Why I drink
In one of my earlier blogs, I mentioned working at a place where I tell kids not to drink. I'm sober this time around, but hear me out.
Before I go any further, I should probably be more forthcoming with my line of work. To be specific, I work in what could be called a rehabilitational juvenile detention center/residential treatment facility for sex offenders/drug addicts. In reality, its a day care center for failed experiments in parenting that have now gone out and gotten caught doing drugs and/or sexually offending people. Remind me to tell the story about the kid that tried to have sex with a goldfish before he came into our custody some time. But yes, when I say failed experiments in parenting, I mean exactly that . . . I've met some of the parents, and 97% of the time they're just as dense and fucked as the kids are.
Now. This all being said, my adventure today begins with me sitting at the staff desk reading contentedly since no one was fighting or fucking at the time (mind you, this is an all-male facility and I'm not exaggerating). Suddenly, my tranquility is shattered like a window by a baseball when one of the kids runs in shouting "Max (the kids name isn't Max, but I can't use his real name for confidentiality reasons) is fighting! They need you outside right away!" In the time it takes me to snatch up my sunglasses and head for the door that leads to the back porch, Max is already on his way into the cottage.
Before we continue, I need to give you a bit of backstory on Max, lest you feel sorry for him in some way or show him an ounce of undeserved compassion. Max, to put it gently, is a total scumbag fuckup that only comes close to producing something useful when he passes gas, but even that is wasted seeing as the methane escapes into the atmosphere. Max lies to his therapist on a regular basis, has made multiple attempts at raping female staff that work there but is too stupid to have one actually work, picks fights with other kids just to cause problems for the staff that are working, and is generally just a worthless greedy cocksucking pig that is a drain on society and a total leech on the U.S. economy, not to mention a blithering idiot mouthbreather. He feels no remorse for what he's done, treats staff like shit when he doesn't get his way, and in no way deserves the freedom and opportunities being given him by being placed where I work. It can be pretty much guaranteed that Max is going to reoffend when he gets back out into the real world because, like many others, he has no concept of the real world or what one must do to be a functioning part of it. Max's biggest concern is what he can get right here, right now. He has used threats of suicide and faked having heart palpatations to get attention, and has admitted to lying about being bisexual so that he wouldn't have to be honest in his sexual journals. He threatens self-harm so that therapists have to be called at home and more paperwork is created for us, and always plays the role of the victim every time he fucks up and gets busted for it. Believe me when I say that even after all this, you're just starting to get the picture on how large a filthy parasite this 16 year old is.
So, now you have an idea of the sort of environment I work in, and the kind of fuckwads they keep bringing back because their counties keep paying for them to be here. Fast forward a bit, Max has walked back to his dorm after knocking a bunch of stuff over. Here I come to find out that he's upset because while attending a kickball rec, he didn't like the way they were pitching the ball to him, and was told that if he rolled it back one more time he would be out. This of course is a reason to throw a wild tantrum in a fit of anger, which is exactly what he proceeded to do. He managed to punch the kid in the face that was pitching, shoved the rec therapist that was running the activity, and punched another kid in the chest on his way back to the cottage because the kid was laughing at him for acting like a complete ass, and wouldn't stop when Max told him to stop laughing or he'd punch the kid. So this is what I'm dealing with. I'm standing back there, watching Max pace around his dorm and punch things, trying to talk some sense into him when the supervisor that was on call and one of the other staff in our cottage come back. Max states that if he's going to DH anyways, he's going to break a window. Well . . . supervisor walks away to call the police since Max assaulted 3 people, and Max goes see? I'm going to DH. I'm going to break this window.
Myself and the other staff, however, decided he in fact would NOT be breaking a window this evening, and put him into the restraint we're trained in. Granted, it's a lame-ass technique taught in this bullshit CPI program, but when you've got two bruisers like the other staff and myself (not to brag, but while I may be a gentle giant, I can throw down if I need to), it actually works out quite nicely. So we've got him restrained. Supervisor walks in, sees we're in a restraint, nods, then goes "Alright, lets get him to the time out room." The time out room is just that: a big empty room where there's only one exit, no windows, and there are usually several staff present by the time they make it to the TO room. Along the way, this dipshit couldn't stop screaming and frothing at the mouth, trying to break free with all his retard strength to the point where we had to restrain him again before we even made it out of the cottage. Of course, now that he's in trouble, he's demanding to talk to his therapist thinking she'll somehow be able to get him off the hook now that he's assaulted 2 other youths and a staff member.
I won't bore you with the part where he sat in the TO room and waited for the police, denying a lot of the things he did and trying to blame everyone but himself for his behaviors and whatnot. He played the suicide card again, saying if he goes to DH again he's going to kill himself, but I know we aren't that lucky. The really sad part is I used to strongly believe that there wasn't such a thing as a human life without value until I started working here and saw just how close some individuals can come to completely destroying that theory. Anyways . . . he's talking all sorts of suicide b.s. even though I know full well he's too much of a self-centered cocksucker to actually kill himself, and the police arrive to take statements and then cuff him and take him away. Here's where it gets interesting again.
On the way out of the old school building where the TO room is, there are a set of large glass doors leading out the front of the building where the cop was parked. He decides to have another fuckwad fit on the way out, and SLAMS his head against the glass doors. The guy I'd been working with up to this point stepped in to help the policeman, but Max was hellbent on being as much of an asslick that he can before he gets hauled off. He pretends to calm down long enough for them to loosen up a bit, then rocks over hard and slams his head against the concrete wall. At this point, they stop again to tighten their grip on him, and Max is crying about how he's going to kill himself some more, or anything else he thinks might make us feel sorry for him at this point and not send him to DH. Once outside, they go to put him in the cruiser . . . and he headbutts the vehicle, actually putting a dent into it. This is when the policeman called for backup, and we stood there for about 7 minutes waiting for it to arrive so they could strap Max in to the back of the cruiser and have this other guy follow him in case they need to pull over and restrain Max for being a dipshit and trying to hurt himself on the ride to the DH.
I have to say . . . the backup guy that arrived was cool as hell. I'm strongly convinced he was a Marine at one point, and I wanted to ask him but didn't think it appropriate given the current situation. The guy even got out of his cruiser wearing black kevlar gloves in case things got nasty. With 2 cops on him now, though, Max got very compliant and got into the cruiser like a good worthless fuck, then they strapped him in and he didn't move a muscle while we exchanged a few pleasantries and filled out paperwork. The cop that came in as backup, though . . . he made a comment and I still smile when I think about it . . . . . the first one was like "Yeah, I wasn't sure how this was going to happen, so I just wanted someone else here to be available." and without missing a beat, backup cop goes "Yeah well, you call for the beef and it comes." Maybe you had to be there, but I got a big kick out of that. I swear, I think the guy was a Marine, he looked like he traded in his fatigues for his cop uniform. I wish I had asked him. Eh well.
So that's my fun work story. Further justice was served when the female staff that was working in our cottage made the most amazing fried chicken breasts dinner I've ever tasted (seriously, it was so good I almost cried), and cherry cobbler for desert (again, unparalleled excellence) . . . and Max wasn't there to eat it. And Max loves to eat. Its about all he does.
. . . I need a beer.