Life in a Northern Town - 3. Chapter 3

When I wake up again it is the early hours of the day and the sun has yet to rise. I am on my side and I feel a warm lump resting against my back, moving slightly as he breathes. I'm not immediately sure why I am here, but that only lasts a moment as the prior day returns with stunning force. I don't usually cry, but I find I just can't stop my tears from coming. I get up and go to the bathroom, careful not to disturb Randy, who rolls slowly onto his back without me supporting him. I close the door and sit on the radiator guard, a decorative box with metal gratings placed over the radiators to hide them from view.

Why is all this happening now, why is my mother coming unglued? What she says about my father, could that be true? Was I some filthy monster like she says I am? I'm not sure. What if she calls Nick's parents and tells them about what I wrote on my computer? I'd be finished, or he would be or both. My mind brightens somewhat as I remember that he'd said he loved me. I didn't have to hide that from him, at least. But what about Randy?

I hear Randy's alarm go off on the other side of the thin lath and plaster wall and I hear him savagely silence it. Softly he calls out to me. I leave the bathroom and reenter his room to see him looking on the far side of the bed, on the floor, presumably in case I rolled off the bed in the middle of the night as Randy himself was known to do. Even though I am feeling like shit, I can't resist leaning over and giving Randy a gentle, or not so gentle push, that topples him off the bed.

"Asshole," he mutters as he climbs back on the bed. I nod affirmatively in reply.

"Yes, I know." I smile in agreement and take a seat next to him.

"So, you feel a little more like yourself today?" he asks quietly, eyes probing my face.

"I don't know Randy," I sigh. " I've never felt so fucked up in my life. I don't think...it's all too weird. Do you think my mom was serious? About all those things she said?"

"I dunno man," Randy says with a shrug. "Your mom's been a little weird ever since your dad passed. She can't seem to get her shit together," he says as he slings an arm around me. "But you know you can stay here if you want, dad thinks your one of his anyhow," he smiles.

"Thanks Rand," I say.

"One thing I do want to know, even though I think I got it figured all ready..." he begins.

I raise a wary eyebrow at him with a million possibilities going through my mind as to what he might choose to ask. Are you gay? Why didn't you tell me? Aren't I your best friend? Have you been looking at me?

"Are you mad at me?" he asks in a very serious tone.

"Mad? At you? Hell, no, why would I be mad at you?" I ask in shock.

He turns to look and me solemnly before speaking. "Because I hardly ever see you, because shit - and I mean major shit - is going down in your life and I - your best friend - didn't know that anything was wrong. 'Cause I guess I'm not being a very good friend to you if you don't think you can tell me," he says calmly and with a chilling edge to his voice. I feel my lip tremble as I see the hurt I've caused outlined on his face, streaked through his eyes and painted across his soul. My self worth takes another tumble.

"Randy, I…I'm sorry. I am, I was afraid. I didn't know how to say…I couldn't even look at myself." I look down at my hands. "I couldn't face you or…or Nick. I didn't trust myself," I say in a whisper. I feel his grip tighten on my shoulders. "Please try and understand, I really don't know what to think of myself right now. I've been having a real rough time admitting…a lot of things to myself. I just couldn't tell you."

"That's why you have friends, dip wad, to help you. At least you always told me that when my folks broke up and my mom went to Florida. And you said so again when my dad remarried and I was pissed. You have to play fair, Adam, and let me be your friend too." He finishes and gets slowly off the bed, stretching. “You can't expect your little punk ass attitude to get you through everything.

"Besides," he says offhandedly, "I don't think you could beat Nick off with a stick now." He crosses the room and digs through his dresser for underwear to take into the bathroom so he can cover himself after his shower. I mull this development, still unhappy about a million and one things, and deeply hurt by Randy's words no matter how true they may be.

"Randy, you are my best friend, the best friend I ever had – anyone ever had - and I'm very sorry," I say through eyes that can't seem to focus.

"You better believe I am buddy boy," he grins as he crosses back to me, locking me in his firm embrace. "And I always will be," he says before heading to the shower. I lean back on the bed and think again about Nick and what I should do there, not to mention that nagging thing called my mother. Not to mention Bernie, who will no doubt be on her side. I feel very small again, and even the revelation that Nick loves me seems rather small at the moment. Although nothing besides him had dominated my thoughts for the past month or so. Besides, I tell myself logically, these other things need to be squared away first.

I wrap my arms around myself and wait for Randy to return, wait to see what I am going to do. Once Randy was back I went in to shower. I wasn't planning on going to school – and when I arrived in the kitchen wearing yesterday's clothes I say as much to Mrs. Proctor.

"You have to go to school, Adam. It'll help if you follow a routine of some kind, and besides you'll have Randy in most of your classes," she reasons with me after I had showered. I really wasn't in the mood and, although she was sympathetic, she was unyielding. When Mr. Proctor remarried he actually made a good choice. She was really nice and she genuinely cares about Randy, although it took him some time to see that. She could also be stern and pretty much no nonsense when she chose to be.

Compassionate conservatism at work here, she cared but wouldn't change it at all. So I'll go to school, wearing some of Randy's clothes. It feels weird.

"Now you can be cool like me!" Randy declares after choosing which of his clothes I should wear. I have to admit, they're not at all what I was used to lately. They're all new clothes and even still had the tags. Mom hadn't believed I'd needed new stuff for a while now, and I wasn't too successful at finding a job that would have got me more than a few hours a week with school and all. But honestly it doesn't mean too much to me, these clothes, although I think it is unspoken that I was grateful on some level. Just to be sure, I thank Randy anyway.

We are eating breakfast when Nick walks in the back door, tossing his jacket on the back of the chair next to me.

"Sorry I'm late, Mom was a pain this morning," he says flopping down on the chair. "How are you this morning?" he asks, his voice intense, and I blush under the look.

"I'm okay, thanks," I reply.

"Good, I was worried about you. We don't talk too much anymore," he says in his soft southern accent. "And this prick," he continues, nodding at Randy, "won't say a word about what's going on."

"He really didn't know, Nick, I really haven't talked to anyone at all lately. Things have just been messed up and…" I tear up a little bit, but squash them in my eyes angrily. I'm sick of crying.

"Would you just please tell me what's going on?" he asks with concern in his voice. It makes me feel both good and guilty – I don't know why and I feel angry about that.

"I really don't feel up to trying to tell you right now, it's all too messed up," I say quietly. "But I will tell you what's happening later, okay?"

He nods his acquiescence and I lean back in my chair with a heavy sigh – there is no escaping this situation.

"We better go, we'll be late," Randy says, standing quickly and throwing on his coat.

We ride in silence for the most part, just the radio banging out Matchbox Twenty's song Long Day, and it is shaping up to be another one of those. I am grateful that Nick isn't pressuring me. I feel like a basket case as it is, and I really don't want to tell him about it all. It's embarrassing and that, again, makes me angry.

It's stupid to me just how long I have gone without talking to my friends in any meaningful way, how my mother has just gone off the deep end and can't even talk to me rationally.

We pull into the parking lot and find an empty slot and climb out. The walk across the parking lot is pretty much in silence as well, and I feel as though I am the cause of that. I am the elephant in the room. We separate in the entryway to go to our separate homeroom classes. Before I can even get a seat I am snagged by Mr. Lutz, who is the school truant officer.

We were acquainted.

"Adam, I need you to come with me for a bit, okay?" he asks nicely.

"Sure Joe," I say, not feeling like arguing with him, but also knowing that using his first name is going to rile him. I guess old habits die hard, huh?

I follow him back to his office, across the skywalk to the connected junior high school, and then up to the third floor in the southwest corner of the building where he sits with my guidance counselor, Mr. Canfield, who's also the football coach. I am motioned to have a seat and do so cautiously, not entirely sure what is going on at this point. Mr. Canfield closes the door and then resumes his seat across from me.

"Adam, I just need to ask you some important questions, and I need for you to answer them as well as you can, all right?" Mr. Lutz starts off. I nod in confusion.

"I understand things were a bit out of control for you last night? Can you tell me about it?" he asks. I feel deeply ashamed. How was I supposed to answer that? How does he know? Am I the subject of gossip now?

"Adam, I can see you're surprised we know, but believe me we're here to help you. I know we've had a few run-ins in the past, but I think you also know I'm doing my job, trying keep you in school to learn," Joe says, and not unkindly I should add.

"Adam, things like this happen all across America these days, I'm sorry to say. But it's a reality, and we're trying to do some preventative work here. Just fill in some gaps son," Joe says calmly. I nod slowly.

"When did you first strike your mother?" Coach Canfield asks, speaking for the first time, and I almost fall out of my seat.

"Wha…what did you say?" I wheeze, suddenly feeling as if there isn't enough air in the room. "I never, ever hit my mom you asshole," I snarl while trying to keep my balance on the chair.

"Well, why don't you tell us what did happen then?" Coach says with a menacing tone.

"Coach, please, take it easy on him," Joe says soothingly and returns his attention to me. "Go ahead, Adam, please."

I look from one to the other, feeling small and trapped - but also feeling my anger building in the back of my head, like a small buzzing in my brain.

"I…I came home and mom was…she was so mad," I sputter, tears starting in my eyes, and I feel my mind once again attempting to retreat, babbling in oblivion. "She got mad at me in the morning. Bernie thinks I was rude to him, and she threw a candle holder at me, one with a crystal bottom on it." I'm trying to speak normally but calling what I'm doing spluttering would probably be more accurate. Keeping hold on my senses is turning into a struggle. Why would they think I hit my mother?

"Stay calm, Adam, please. Did anything else happen?" Joe asks.

"She…she said a lot of mean things to me. Randy was with me, and he took me to his house. I was sort of out of it. I stayed there."

"Randy Proctor?" Joe questions, and I nod in response.

"But you maintain you never swung at her?" Coach asks, almost as if he were deliberately prodding me, hoping I'd say I hit her.

More than a little frustrated at his insistence, I say, “Randy was there, ask him,” and Joe leans back in his chair. Coach Canfield stands and knuckles his back before resuming his position and taking a long drink from his coffee cup.

"Adam, your mom called the police very early this morning and said that you attacked her. She was taken to the hospital, partially because she was drunk but also because she had bruises. Bernie, as you call him, was asleep at the time and was only awakened by the noise of what could have been your mother falling. Because of this I'm going to take you with me to the juvenile court. Judge Chiarolanzio is sitting this afternoon; we'll get you into local foster care until this is straightened out.

"Mr. Swanson did, by the way, inform the police in no uncertain terms that you had never been violent and had no such record at school, which we did double check this morning in order to remove any bias he may have," Joe finishes.

"Bernie hates me anyways," I mutter automatically.

"He most certainly does not hate you. He was quite worried about where you might have been. He does characterize your relationship as combative, but you're a teenager," Joe says wryly. “In fact, he seems to be fond of your punk ass.”

I think about that for a minute. Why else would Bernie defend me? Maybe he really does want to help, hard as that is to believe. But he was such a dork to me, how can that be right? Or have I just been wrong all along? I realize that Coach is standing over me now, and I look at him in confusion, definitely not how I would have normally looked at him whenever he had confronted me.

"Why don't we get going, okay? It'll be easier if we can get there and get in and out," Joe says quietly. I nod dumbly, but make no move to stand. He kneels down in front of me and looks directly in my eyes.

"She really did go after you, didn't she? You're just not the same kid today that you were two months ago," he says softly, and I felt a tear trying to escape as he continues. "How long has this been going on, Adam?" I shrug, no longer willing to try and explain any of it. I feel anger and exhaustion and frustration, that's all. He places a hand on my shoulder as he stands.

"Come on kid, we'll get you squared away," he says quietly.

"What's going to happen to my mom?" I ask, remaining in my seat.

"I really don't know, it's not up to me," Joe says, taking a seat on the corner of his desk. "Mr. Swanson, as a public school teacher and administrator, is required to report any abuse he may think is going on. After he found your mother downstairs making a great deal of noise, he went to check on you because she said you attacked her.

"He found your bed unslept in. He stated you are a very meticulous person about your room and belongings and the room was definitely untouched," Joe continued. "By then the police were on the scene and he explained to them that you weren't there and discovered the marks and glass embedded in the kitchen wall, which jive with your report of her throwing a candle holder at you," he said, then paused for a moment.

"So at the very least we know it's not safe for you there. Mr. Swanson feels the same way, so we have very little choice but to place you for the time being," he says softly.

"No way, I'm not going to live with some stranger, I'll stay at Randy's house. His folks will let me," I say, shaking my head.

"I'm sorry, Adam, but the law is very clear…" Joe begins, but I cut him off with my outburst.

"I don't give a fuck what the goddamn law says, I'm not going anywhere! You can't make me do a goddamn thing and I won't fucking go!" I yell, desperation and confusion intertwined with my rage at them trying to take control of me.

"You will not use that language or tone of voice in here!" Coach Canfield bellows, but I am past hearing him and I bellow back at him.

"Fuck you, Coach Cocksucker, I'm not one of your football jack offs!" I jump up and head for the door. Coach sidesteps in front of me me and beats me to the door. I run into him with a lowered shoulder. He shunts the blow aside and spins me around, then quickly has hold of my arms just above the wrist and crosses them in front of me. I am secured, except for my head, which I fling back at him viciously screaming to be let go while stomping on his feet with my own. I kick wildly for his shins and knees, anything I can reach in my rage.

He avoids most of my attack and we both tumble to the floor, he on my upper body and Joe securing my legs as I scream in frustration and the stupid tears start again. I fucking hate crying.

Eventually, I am led away in handcuffs by the local police department - for my own safety they say. I snarl that they just don't want people to see a kid kick their ass. When the cops arrive I am still raging, maybe burning off the pressure of the last two days, I can't really tell. But I am taken from the school like a criminal.

I am forced into the car while I spit and curse them, crowds of onlookers at the windows watching and I think I can see Nick in an upper story classroom, but it is probably just wishful thinking. In my mind he is waving to me, calling out, but it is all so surreal, so strange compared to what my life was only yesterday.

The cruiser pulls away and I sit, drained and forlorn, in the back seat. It is as if it were happening to someone else, like I am not really here at all, and my mind reels farther towards that welcoming escape from reality – that feeling of bending. My grip on the present is becoming hard to maintain, as if it were slicked up with some substance to aid in its escape.

I stare at the streets as they pass, row upon row of houses bundled close together, some actually sharing a wall. I remain silent as the cruiser makes its way to the downtown district and past the police station to the large structure that contained the courts, DMV, and Social Services.

I am led into the building, and then up a flight of stairs to a waiting area filled with benches and chairs bolted to the walls and floor. Doors leading into small rooms are visible, although I am only aware of them dimly. I am seated by the officer and the cuffs are removed from one hand and reattached to a bar that was bolted to the bench, forcing me to sit. I rub my sore wrist as if I were trying to wash away the memory of the cuff ever having been there – which is hard to do when the other wrist is still cuffed. The cop speaks briefly to the guard stationed in the room, gestures to me, probably telling him what a dangerous punk I am. He needn't have bothered as I didn't feel up to doing anything anyhow.

I am probably only there a few minutes before Joe Lutz walks in with a handsome fellow trailing him. He is slim, somewhat tall, with thick dark hair and delicate hands that he extends to me. I awkwardly reach with my cuffed hand, forgetting I can't.

"Hi, Adam, my name is René Bergman and I'll be your case worker," he says to me in a voice that carries a slight accent. I just look at him, this surreal dream adding yet another character.

"Adam?" Joe speaks and I jump a bit, brought back to reality for a moment.

“Officer, can we have this cuff removed?” Joe asks the officer in the room. It's done and my hand is finally freed.

"Hi," I mumble as I take René's offered hand. He sits down next to me, a sheaf of paperwork settling on his lap. Joe states that he'll be off, and leaves us to it.

"I know this must be overwhelming for you, but try not to worry. If you have questions, I'm your answer man, and it's my job to look out for your best interests right now, okay?" His voice is gentle, almost soothing. I nod as my wounded mind eases under the spell of his soft words.

"I was thinking we could use one of the rooms off to the side to talk so no one else is listening to your private business. Is that all right?" he asks. I nod at this as well and so he stands and guides me to the doorway where two doors stand open leading to small rooms. I am glad that he's offering me choices and privacy rather than still being a public spectacle as I was when being dragged off the school grounds.

The room is utilitarian with beige walls and a plastic folding table. Two chairs with molded plastic seats and metal feet stand on either side of the table. I sit and René takes the opposite chair.

"Adam, I'll tell you what I have in my files so far, then we can go over what we need to do from here - would that be all right?" he asks, showing a pleasing, toothy smile that I find trustworthy. I nod my assent.

“There were two police reports filed. The first was by your birth mother, Victoria Castle, who reported that you attacked her.”

“I never did!” I protest.

“Wait, please,” he holds up a hand. “I'm just telling you what the reports say, we can discuss them afterward. Now,” he looks back at the report, “This report is transcribed from the call she made to the police station. Upon investigating a second report was taken...”

He shuffled through the papers, turning a few back and forth several times before he spoke again.

"Okay, a disturbance was reported last night at your house by a Bernard Swanson, who is dating Victoria Castle, your mother. Further, that your mother may have attacked the minor, one Adam Castle, and the child seemed to be missing.

"Fearing for the minor's safety after having made these discoveries upon being wakened by an intoxicated defendant, the police arrived prior to the complainant being able to contact authorities," he finished placing the forms on the table.

"Do you have anything you'd like to add to that report?" René asks.

"Um, Bernie said all that?" I ask with a trace of disbelief in my voice.

"Yes, I spoke to him personally. He thinks highly of you it seems," René says easily.

"My mom - she's been a little weird since my dad died," I say to him slowly, looking into his face for traces of anything that would make me suspicious, but I find only an open and caring face. "She said a lot of things about him, a lot of things about me too," I say, no longer able to meet his eyes.

"Adam, your mother made some statements to us and I want ask you about them because it will help us to help you better. Please try to be as honest as you can, and remember I am not here to hurt or judge you," René says calmly, but the blood rushes from my face and I know what the question is. I look into his face and am afraid of him for the first time. I can only react one way when I am scared. I only know one way.

"Fuck you!” My anger is that quick to rise. “You can tell that lying bitch I hope she rots in hell!" I scream as I rise to my feet, the chair clattering to the floor behind me. René's hands go up, palms open as he shows me he isn't going to hurt me, but I don't care, tears begin to well in my eyes and panic sets in. I can't let anyone else know. I know I am finished, but what if it comes out about Nick? He doesn't deserve any of it. Troy already tried to trash him...what was I going to do? I feel the wall against my back and realize I have been backing away from René who still sits at the table, palms down flat on its surface.

"Adam, it's okay.” He speaks very softly so that I have to calm down to hear him. “You're not the first person in the history of the world to be going through any of this, and the good part is you won't go through it alone. We have an ideal placement for you, a place you'll be okay and get all the help and information you need to be whoever you are," René's voice is soothing, and it works on me again as I feel myself loosening slightly, feeling the tears trembling on my lashes.

As I look at him and take in the full import of his words – to be whoever I was – I realize he knows. Before I can think about it, I begin to unburden myself. I don't know why, I just do.

"I fell for him the first time I saw him. Randy, my best friend, he helped Nick out on his first day. I did too. Randy's really sweet to me, he's everything that ever kept me together and gave me reasons to get up in the morning. My dad loved baseball, he used to take me all the time. Randy would go with us sometimes and I know I have a connection with him that will never break. But Nick's different. Randy's beautiful, but Nick - I just can't describe what I feel. I can tell you what he looks like, I can't tell you where he lives, - I've never even been in his room, I didn't trust myself."

"That's a lot of weight to place on yourself, a lot of burdens for your shoulders," René comments softly.

"I need Randy and I pushed him away because I was afraid. Nick was with him and I wanted to be near Nick so bad sometimes it hurt. So I wrote in my computer, I kept a journal and put everything I couldn't say to Nick in my computer. It was the only way I could love him - from a distance," I sniff, "I didn't want to hurt him."

"Does he know how you feel?" René asks softly. I nod.

"And what was his reaction?"

"He told me first," I whisper. “I can't let Nick get hurt over this, I can't let other people find out. People can't find out he's gay. You have to send me away,” I say to him.

I resume my seat after a moment of silence between us and he sits with his hands face down on the tabletop as he had been for at least ten minutes before a rap on the door interrupts the silence. The policeman on duty in the room pokes his head in.

"Mr. Bergman? They're calling your case number sir."

René nods and thanks him before collecting his papers. He frowns and holds a hand out to shepherd me. I follow quietly, almost meekly, as we leave the waiting area and enter the courtroom proper. It isn't that large, kind of modern and flimsy looking really. When I think of courtrooms I think of large polished wood desks set high so as to be in judgment, no carpeting and large tables of solid wood for the plaintiff and defendant.

This was definitely not that. A small desk on a raised platform, iron railing and spindles to hold it up, and two folding tables, the rectangular type set up for the plaintiff and defendant. My mother was behind one of the tables, I noted with shock. Two folding chairs were placed next to each folding table. I followed René to our table and stood next to him while the case was called to order.

“Mr. Bergman, proceed,” the Judge says.

"Judge Chiarolanzio, Mrs. Castle was arrested this morning for drunk and disorderly conduct as well as suspicion of neglect and evidence of physical assault by her upon her son. She had filed a report that contradicts this but we feel confident that other testimony we have obtained will put that to rest. Adam Castle is the respondent and he is appearing here with me. We feel that Mrs. Castle has proven to be unstable at this time and suggest that Adam Castle be remanded to foster care for a time not less than six months. We are arranging for a suitable foster parent in his current school district in order to ease his transition," René stated.

“That's bullshit!” my mom yells out. Her words still have a slight slur from her binge the night before, but she can be understood. “This little faggot wants to bugger his friends! He's probably already corn-holing Randy and now he wants that politician's kid!”

“Order! Mrs. Castle you will be silent until called on and you will not use profanity in this court room.” The judge glares down on her and my mother wilts just a little. Like my anger, she's not to be kept down, though.

“The little diseased fuck stabbed me in the heart!” she cries out and then buries her face in her hands. That lasts only moments before she lifts her head and fixes me with a look that I can only say is filled with pure hate.

“Your father should have told me! How could you? How could you want some smelly asshole? Can't you love? That isn't love!” she shrieks.

“Bailiff, remove her!” the judge orders. My mess of a mother is taken away.

I struggle to make myself speak. If they send me back to school, people will find out and Nick will suffer for it. The fights Randy would get in on my behalf...they all know about me here already, but they couldn't tell anyone – right?

Judge Chiarolanzio looks down from his desk, an imposing figure under his black robes. He has a round face and a cheerful sparkle in his eyes, and a mustache to match his black hair. After studying me long enough to make me squirm, he studies some papers in front of him for a few minutes before turning his gaze back on me. He regards me for a moment before speaking into his microphone.

"Adam Castle, it is the determination of this court that you shall be placed into foster care immediately for your own well being as a person in need of supervision. Mr. René Bergman will be your case worker and court liason. Should you develop any problems in your foster placement he is to be your contact person." His gavel rang down with finality as he demands the next case.

Once again I am left to follow René and I do, down the hall from the courtroom and to a small office. He waves me to a seat and I take it. I find my hands are shaking, partially from rage and partially from shock. I can't believe she said those things – I can't believe she hates me so much.

I watch René as his pen scritches across the pages as he fills in lines and flips back and forth through his file for information. At last he sets the pen down and begins to speak to me.

“I have a good placement for you, but there won't be a bed available until tomorrow. Tonight you will stay at Stone Hills Farm and then you will be transferred into the custody of the group home.”

“Randy's parents would take me in,” I say quickly. Now that it's happening, I don't want to go away. I need Randy and Nick.

“Right now you need a theraputic level of care. You will also undergo counseling to address your trauma. The good news is that the group home is very adept at handling situations where a child questions their sexuality.”

“I'm not questioning,” I say, my voice dripping with venom. “I know who I am – and it's not what my mother says, either!”

“Adam, you're getting mad at the wrong person. There are legal constraints and we feel this is the best thing for you, right now. In the future we can consider...”

“Fuck you, too!” I say, lifting my finger to him. “Maybe you should ask people what they want before just deciding, how about that?”

“Adam,” he says but I'm not having any of it.

“What was all that bullshit about looking out for me? Huh? You think sticking me with strangers is the answer?”

“The answer is you need a higher level of care until you can show some control over your actions and your temper,” he says as if my insults mean nothing to him. “It wouldn't hurt for you to reign in your language either.”

A knock at the door and a bull of a guy in a uniform pokes his head in. “Everything okay, Mr. Bergman?”

“Yes. Adam is ready to go. John will be making arrangements for transport tomorrow.” Bergman looks at me and says, “He will take you to your accommodations for the night. Tomorrow...”

“Eat me, you lying sack of shit,” I snarl.

“You,” the guy at the door says. “Come with me quietly and no more bad language.”

“You can lick my asshole,” I spit.

He lumbers across the room and wraps me up in irritatingly short order, much like Coach had, and I am carried out spitting, kicking and screaming every curse I can think of at the behemoth. I am put into a van with a guy in the back to make sure I don't climb out. I feint at bolting a few times just to fuck with him, but I'm not jumping out of a moving vehicle -I'm not crazy.

The building is behind a fence and I walk in with one goon beside me. The escort brings me to a door that works with a key card. Closing it behind us I realize I am in a lock-down style facility. I sit down on the thin mattress of the room I am put into, the door closes, and silent tears of rage slide down my cheeks. I squash them angrily, but they won't stop.

The following morning I am brought to a cafeteria room for breakfast and then escorted again to a small waiting room where a tall fellow with dark hair sits. He had a careworn face with a goatee cut short. On him it looks like it should be called something more dignified. A Van Dyke on him would fit better. He is dressed in jeans and a button up shirt and is thumbing through a magazine. He stands and smiles at me as he holds out a hand.