9:26 a.m. - 2005-06-10
Calabasas Rant
This time, what appeared to float was gratefully not a man but a job, although it indirectly led to a transformative encounter with one. So, back to the job ... I was typing away at my Century City desk with the decorative headless Barbie holding a sign that read, "She's not here at the moment. Is there something I could help you with?". I tried to inject some kind of quirk into a very boring office. The phone rang and I heard the cheery voice of old Dr. Stern, who operated a mobile psychiatric unit. I had met him during my internship and he liked what he saw of my work. "Tired of typing yet?", he said enigmatically. Quickly assenting, he proceeded to describe a residential school for emotionally disturbed adolescents that was looking for a counselor. Fearing that I would be exposed for the emotionally disturbed adolescent I still was, I decided to fake bravado and audition for the part. The school was set up in large mobile units in the hills of Calabasas, which I understand means 'pumpkin' in Spanish. Winding my VW bug in low gear through fields of lupine and mustard, I came to the top of a hill to discover a handfull of kids smoking on a wooden fence, casually peppering the country air with explatives, some of which I hadn't yet heard. It was loosely co-ed and I was hard pressed that day to decide who looked scarier, boys or girls. Smoking right along with them was what I assumed to be a counselor or some kind of child care worker. He was over six feet tall with black curls and the bluest eyes I had ever seen. The contrast, along with his guileless grin, was startling. He directed me to the administration trailor and wished me luck. Able to leap undiscerning grown-ups in a single bound, I aced the interview. I was to start the very next week. I drove myself immediately to B. Dalton's, where I purchased everything I could find on adolescent psychology (not previously my strong suit). I was afraid, but excited. I quit my job at the oil company, lickety split, grabbing only my Barbie as I ran for the door. I didn't expect to set the world on fire with my meager experience, but perhaps to crank up the flame just a bit. The kids loved me. My predecessor, I was told, had to bribe them with ice cream to get them to their sessions. I would walk into the classroom and all hands immediately raised. "Me, me!", they would shout. Honestly. I think they liked the fact that I didn't have a clue as to what I was doing. They identified with my vulnerability and trusted my authenticity. I learned alot from them. Besides expanding my vocabulary considerably to include several of their favorite cuss words, they taught me that life had changed dramatically while I was busy addressing my emptiness with various men. One day, I stood with a small circle of girls not more than fourteen who were describing their "first time" and celebrating the fact that they had not been beaten. Many were incest survivors. Still others, were just products of hippie parents and maybe a little Madonna. It was the eighties. I told them I felt sad that they hadn't any "Gidget years". They looked at me blankly. I got to know Matthew, the blue eyed, overgrown kid who was paid to keep track of his wayward charges, making sure they didn't inhale more than a pack a day each. He was possibly the sweetest man I had ever met. Some things are predestined, irreversible, genuinely tragic. And this was one.
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