packet, “we also try to place kids with similar families from a cultural point of view as well – African-American with African-American, Caucasian with Caucasian, so on and so forth. We aren't limited to that, but it's usually a starting point to make children comfortable with their caregiver. Oh, drink this coffee quickly, before it eats through the cup. It's strong!”
I wasn't sure how to respond to that, so I idly stirred my coffee.
“Do you have any idea what kind of child may interest you?”
“Uh. I'm just now giving it a little thought. It might be premature to, you know...”
“I understand. There are many papers to fill out, clearances to be submitted and forms to be filed and I have to do a home visit to write up the benefits of your home and let you know what changes would be required to have a foster youth. What do you think? Shall I give you some forms and call you in a week or so? See how you feel about things?”
I turned it over in my head. What if I could help a gay kid? Maybe just on weekends? Could I actually be any help? To anyone? After all, I was used to living alone...
“I'll take the forms and get back to you,” I finally replied. She smiled and handed over a stack of paperwork.
“Call me if you have questions.”
I sat on the couch that night going over the paperwork. Fingerprints cleared through the FBI and the State Central Registry on Child Abuse. Physical, doctor's statement of being healthy enough to care for children. Thirty hours of classes spread out over ten weeks. Home inspection. List of items required. I almost joked with myself that they asked for everything but a urine sample, but that happened at my physical.
I continued down the list. Smoke detectors in every bedroom. Okay, I'd need three of those. Carbon monoxide detector on every floor. Fire extinguisher in the kitchen. Maybe if I told them I only order out I could pass on that one? Bed for the child, dresser or closet for their things. If you got a bunk bed the child had to be able to sit up completely and not have their head touch the ceiling. Would they come in and measure for such a thing? I looked down at Jasper.
“This is going to be a lot of work. Are you going to help me?” Many people will claim dogs can't understand you, which is false. There was no mistaking, however, his pretending to have no idea what I was talking about and proceeding to randomly scratching himself.
A few weeks later the first class started. In a very real, literal sense, it was the first day of school. It also made me self-conscious, like the first day always had. There were six-foot tables set up end to end in a large U-shape and there were already a lot of people there. I made my way to an empty seat, not near anyone else. Naturally a couple came by and asked if I'd move down so they could sit together – so much for my taking control of the situation.
My classmates were a varied bunch. We started the first class with thirty-two people and we were asked to go around and introduce ourselves as well as let people know what attracted us to foster care. The answers were wildly different from the amusing - like the two men that pointed at their female companions and declared 'because they said so', to the sober – that they had been in foster care themselves. As the classes went by, the number of applicants dwindled – we rarely knew why, just that they had 'selected out'
Then there was Ian. He was one of four or five single people who was an original member of the class. He managed a local auto parts store and almost always got to class just in the nick of time, still wearing his work shirt. He was cute, about five foot ten with fine brown hair that he seemed to like to make a semi-spike out of in the front. Made me think of a comic book or manga-style character. He looked younger than I'd expect someone to be in this class, and I wished I'd heard him when he said why he'd gotten involved.
The classes were a mix of learning interesting stuff and complete boredom, trying to memorize the meanings of acronyms and diagnoses and symptoms of these diagnoses. They did a lot of what they termed 'modeling' which had nothing to do with swimsuits and cameras. Thinking of the classmates I had, that was a relief – I'm sure they'd say they felt the same way, if asked. Modeling consisted of acting out predefined roles and then trying to use that to teach us about situations – how a family can get into the situation of having a child 'in care' and how we shouldn't judge.
One couple bothered me from the start. The man had an injured leg and walked with a cane. He was young, younger than I was, but when he explained that before his accident he'd been a 'hard worker, tough worker' it stuck in my memory. Who was he trying to impress? His wife was the true wreck of their relationship, however. She repeatedly argued with our instructors, calling the system rigged and judges crooked. In the fifth class, everything came to a head.
Gloria was teaching that night and, rather than hand out a packet for that night's subject, she took a stool at the head of the class and started talking.
“We all have unexpected challenges in life, and we all have to learn how to handle them as best we can. So I'm going to tell you a personal story, something I struggled with in the beginning, to show you what I mean.” She adjusted in her chair and scanned the room before continuing.
“When my son was fifteen he came to me and he was struggling with the relationship he had with his girlfriend, a really sweet thing named Sarah. They had been dating since they were thirteen and were just adorable together and my husband and I really liked them as a couple. One thing I can say about my son, in all honesty, is that he's very considerate and it was that consideration that brought him to me that night.
“He said, 'Mom, I'm having a hard time figuring out how to handle this, the best way to handle this'. And I said, 'Joe, what's the problem?' He said, “Mom, I have to break up with Sarah.'
“You can imagine my shock. I, of course, asked him why – had she said something or had he? What changed? He told me that she wanted to move things forward in their relationship, get more intimate. Well! Immediately I thought I needed to have the talk with my son about condoms and, as uncomfortable as it felt to think of my son as a sexual creature, I had to make sure that he was educated and safe.”
Some of the self-identified Christians shifted in their seats, but the majority of the room was paying silent attention.
“He told me, 'No, mom, Sarah is great. But what she wants from me, I can't give her. I'm gay, Mom.”
My eyes widened. I glanced around to see the reactions in the room – some of the religious folks were acting in a way I'd expected, frowning or looking uncomfortable. Others, in fact one couple that I taken to be hard core were rapt with attention. Ian was smiling, and that made me smile. He was so cute, but he also had a healthy mix of handsome in there and I was really starting to think it would be nice to know him better.
“I have to admit, I didn't react well at first! My husband and I argued about whose fault it was, what we did wrong...my husband said it had to be me, he could trace his history back to something silly like the 13th century and all his ancestors were straight!” Gloria laughed and waved her hands in the air, brushing away the memory.
“But, after we had our initial shock and it started to wear off, we realized – look, we have this great kid who is still a great kid. In fact, he's such a great kid he's more worried about Sarah's feelings than what will happen to him for coming out. To be honest, when we realized that, that was the beginning of us supporting our son and who he was.”
“But, there must have been signs,” the train wreck lady said. “I mean, a mother knows, right? There are always little things they all do – tea parties and trying on your dresses? Maybe if he'd had more G.I. Joe figures or Tonka trucks, things would have been different.”
I couldn't help myself - I interjected, “I played with GI Joes and I had more than a few Tonka trucks. I like football and baseball and I still turned out gay.”
“It is worth mentioning that G.I Joe action figures are just dolls for boys. We gave them a new name to make them socially acceptable,” Ian said and then looked at me, “And I like football too.”
The class broke out in discussion and Gloria rode it out, but it was like herding cats to some extent. Mrs. train wreck was getting more shrill and Gloria called a break to class. I needed some air so I got up and walked outside where the smokers usually went but stayed on the other side of the doors – upwind. Mr. and Mrs. train wreck came out - maybe he was a fiance or a boyfriend I wasn't really sure - and she pulled out a cigarette, then spotted me and made her way over. I, uncharitably, dubbed them Smokey and The Gimp. Mentally, of course.
“So, what happened?” she asked while blowing out a plume of smoke. “Did someone do something to you?”
“Excuse me?”
“To make you gay. Was it an uncle or your father? I was molested by my cousin.” More smoke.
“Considering you aren't a lesbian, I think you just blew your own theory out of the water. Excuse me,” I brushed past her and back into the building. I made a beeline for Gloria and told her what Smokey had just said to me. She shook her head in disbelief and asked if I was serious. I nearly did cartwheels when she and her husband were apparently told they weren't ready to be foster parents.
In the sixth class we were in a smaller room, which made sense as we had lost so many people. I ended up sitting with Ian as all the other chairs were taken. It was awkward for me since I found him attractive and he was younger than I was – he looked a lot younger, at least. He lifted his hand for a short wave and grinned. “So, what did happen to you to make you gay?” My face must have frozen and he burst out laughing. “I'm sorry, I overheard her say it and I was just kind of stunned.”
“So was I,” I admitted as I took my seat. “I hear they were 'selected out', though. I was talking to our instructor and I guess they tell the story of her son so that they can watch the reactions in the room. You never know what kind of kid you'll get and lots of times they don't know if a kid is gay until they get comfortable and come out.”
“Makes sense. I was laughing when you said that, about playing with Tonkas? Hell, I play with full size cars – if size is any measure, I should be a real ladies man.”
“Size is always a measure,” I said while trying to hide a smile.
“Oh, hah. Right, you know what I mean.” He grinned, dimples showing up – which kind of surprised me as I always think of dimples as belonging to boys, not men. “I can tell you what turned me gay, though – Roman Anderson in fifth grade gym.”
By the end of the class I asked him out for coffee and decided I could worry about the age difference if things seemed like they might get serious. Then, after class ten, we graduated to making dinner plans, and so I was cleaning house since Ian was picking me up. Of course, to make the night extra interesting, he was picking me up after Gloria did my home study. I think he just wanted to see how things went.
I cleaned house and then cleaned it again. It was still kind of embarrassing so I cleaned a third time. I rented a steam cleaner and realized I had to buy plates – all mine were paper. Jasper was no help, treating this as if it were a game Every time I filled a bag with junk I dared not turn my back on it or he'd tear a hole in it and drag it all over the carpet, which he did twice before I learned my lesson. I'd repainted the back room, gotten a second-hand bed and spruced up a dresser that had been sitting in the garage since I'd moved in. Gloria pulled in a few minutes behind schedule while I was running garbage bags down to the garage to hide them. I had to run back up the stairs a little out of breath to open the door.
“Mike, you're breathing heavy and sweating!” She grinned and I laughed at her. “Cleaning a ton. Is Ian helping you?”
“I had to clean up this mess; I told you I lived like a bachelor! And how do you know about Ian?” I asked in astonishment.
“I'm sure it's fine, and let's just say there's a rumor going around,” she said, taking the stairs to the second level. “Let's do the walk around part first and then we can get to the ream of papers I have for you to sign, and of course you have questions.”
“Yeah, I have a few,” I replied as she put her bags down and pulled out a folder. We walked through the house, pointing out the items that were required, including the new lockable medicine cabinet.
“I love what you did with that room.” She smiled as we took seats at the kitchen table, saying, “I wish all our kids could get a chance to have a nice room like that. Now, I'm going to approve you for three kids...”
“What? Whoa, wait, hold on!”
“Relax, it's just a technicality. In a pinch you could probably, physically, do that. I know you only want to go with one.” She smiled as she answered my question before I asked it. “Now with all the classes you've had and the time to think since you started this path, do you have any idea what kind of child you'd be interested in?”
“Well, yeah...” I hunched forward in my chair and pushed my palms together. I glanced away from her and let my gaze slowly drift back. “I don't quite know how to phrase this, and I hope that it's appropriate...I think I would do best with a Caucasian child. I...” I twisted my hands together.
“You don't have to be nervous, we all have our preferences, Mike.” She smiled at me, but I felt the need to explain myself further.
“Gloria...It's just that I think, culturally, it would be easier for me to bond with a kid of my own, or similar, race.” I felt like a heel, this wasn't coming out right.
“Of course you would,” she smiled again and patted my restless hands. “We frequently try to place African American children with families who are also African-American, but that isn't always possible – and for the reason you just mentioned which is culture. Being in the Latin culture, I know there are things from my culture that a child will recognize if they were raised in the same culture, and those differences – or lack of them being in evidence - can make it more difficult for the child, and yourself, to bond.
“Honestly, it's a much better answer than 'I don't care, any child will do' because it's not the honest truth. Now if a good fit comes up that happens to be something other than Caucasian, we will still call you and let you make that decision.”
“That's...” I slumped in my chair, “That's a relief. I mean,” I licked my lips, “I feel guilty because it seems like there is no real way to talk about race without implying that I have a problem with people who are different from myself.”
“Mike, I've been around you for four months, and I know that is the furthest thing from the truth. We all bond better with different people. Sometimes it's personality or background, and culture is a big thing. Stop beating yourself up!” she laughed.
“I'm good at beating myself up, though!” I smiled back.
“So primarily you'd like a Caucasian child - sex preference?”
“Being a male I think I'd do better with a boy – although I don't think I know much about either anymore.”
“Girls can be a handful, especially teenage girls, oh my,” she grinned as she made a mark on her sheet. “I can say that, while boys can be rough as teens, I find that they tend to be more sullen or aggressive – but it's straightforward behavior. Don't get me wrong, they have things underneath – sometimes complex things – causing their behavior, but it's normally less...sneaky. They do tend to make a march over fool's hill from about ten to fifteen, but by sixteen they can be your best friend.”
“Coffee?” I asked getting up, and she nodded in response.
“Please. Now girls, on the other hand, I find frequently the girls can be just nasty. Little girls are sweet, delicate flowers but the teens are...” she crossed her hands demurely on the table before taking a polite tone. “Girls can be much more complex and challenging.”
“Was that your experience at home?” I asked as I poured.
“To a degree, but keep in mind my children – two daughters and a son for those of you scoring at home – didn't go through the situations that children in foster care experienced.” She took her glasses off and pointed one of the arms at me, “No matter what they say.”
We both laughed while I put the creamer and sugar on the table. “So what else has occurred to you?”
“Well, I know you told me that you don't often know if a child is gay or not until they have been in care, but I think I'd be most interested in helping a child that has come out.”
Gloria pulled the cream pitcher to her and poured into her cup, and then stirred in the sugar. She glanced up at me and then returned her eyes to her cup, a smile spreading slowly on her face.
“You know, it's always harder to place older children. People always want the babies and they don't want to deal with the behaviors or background of a bigger kid,” Gloria opined. “A lot of times when we get older kids there is... a lack of willing homes. They usually go right to group homes.”
“That's...”
“There is a lot of fear about teens. They're bigger, louder...they stink,” she laughed. “But as I'm sure you've picked up from class, these kids haven't learned the tools to express themselves and handle their emotions – fears, anxiety, whatever the emotion might be – and so out of frustration they act out.”
“I know. I mean, in an academic sense, I know.” I frowned into my coffee and then met her steady gaze. “Why are you saying this again, though? Is this a...”
“Warning? No, hardly. But if you were hoping for a younger child, then it makes it near impossible to attain your desire to foster a child that has identified as gay. Most young children aren't self aware enough to know so...depending on the age, comfort level, other factors...they could be in a difficult spot that may make them more confused, more...volatile.”
“I can appreciate some of that, and... I guess it makes sense that they'd be older. I mean, of course it makes sense – even if they have an idea, they may not have words for it when they are younger.”
“Is there any specific reason you'd like to work with a gay boy?”
“Yes. I started thinking about how my life was growing up – not knowing anyone that was...like I was. There was no 'Glee' then, no representation at all. No marriage equality...I just keep thinking that if I knew someone I could have talked to about what I was feeling, what was going on in my head – that seemed to not be happening to anyone else in the world – well, who knows what it would have done for me?” I sighed, “There are also the kids in the news. The ones that didn't find someone to talk to. I know it might seem weird, a single gay man asking for a gay teenage boy...but, where does that leave us?”
“There you go, beating yourself up again!” She smiled at me. “If you're worried that I think you might have some sort of underhanded plot going about a teenage boy – if I had any questions at all about your type, which I didn't! - they sure would have been laid to rest the way you and Ian have been smoldering for the last four weeks. Now, as for where that leaves us...funny you should mention that...tell me,” she said, leaning back into her chair and sipping from her cup, “do you remember how we met?”
“There was a serious breach of waiting room protocol,” I replied with a grin.
“Breach of...what are you talking about?” she laughed.
“Everyone knows you don't talk to other people on the elevator or in the waiting room. It's a public rule!”
“If that's the case, I think you broke the rules first.”
“I don't remember it that way...” I trailed off as Gloria put her cup down and reached into her bag. Her hand emerged with a file in hand which she lay on the table.
“I do my best recruiting on a spur of the moment,” she said with a smile. “Do you remember the boy I had with me?”
“The Tull fan,” I smiled.
“I'm not one to believe in, well, cosmic things. But I do find it interesting that a fellow named Mike Tulley meets a boy that happens to be gay, happens to need out of a group home and who happens to be a fan of an obscure alternative rock band.”
“They weren't obscure!” I retorted.
The corner of her mouth turned up as she slid the file towards me and then resumed drinking her coffee. I took a sip from my own cup and then reached for the file. The tab on the side read McIlduff, Colin.
The file was confusing, a photocopied mess of school reports and evaluations in doctor language. I studied the pages, trying to get a grasp of this kid from the dry, clinical terms. He was diagnosed with PTSD and an anxiety disorder and had been tried on a range of medications. He was, currently, med free and living in a group home, judging by the dates of the reports – which were not in chronological order. There were at least four different school systems in the reports, so that told me he's moved around a lot. I closed the folder and eyed Gloria.
“Tell me about him.” Jasper scratched at the back door to come in and I rose quickly to do that, and then brought the coffee pot out to refill the cups. I figured I'd get the most out of her then, Gloria likes a good cup of coffee. She raised an eyebrow and began fixing her coffee to suit her taste. I waited while Jasper sniffed us both with interest before wandering over and taking his accustomed spot on the couch.
“He's thirteen, originally from down by New York City. His mother was a prostitute and the story is very sad. The woman is very low functioning and easily led. She has had so many children, and she seems to give birth every nine months like clockwork. CPS is right on hand to remove the babies, court order doesn't allow her to have children because she's proven she can't keep them safe.
“He was adopted when he was a year and a half old and was with his family until about a year ago. They were very religious,” she said with a frown and met my eyes, “and when he came out at 12 as gay, they kicked him out and disrupted the adoption.”
“They....they what?”
“I know.” She shook her head and put a hand up to massage a temple. “People like that give humanity a bad name. So he's been in the system for about a year. The meds you see listed are mostly for depression – they did hospitalize him in a crisis ward initially when he was deemed a risk to self. He went to a group home three months ago and, though they say he follows rules and is respectful, his depression is building again.
“I say that not to warn you off, Mike, but you need to know this boy is fragile. He has counseling that you will need to participate in. If you want to pursue this, you'll have to meet with the group home staff first to set up a visitation plan. They will be flexible on when or if he moves in with you, but they will want you to visit with him over a period of time to make sure he feels comfortable with you. I'm guessing that they'll want the first few visitsto be just you two – and since Ian and yourself aren't living together, I think you should wait to introduce him, just for consistency's sake.
“Um. What...what about his father?”
“His father was never located – his DNA wasn't in the system. So he was never incarcerated, at least not since the late eighties when we started taking prisoner DNA.”
“Poor kid. Jesus. You mentioned he's in a group home?”
“He was abused in his first foster home, physically. People didn't want to invest in him because at the time we were performing our due diligence to find his father, so there was no possibility of adoption. There are homes that go long term with no possibility of adoption, but they aren't as common as one might think. I am concerned about his ability to attach, to bond, frankly.”
“So, what? You think this kid is a lost cause?”
“No, I don't. I never believe any child is a lost cause. But,” she leaned forward on her elbows, “he does need someone that can give him time, and who is ready to understand that he is who he is. He is in counseling and is currently un-medicated. Most of all, he needs someone to love him. Are you up for trying?”
“Okay, I'll be right back with your drinks.” The waitress left the table and Ian was waiting for me to answer. Of course, the question was exactly how nuts I really was, and I think it was debatable.
“You know,” I said as I tried to choose my words carefully. “A lot of people want babies – in fact even though we have more people in the world than we really need, people keep having their own kids instead of adopting or taking care of these kids that so badly need homes.”
“I agree, but you also realize that people also want to feel that connection, knowing a child is their own.” Ian pointed out.
“Yes, I've heard that. But here's the thing – family isn't just blood. Look at marriage? The single biggest thing we do that makes for 'family'. Not to mention,” I held up a hand and extended a finger, “People that have been in combat together or through seriously stressful situations. Doctors and nurses, teammates frequently form family-like bonds. Kids are no different.”
“That...is a good answer, mister.” He smiled but I still felt a tad on the defensive.
“We also know that, because of this obsession with babies and having their own biological kids, there are a lot of kids that grow up feeling like no one wants them, and how do you think that affects society as a whole?” I shook my head as Ian opened his mouth to reply, and I continued to speak.
“The same thing that happens to all ostracized members of a society happens to them. It's even worse with kids questioning their sexuality. In fact I read an article that says kids like that just get sent to group homes with no opportunity, except to hope someone spots their picture online or something, and likes what they see.”
“Hold on,” Ian said while chuckling at me, “I'm convinced! I was just wondering what your reasons were and if you'd thought it through. Teenagers are a different breed, you know?”
The waitress returned with our drinks and took our order before departing.
“I do. Except, I already met the kid, once.”
“You have a placement?” Ian's eyes opened, “Well, come on! Tell me!”
For the briefest moment I felt the elation that new parents must feel, telling someone about their new addition. I first related the situation under which I'd met Colin, complete with my description of not being sure of the gender, initially, and the resulting conversation with Gloria.
“So, a classic rock fan?” Ian leaned back as the appetizers hit the table and refills were offered.
“Well, Tull anyway. I have no idea outside of that.” I reached into the basket and snagged a fried whatever that he'd ordered.
“I can't believe they are already looking at a placement for you! That's great. I haven't heard anything yet.” He emptied his glass and glanced around for our waitress. “Can I meet him?”
“I'd like you to meet him,” I said. “I'm not sure how fast things will work. I guess, once the group home gets notified, then I'll meet him.”
“Just, like, sit in a room or go out for pizza or what?”
“I wish I knew,” I shrugged. Our entree's arrived and talk died down as we ate. My head was filled with the possible things Colin and I could do – road trips, music concerts, teaching him how to be safe and a good citizen. I wondered if he liked horror movies. I hoped so, there were so many movies I wanted to share that I had enjoyed – not just the horror genre. I shared this observation with Ian.
“Oh, better be careful. I bet you're thinking, like, 'Grumpy Old Men', right?”
“Oh yeah! That movie was great!” I enthused.
“You'd be surprised about how many of those jokes are about sex and how much language is in there.” He smiled. “I watched the disk the other night, first time in years, and was kind of surprised.”
“It's funny, you know.” I sighed and looked at him across the table, “You know, it's so weird. The idea of watching movies with an eye towards what this will mean to kids as opposed to just enjoying them.”
“Welcome to parenthood.”
“Yeah, so...Gloria told me I should have a few visits with him before he meets you.” Ian gave me a quizzical look. “Well,” I explained, “she said, 'after all, you aren't living together at this point' or something like that.”
Ian burst out laughing, “We thought we were playing it so cool.”
“Yeah. But why? Why were we playing it cool? We both want to help kids, maybe have them as our own. We're dating and finding we have common interests like music and movies and we even agree on a lot of politics.”
“You know, I've been wondering about that, too. Best thing I can come up with is we're still conditioned to be afraid of exposing who we are in a group like that.” He said took a sip and cleared his throat. “You have to agree, if we'd been a couple before the class started, I think we'd have been more open. But as it was, why did we need to tell folks we were gay? There were two other gay couples, you saw John and Eric and of course Pam and...what was her name?”
“Debbie.”
“Deb! Why can I never remember her name?” he said with a scowl. “But still, the other single people never stood up to say what their sexuality was before they bailed on the class – or were told they weren't ready.”
“No, you're right,” I said and nodded my head. “But we kind of came out to each other in week six...”
“Technically, you outed yourself in week five.”
“Yeah, Smokey pissed me off. But, still, since class six we've been hanging out and spending a lot of time together. We even did something as mundane as grocery shopping.”
“Can I just say, I hate grocery shopping at the store you go to?”
“What? What's wrong with it?” I asked with a smile.
“They are expensive! Did you see how much coffee cost?”
“That's why I don't buy coffee there,” I said while smiling at him.
“I like that,” he said with a smile – some color moved into his cheeks. “When you smile it changes your face from handsome to...I don't know, handsomer?”
“Is that a word?” I replied, while being sure my own cheeks were turning red from the compliment. “So, uh, since you mentioned it a few minutes ago...are we officially a couple then?”
“Officially? Don't we have to, I don't know, announce it in a gay bar or ride down main street on a unicorn?”
“How about a kiss in public, will that satisfy you?”
“You mean...
“Yeah. Right now.”
Feedback is always welcome at dabeagle at dabeagle dot com
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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