Code Brown

It was a fine Sunday afternoon at 2 o’clock, time for the staff’s shift change.  I’ve been working all day and will be on until 10pm, as will Brady, the 7 foot tall ex-pro basketball player, and Ross, a very caring and very large white guy.  We had let Katrina leave already; Mel was due to arrive at 2 but he is always ten to fifteen minutes late.

Ross is in the kitchen.  He’s been in the kitchen all day.  Ross has been in the kitchen for the last three days.  Ross is a near chain-smoker, or at least he was until he made the decision to quit three days ago.  One of the better ways to avoid the kids if you’re having a bad day as staff is to volunteer to cook and take care of the kitchen.  You have the kitchen counter acting as a barrier between you and the kids and it wraps three-quarters the way around the kitchen.

For the past three days, there has been a bounty of wonderful foods available to us for meals and snacks: pies, casseroles, omelets, salads, lasagna, cakes, smoothies, enchiladas, pizza, teryaki…Ross has been preparing one dish after another, even when it’s not meal time in an effort to stay off the floor.  And as for cleanliness, the kitchen appeared to be downright sterilized.

I’m really trying hard to to support Ross here, but his being perpetually off the floor is starting to strain the other three staff on duty.  For instance, Apollo, Ross’ special kid, has been having a hard time lately with his phone contacts with his mom.  Apollo is a pretty infantilized black kid, and at 13, he’s tall and very skinny.  He comes from the depths of the inner-city and has suffered mostly from neglect, the victim of an absent father and a mother addicted to alcohol and drugs.  Apollo has recently brought up in his therapy sessions with Sam, that perhaps mom was drunk sometimes when they had phone contact.

Apollo’s conversations with his mom are already monitored, that is, it’s been legally established that a staff member must listen in to the conversation on the office phone in case the conversation somehow goes awry.  Sam tells us that Apollo is too afraid to confront mom about being drunk during phone calls so they devised a system to let the monitoring staff know that Apollo wanted to end the conversation: Apollo would say, “Code Brown,” and hang up.  Why it wasn’t “Code Red,” Code Blue,” Code 40,” or “Code Shlitz,” I’ll never know.  So, “Code Brown,” it is.

As we were waiting for Mel’s arrival, Brady and I decided to take care of some house business by leading a community group.  We called “group!” and all the boys sat on the couches in the living room.

Brady began, “I’ve been walking around the house and noticed that a lot of you aren’t really taking care of your hygiene needs very well.  Specifically, when it comes to going to the bathroom.  Lotta those bathrooms are really nasty.  And as hard as it is to talk about, I think some of you need a little re-training when it comes to going to the bathroom.”

The boys were quiet.

Brady continued, “Ok, what Stokie and I are noticing is that there are some dookie stains in the bathroom in places they shouldn’t be.  Some be on the toilets, some be on the wall, some be on the floor.”

There were instantly 10 different accusations shouted out at the same time:

“It’s my roommate!”

“I didn’t do it!”

“Whoa!”

“I know who does it!”

Brady went on.  “I’m not looking for someone to blame, I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble.  I’m just saying there shouldn’t be any dookie anywhere in those bathrooms except for in the toilet.  If you’re taking a dump, and the dookie comes out and you feel like you’re finished, what should you do?”

JD’s eyes lit up. “Flush!”

“Nope,” said Brady.  “You wipe.  With toilet paper.  And now I have an even trickier question. You ready?  How many times should you wipe?”

There were 10 different answers shouted out at the same time:

“3!”

“1!”

“4!”

“2!”

Brady’s demeanor was very calm.  “See?  I told you it was a tricky question.  The correct answer is: as many times as it takes to get all the brown off your butt.  If you wipe and you keep seeing brown on the toilet paper, you keep wiping til it’s gone.  And I’ll tell you something else.  If, for some reason you get some dookie on your fingers or hand, you sho as hell don’t wipe it on the walls or the floor.  You need to clean it up with soap and water.”  Brady chuckled and added, “And Ross is gonna be going around to check too.”

“Like Hell I am,” grumbled Ross from the kitchen.

I started my part of the group.  “Ok, I just want to let you know real quick that some of you need to work on your social skills.  When someone enters the house, like a staff or a therapist or whatever, I know you guys get excited and happy, and that’s ok.  What’s not ok is when half the house bum-rushes someone when they come in.  Ok?  Let that person enter the house, see what’s going on, and then come up to them in a calm manner and say something like, ‘Hello, it’s nice to see you.   How are you?’  That’s the way to start an appropriate conversation with appropriate boundaries.  And I’ll tell you this, those of you who are having dookie problems better have washed up with soap and water if you want that person to give you a handshake.”

I continued,  “Ok, that said this is what’s going on today.  I wanna say congratulations to those of you on the basketball team.  Apollo, Marcus, everyone’s real proud of you guys.  The team has done great this year and I think it’s awesome that you guys have made it to the championship game tomorrow. We have basketball practice in just a few, Ross will be taking you down there.”

“Not with a souffle in the oven I’m not,” grumbled Ross.

Indeed, we have made it to the championship game.  Every year, we field a team of 7th graders from every unit to participate in the community basketball league and our guys have actually gone undefeated for the entire season.  This is a great source of pride for everybody in the organization and our guys will be going for the glory tomorrow evening.

I went on, “I know that Mel said he was going to organize a Nintendo tournament when he gets in, so we’ll wait for him for that.  Anything else you want to say Brady?”

Brady shook his head, “Let’s just have a good day.”

I turned to Ross in the kitchen, “How about you, Julia Child?”

“Just leave me alone,” he said.

“Ok then, looks like Mel is pulling up now, let’s end group and have a good day.”

I went over to the kitchen counter to see if Ross really was making a souffle.

Apollo walked up with me and whined, “I want call my mom.”

Apollo has a very annoying habit of baby-talking and whining.  We sometimes call him the Praying Mantis because he walks on his tiptoes and puts his hands up like a begging puppy when he’s feeling needy.  He was doing this now.

I said, “Well Apollo, I think this is a perfect time for you and your special counselor Ross to talk.  Maybe you guys can go on a nice, long walk.  Whaddya say, Ross?”

Ross did a slow burn and said under his breath, “Fuckin Stokie…”

Apollo said to Ross in his nasally voice, “Can we have special time?  I want call my mom.  Will you come down to basketball?

Ross was irritated, “Damn Apollo, stop whining!  You been whining all day.”

“No I haven’t,” said Apollo.  “I want special time.  Me and you need special time, can we have it?  Can I help you cook?  I want call my mom, we haven’t had special time in long time…”  Apollo was entering the kitchen.

“Get outta my damn kitchen, Apollo!” Ross pushed Apollo.

Apollo was undeterred, “We need call my mom, take me down to basketball, I want special time…”  He was fully invested in his praying mantis character.

Ross was losing it.  “Damn, get outta here, Mantis!  You think that shit is funny?  You look like an idiot!  Put your hands down.  I’m not in the mood for special time.  Maybe tomorrow.”  Ross pushed him again.

I said, “This isn’t really working for me,” and ran to the staff office, and pulled out the pack of Marlboro Reds I had been saving for three days.  I came back out to the kitchen where Ross was now shoving Apollo out of his way.  “Hey Ross, I’m proud of you man.  Three days, that’s great!  Next time, maybe four days.  Here!”

I tossed the cigarettes to him.  “Oh thank God, Stokie.  I was about to choke him.”  He immediately stepped outside and lit one up.

Just then, Mel walked in.  JD very quickly, yet appropriately, walked up to Mel, extended his freshly washed hand and said, “Hello Mel!  How are you!”

Mel completely ignored JD and scrunched up his nose.  “Smells like shit in here.”

I turned to Apollo.  “I’ll monitor your phone call if you want.  Plus, I’m taking you guys down to basketball practice.  Ross just needs a minute to chill.  You want to get on the phone and I’ll go into the office?”

Apollo tippy-toed to the phone and whined, “K.”

I picked up the phone in the staff office.  Apollo had already dialed and his mom picked up.

“Hulla?”

“Hi.”

There was a long pause.  I could hear some tv talk show blaring in the background.  His mom said, “Who this?”

Apollo said, “It’s me.”

“Huh?”

“Me.”

“Oh.”

Another long pause.  Apollo said, “Whatchu lookin at?”

“Huh?”

“Whatchu lookin at?”

“Oh.  Some kinda show.”  I thought I heard the clink of bottles, but wasn’t sure.

Apollo went on, “We in the big game.”

“Huh?”

“We in the big game.”

“Oh.  What game?”

“Basketball, mama.  I tol’ you.  We in the big game.”

“You in the big game? When?”

“Tomorrow, mama.  I tol’ you.  You comin?”  Another long pause.  Apollo repeated, “You comin?”

“Huh?”

“You comin?”

“Oh, you know I can’t get no ride.  I ain’t comin.”  Long pause.  Then she asked, “Whatchu lookin at?”

 Apollo said, “Huh?”

“Huh?”

“We ain’t watchin tv, mama.”

 “Oh.”

“I’m point guard.”

“Huh?”

“Point guard.”

“Who is?”

“I’m point guard, mama.  In the big game.  I’m point guard. Tomorrow we gon play the championship.  You comin?”  During the pause that came after that, I definitely did hear some bottles clinking.

Mama mumbled, “Shit…”

“What happened, mama?”

“Huh?”

“Mama, is you Code Brown?”

“Shit…”

Apollo hung up the phone.

I came back out to talk to Apollo.  “Hey man, I’m sorry she was Code Brown.  But you did real good, you hung up when you were supposed to.  I’m sorry, dude”

“Okay,” he said with his nasally whine. “She jes doin what she always doin.”

 I asked, “Apollo, why did you tell her you’re the point guard?  You’re not the point guard, Darnell is.”  Darnell is a big, mean strong kid from two units down.

Apollo said, “I SHOULD be point guard.  They say the best player always get to be point guard and I’m the best player.”

I can say with some confidence that Apollo is not the best player.  Darnell is the best player.

 I said, “Well, you just play the position the coach tells you to play.  We gotta go anyway.  Get your gear and let’s go.”
                                     
We hopped in the van and I drove across campus to the gymnasium.  Practice had just begun and Marcus and Apollo joined the rest of the team who were doing their usual warm up drills.   The team’s head coach is Ricky Kinglsey, the Recreation Director of the organization and the two assistant coaches were staff from two other houses.  Sitting on the bleachers behind the team bench were a group of staff who had brought their kids down.  Practice is usually about 2 hours long and most staff will drop off the kids and come back to get them when practice is over.  But we liked to linger a little while to watch the kids and engage in some campus gossip.  I took a seat near Guru, who was wearing dark sunglasses and a hoodie sweatshirt under his buttoned up denim jacket, and Toby, who was doing a sub shift for another unit.

I said to Toby, “Hey man, you can’t be down here, who’s gonna clean up the house while the kids are acting out?”

He said, “Lemme tell you something.” He was using his authoritative, lecturing voice. “You might think it’s funny but they don’t know what they’re doing down there.  I’ve done 9 loads of laundry already.  If it wasn’t for me subbing down there, these kids would all be running around with stinky-ass clothes.  I bet YOUR lazy ass hasn’t even done one load.

“Yeah, Tob,” I said, “you got me there.  But let me know if you need any extra latex gloves.  You’re probably single-handedly depleting the house’s reserve.”

Toby winced, “You think I’m gonna touch those foul-ass clothes with my bare hands?  Hell no!”

The boys had started a scrimmage and were running different plays.  Each time the ball was passed to the center, Randall, the tallest kid, he would immediately spin and heave the ball to the basket or backboard, miss, get the rebound and heave it again.  He would shoot and get his own rebound 5 or 6 times before he either made the shot or someone else got the rebound.  It was a wild display.

 I turned to Guru, “Man, how can you stand the heat in those clothes?  It’s stifling in here.”

He slowly turned his head to me, pulled down his glasses and glared.  Then he slowly turned back to the scrimmage where Randall, once again was heaving and rebounding.

Guru said to no one in particular, “Right now I’ve got a problem with the coaching staff…”

He suddenly slammed down his hand on the bleachers, turned to me and yelled, “Never play a psychotic at center!”

Ricky Kingsley heard this, blew his whistle and called all the boys over to re-group.  They convened by the bleachers and drank some water while Ricky talked about tomorrows game.  I was more interested in the conversation that started up between Apollo and Darnell.

Apollo said to Darnell in his annoying drone, “Don’t you think I should be point guard?”

 Darnell attempted to brush him off, “Oh please.  Get outta my face.”

The whine continued, “I want be point guard.  You gon’ see, I’m better.”

“Get the hell away from me ‘fo’ I beat yo ass.”

“What if I aks coach?”

“I’ll beat yo ass.”

“I mo aks him.”

“I’ll beat yo ass."

“What if I’m better than you and I give you a shimmy and shake and then I get the ball?  Then I’ll be point guard.”

 “You do that, I’ll beat yo ass.  Apollo.  You ain’t better.  There’s only one point guard and that’s me.  From now until forever.  Get outta my face ‘fo’ I beat you ass.”

That was the end of the conversation.  The boys resumed practice, with Darnell at point guard, and the rest of us staff slowly went back to the vans and up to our houses.

 I walked in and JD immediately ran up to me, “Stokie!”  He was attempting to give me a hug and I could feel is dank, clammy hands rubbing on my arms.

I pushed him away, “Damn JD!  You think I want your nasty, unwashed hands all over me?  Come on, man, boundaries!  That’s nasty!”

Ross looked up from the game of paper football he was playing with a couple kids and laughed, “Hey Stokie, you need one?”  He held up his pack of smokes.

 I said, “I see you took your medicine.  Now that’s the Ross I know!”

Entry 37: The Beginning of the End, part 1

As you are by now well aware, all of us group home counselors are completely professional, always focused on the well-being of the kids. Ok, so maybe that is a slight exaggeration.

The truth is, like in any profession, the mind begins to wander sometimes. During the times we are with the kids, there is usually too much going on to lose focus. However, our weekly staff meetings can be some of the more mundane activities we face, so it is no wonder we need to find distractions to keep ourselves occupied.

At the moment, our staff is equally balanced between males and females - six of each. One of the inside jokes we males like to mention to each other is that it's very important to balance out the staff between guys and girls because not only can we exhibit proper family role models for the children, but it also gives us something interesting to look at as the shift wears on. And believe me, in an atmosphere where at any time you run the risk of getting assaulted, peed on, cussed at and spit on, just about anything that meets the minimum requirement of being the opposite sex qualifies as being interesting to look at.

Every Tuesday is staff meeting day. While the kids are at school, every staff who works on every shift comes in for 4 hours to discuss important issues, work on treatment plans, listen to social workers present new clients and examine our own effectiveness on the floor. ("On the floor" means working out in the open with the kids. The House Supervisor might use it like this: "Staff, please try not to cuss when you're out on the floor," or, if you're like Toby, you might say it while unlocking the door to the staff office, "Staff, I'm going to be off the floor for a few minutes," which means you're about to go take a dump.) Staff meetings are held at the large kitchen table around which we are all seated.

Just before one of the staff meetings, I was talking to Mel, one of my favorite teammates, in the staff office. Mel was closing his eyes and shaking his head, "Dawg, I'm not saying I'm gonna try to set the kids off so they blow out, but damn, dude, have you ever proned some kid with Trixie? (Trixie is a hot red-head) Blood, when that hottie bends over, just take a look back. Her pants sag down and her thong and all her shit is hangin' out for the whole world to see. Me and her proned Freddie's stupid ass this morning and I'm telling you...damn!" Mel didn't need to remind me, it's not like I never noticed this job's little rewards. Mel went on, "Dude, everybody's sitting down. Call me in two minutes."

"Mel, you're a fucking pervert, plus you're making me late." Actually I didn't mind.

Mel cringed and laughed as he walked out of the staff office and off to the staff meeting. After two minutes, I used the staff office phone to call the phone line in the kitchen. When it rang, I heard Mel jump up, "I'll get it!" I hung up just as Mel answered, "Hulla? Oh, let me check." He walked in to meet me in the staff office.

"Oh, man, blood, you gotta go out there to staff meeting!"

"Yeah, well that's the general idea, Mel," I laughed.

"Dawg, it's not just Trixie's thong, that crazy-ass bitch Leslie got one too, only leopard stripe, plus Katrina's wearing her lace red one."

"Mel, you're fucking crazy but I love you. We better go out."

As we walked out to take our places, I walked behind the women he was talking about and noticed that everything he described was true. Sad, but true. Life's little pleasures are amplified in this kind of environment.

Mel mentioned "Crazy-ass Leslie." She came aboard at Trixie's recommendation, but Trixie soon renounced her allegiance to Leslie. Trixie said she thought Leslie was cool at first, but she soon found out, as we all did that Leslie is a little unbalanced. Trixie told me that she started getting worried when they went out one night, went bar hopping and Leslie wound up dropping her pants and taking a piss out in the middle of a busy intersection. Later, Trixie would find Leslie in her house, uninvited, when she would come home from work. Now that Trixie has told Leslie that she's not allowed in her house uninvited, Leslie has taken up driving by the group home, slowing down and giving Trixie the evil eye, and driving off. And this is on Leslie's days off!

I had noticed that something was amiss with her when I pulled into work one afternoon and she burst out of the house yelling, "Stokie! My favorite person! I love you!" She ran up to me sat on my foot and hugged my leg. This woman was actually humping my leg. I thought for a second that it was nice that she had a crush on me and I felt a bit of an ego stroke. After all, she is kinda cute. But that thought was overcome by my next thought that this person thinks it's ok to greet someone by humping his leg, and not just that, but in public. "Oh Stokie, thank you so much for being you!"

"Leslie, you need to get the fuck off my leg. This isn't how normal people act. Get the fuck off."

"But you're my favorite person..." I shook her off my leg and she lay there in the street. "God, Stokie, you don't have to be like that..."

I walked into the house. Scott, a big, good looking baseball player was at the stove cooking what he liked to call "Sloppy Scotts," his version of Sloppy Joes.

I said, "Scott, I think that Leslie's fuckin crazy, man. Or she has a crush on me or something."

Scott put down his spatula and looked at me. "Aw, man! Don't tell me she humped your leg, too! I never had someone do that to me til now!"

It is in this context that after the staff meeting, I found myself with Mel and Toby discussing the Ultimate Group Home Counselor.

Mel was holding court. "Ok, if you put Trixie's ass together with Katrina's tits, that would be so dope."

"No!" said Toby. "Katrina's too damn lazy. Put Stephanie's ass with Trixie's tits."

"Yeah," said Mel. "She's got a nice little backyard. But she got to have a head, dawg."

Mel said, "Leslie's head, dude. Listen. Trixie's tits, you can't beat those. Stephanie's ass and Leslie's head. Stokie, how 'bout that? Leslie's head, what do you think?"

I said, "As long as it keeps it's fucking mouth shut, I'm ok with it."

"Cool," said Mel. "Then we got it. The Ultimate Group Home Counselor."

Later that afternoon, I was sharing the shift with Mel, Trixie and Leslie. It was our recreation hour and Mel and I were watching the activities from the back porch while Trixie was playing frisbee on the rec field and Leslie was watching a group of boys play basketball at the adjoining courts. We both happened to be watching as Leslie got up and walked over to a heavy, wooden baseball bat that had been left on the field. I thought that it was a good idea of her to remove it and keep it safely from the boys. She picked it up and walked over to a basketball that had also been left on the field. She picked up the ball, tossed it up in the air and swung at it. She missed. Undeterred, she tossed it up and swung again.

This time she hit it. The ball didn't move. The bat ricocheted back and slammed her in the side of the head. Mel and I ran down as we watched her lose her balance and fall to her knees. When we arrived she was bleeding from her ear.

She was taken by ambulance to the hospital and I heard that she had suffered a concussion. As time went on, I also heard that she had some kind of lack of balance condition and chronic headaches. I also heard that the worker's compensation payout for her was enormous.

Entry 31: Oscar the Crack Baby

I remember in the first couple of years after the drug Crack started becoming popular, many news agencies ran stories about crack-babies, kids born addicted to crack. Brought into this world by an array of hookers, addicts and dealers, the news media could only soberly guess what the future would hold for these unfortunate souls.

Well, I know what happens: crack-babies grow up, they become crack-kids, crack-teens and crack-adults. If you are born addicted, your teeth will grow in at all kinds of crazy angles and you will have an unusually large, oblong or small head. You will be really skinny and your limbs may grow in at different lengths and sizes. You will have a really hard time concentrating and may suffer profound irritation and mood swings. And, since your parents are idiots, you will be placed in some agency for care and grow up there.

Oscar is a crack-baby who grew up. At 14 years old, he has the build of a skinny 8 year old, a long, thin, oblong head, sleepy eyes and teeth sticking out from all over. He is black and comes from a notoriously gang-infested area of town. He peppers his speech with threats and ghetto slang. He feels that talking this way helps build his stature amongst his peers who can't believe that he is actually a teenager. He screams in a slurry rasp, "I'm from the Westside, sucka! You don' know me, muh-fucka! You bes' back off, part-nuh!"

His peers, of course, love to provoke him (which is a group-home term for tease) and Oscar will attempt to hit them with his belt. He always wears a belt because he is too skinny for any pants that are long enough for his legs. This is a painful process to observe because he can't really run; he engages his peers in a slow speed chase, right arm halfway outstretched for balance, looking like a drunken butler stumbling over an invisible flight of stairs. He marches toward his intended victim while fiddling with his belt. If he does manage to get his belt off, he waves it around his head with one hand, holds his pants up at the crotch with the other hand and screams, "I'm from the Westside muh-fucka, an' we gon' hoo-ride! Hoo-Ride! Westside! You know!" The entire process is excruciating in its futility and takes long enough in its build-up for staff to intervene before any serious injury can occur.

"Hoo-ride," like "whoa-guy," is another term I've only heard in a group home. Apparently its origin goes back to prison life and is the term for "riot." It is universally recognized as the call to blow out in instances of the staff's systematic, oppressive prejudices and unfair practices, like making the kids take a shower or eat their vegetables.

Katrina and I were lucky enough to be the ones to take Oscar and three other boys on an afternoon of miniature golf. The park is a good thirty-minute drive up the freeway, which is the perfect amount of time to provoke your peers. Jesse started in with Oscar.

Jesse: Hey Oscar, I bet you really suck at miniature golf. You can't putt right because your head is all long and crooked.

Oscar: Back off part-nuh, I'm from the Westside! You don' know me, I'm gonna hoo-ride that golf-place, watch!

Jesse: Oh that's true, Oscar, I forgot. You gonna crack that ball. When you hit that ball, you really crack it, don't you?

Oscar: Watch out, muh-fucka, I'll beat yo ass wiff my belt!

Jesse: Okay, Oscar, I know all about your slow-speed chases. You're flustered, you're flustrated, don't get shmad, so mad, so sad, too bad. Calm down.

When we arrived, the kids opted not to play golf at all. The lure of candy and video games was too strong. After draining their money in about 10 minutes, they stood around and posed. This is important on any outing because this is the part where they pretend to talk to girls and get their phone numbers. When they get back to the group home they will brag to their peers about how they would really call a girl if only it were allowed.

On the ride home, I realized that it was Monday, and tonight we would be able to watch Monday Night Football. I asked the guys if they were interested in the game. Jesse piped up, "Ah yeah, boy, football is hecka-tight! I loves me some football. 'Are you ready for some football?'"

He was singing the Monday Night Football song. I happily chimed in, glad that we could be relating a common interest together. These rare bits of togetherness mean so much to these kids who find it so hard to bond with adults. All they've known is that most adults can't be trusted, or that they should be manipulated, so I was happy to lend my positive energy. I was singing the Monday Night Football song with the guys! All my rowdy friends are here on Monday Niiiight!

I heard Oscar's raspy voice above the din, "You bes' step back muh-fucka, I'm from the Westside!" Fucking Oscar was always so irritable. I just marked it down as a case of not being able to keep up with the song.

"Are you ready for some football?" we sang as we sped down the freeway.

Then suddenly a sharp pain in my shoulder. "What the fuck!" I yelled. I looked over my shoulder and sure enough, there was Oscar, swinging his belt over his head, other hand holding his crotch, standing up, albeit hunched over. The other kids ducking on the floor. "I mo light you up muh-fucka! Dis how we do it in the Westside!" He cracked me again on the arm.

Katrina yelled at him to stop and tried to grab him but she couldn't get close enough due to the swirling belt. The slow motion crack-baby had finally caught his victim: Me! But why?

I slammed on the brakes and pulled to the shoulder. Katrina jumped out and opened the side door while I climbed back and shoved Oscar out and onto the ground. We put him in a prone-restraint right there on the side of the freeway, cars rushing by, belt lost somewhere under the van, Oscar's pants halfway down. While he struggled in the gravel, I realized why he had become so upset:

The other kids were now chanting, "Football-head, football-head!"

And I realized that I had fallen prey to a clever attack on Oscar. The kids had me unwittingly singing the football(head) song to Oscar. They weren't just mocking him, they were laughing at me too.

I was so fucking pissed off. I sent them all to bed and gave them each a month of outing restriction. My supervisor told me not to be so over-reactive, but I still feel conflicted wondering if they got what they really deserved.