JD was screaming his lungs out at his basketball teammate and Special Counselor, me. We were participating in a house game of basketball for our hourly House Rec (or as I refer to it: House Wreck). JD is the chunky "feral child" who looks like Pumba from the Lion King. He had squared up in front of me and had his fists up to fight.
"I ain't goin' nowhere, partnah! You wanna piece of me, you come and get it, niggah! I'll beat yo ass!" JD comes from the white-trash foothills but he took on a ghetto accent whenever he got violent, something he picked up since he got here. His eyes were wide and he was breathing hard, each exhale blowing his lips out so you could see his underbitten teeth.
"You know, JD, we've talked about this. In fact, we talk about it every day. When you threaten your peers, your program is to go directly to the house, no..."
"I know, 'no ips, ans or buts!' But he didn't pass me the ball - ever - and I told him I'd kick his ass if he didn't pass me the ball AND HE FUCKIN DIDN'T! So I ain't goin nowhere, I'm playing basketball and plus, I'll beat yo ass if you make me. SO GIMME THE FUCKIN BALL!"
I said, "JD, you will be going to the house, your house rec is over. You're not mad at me, you know the rules, you're disappointed in yourself for losing it again. That's ok, we'll try again tomorrow. If you don't walk up on your own, we'll escort you, just like we always do. Your decision."
Chris, the non-passer, was sitting on the sidelines doing his timeout and said, "Yeah, JD, a day without you getting proned is like a day without sunshine, so just serve it."
This was JD's opportunity to lose it. "What the fuck? That's it, you're going down mutha-fucka! I get crazy!"
As JD stomped over toward the sideline, Chris just sat there with an intentionally bored look on his face, his chin resting on his fist. JD was screeching and lathering obscenities and was walking just slow enough so that Toby and I could tackle him just before he got to Chris. Toby and I placed JD in a prone containment on the hot asphalt, and I turned to my other teammates, Mel and Gus.
"Me and Toby'll take him up to the house. You guys have a good game." Chris looked at the hysterical JD, grinned and waved a dainty goodbye.
JD's getting better. In a calmer moment weeks ago, he and I worked out a strict behavior contract which send him straight to the house as soon as he gets out of line, 'no ifs, ands or buts.' He loves to say that with me. There was a time when he would have hurt someone, gotten into a fight or run away in these instances, and occasionally he still does, but not as often. He was slimming down a bit due to the extra exercise and learning to trust adults, little by little.
"Mutha-fuckas, let's fight! I'll beat the shit out of you. You ain't my Special Counselor no more, niggah! You're just a fat bitch. You like to get drunk and fag off with kids." His arms were slippery with sweat.
"JD, me and Toby are going to pick you up and take you to the Quiet Room. While we do that, you can think about who you're really talking about."
The trip back up the hill, through the weeds and to the house was really difficult. Since JD was fighting, trying to spit and bite, it was easier to drag him up the hill backwards.
Toby said, "You know how the cops do it? They straighten out the arm behind the perpetrator, push it into the shoulder and bend the wrist, like this." He demonstrated the maneuver on JD.
JD screamed, "Okay! I'll walk! I'll walk!" Toby then moved JD's arm back to the original position, and immediately, JD started to fight again.
"Of course, we can't do that," said Toby. "It would make things too easy."
We eventually dragged JD to the house and into the Quiet Room. We pushed him in there and slammed the door. He was livid.
"Bitches better not open the door either cuz I'll beat both your asses!"
"Okay," I said, yelling through the plexiglass window. "Good idea. We'll just leave you there. Bye."
"Open the fuckin door! Godammit! You think I'm messing around? I'll show you!" He grabbed his Shaq O'Neil jersey with two hands and ripped it down the middle. "See? I hate you, bitch!"
I said, "Aw, JD, that was your special Shaq jersey that we got from Ross. Remember how we had such a good time that day?"
"Think I care? WELL I DON'T!" He took the shreds of his jersey and tied it tightly around his head. "Now I'm gonna cut off that thing... That thing that goes in your head that you can die from...You know, what's that thing called?"
I said helpfully, "You mean you're going to cut off your circulation. Say it, 'cir-cu-la-tion,' so that you can die. That's called 'com-mit-ing-su-i-cide.' And that way I'll get fired because it'll be my fault because I hate kids and like to get drunk and abuse them. But you won't be around to see it because you'll be dead, but it'll be worth it because I'll be homeless. That's what you meant to say, right? Fine with me, I need the vacation."
JD pulled off one of his shoes. He slammed it against the window over and over. Every time he slammed it, I'd tap against the window to make a little rhythm.
BOOM taptap, BOOM tap, BOOM taptap, BOOM tap.
He stopped slamming and said, "Oh, you think it's time for fun and games? TAKE THIS!" He walked up to the window and started ramming his head against it. Each time he he hit it, I'd say in a falsetto, "Boopboop."
BLAM boopboop, BLAM boop, BLAM boopboop, BLAM boop.
"Hey JD, I like this rhythm better."
"I'm gonna pee in here!"
"It's gonna stink in there!"
He took his shoe again. "See this? This is you!" He started pulling open the top of his shoe, attempting to rip it apart.
"JD, those are your Jordans. Remember how long you worked to earn those? Remember how proud of yourself you were when we went to Ross and got them? I'm proud of you too, you know."
"Don't care," he said between gasps. "Gonna tear 'em apart. You're not proud of me, you think I suck. I can tell. I'm the worst piece of shit you've ever seen." He continued stretching out the shoe and I could tell it wouldn't be long until it was in shreds.
"JD, I'm not going to let you tear up your special Jordans."
"I don't want them!"
"I'm coming in there and I'm going to take your shoes so you can't tear them up."
"That's what I want. So I can beat your ass! You want to hurt me anyway, why don't you come and do it? I'm a retard! And I SUCK!" He tore at his Jordans with renewed vigor.
"Why do you keep saying that? Do you realize how much better you've gotten since you've been here? You're way better. You're getting slimmer, you don't fight as much, you're learning about getting along with people. You think you're the worst I've ever seen but you're not. Not even close. So stop talking to me like I'm your dad. I'm not your dad, I'm your friend. I'll never treat you like your dad treated you."
"Talking about my dad? My dad'll kick your ass! I'M GONNA KILL YOU MUTHA-FUCKA!
I opened the door which surprised JD and he took a step back in fright. He quickly composed himself, raised his Jordan and gritted his teeth. "You're going down, bitch! I'm gonna kill your ass!"
I put my hands down by my sides, and walked slowly toward him.
"I'm not gonna fight you. I'm just not."
He swung the shoe. I didn't flinch. He didn't hit me. He stood there for a moment, looking at me. Then he burst into tears.
"Oooh, I'm sorry. I wish you were my dad. Why can't you be my dad?" He hugged me and sobbed. "Why can't you just adopt me? I'd act good at your house, I promise. Ohh, hooo. Nobody likes me, but you do."
"It's gonna be ok, JD. Better and better every day. It's gonna be ok."
"I don't really hate you, Stokie."
"I know. It's ok."
"I was just mad."
"I know, JD. Better and better every day. I'm proud of you."
"I'm proud of you, too, Stokie. Can I try again tomorrow?"
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