MEMOIR
MagdaleneTHE DEEP SOUTH 05 May 2009 |
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"This one's a piece a work," says the desk Sergeant. "Where you wanna see her?"
Mary waits in the drunk tank, shackled at the wrists and latched into a dark green restraint apparatus known as the "pickle suit." Looking like a cross between a catcher's guard and a straitjacket, it immobilizes the arms and legs, preventing the inmate from harming self or others.
"In there's fine, it don't bother me," I answer, pointing to the 6X8 patch of reinforced glass and pushing open the heavy metal door.
She sits half out of it looking like hell, shaking and naked save for the pickle suit. Her hands and feet are shackled, she is detoxing from a two twelve-packs and four Xanax bars a day habit, her bare feet on cold concrete, a faded daisy chain tattooed round her right ankle. The Velcro strap at the shoulder has come undone, exposing her flesh from the waist up and she cannot cover herself.
She catches my eye before I can retreat, helpless as a deer in high beams. In the harsh florescent light of the cell, her skin is pale and bluish, loose at the belly, sparse at the ribs from too much liquor and not enough solid food.
"Hey there," I say. She opens her mouth to speak but says nothing, her lips tremble, resigned to more of the same.
I keep my eyes locked on hers as I fasten the straps. "Let's get this fixed," I tell her.
She stinks of beer and nicotine but her face still holds the ghosts of old attraction, thick waves of strawberry blonde, high cheekbones, a girlish quality when she drops her chin and whispers "Thank you."
"You OK?"
"Mister I ain't never been OK," she says. "I'd been sober six months. Six months, did real good."
"What happened?"
"Met this guy," she sighs. "I lost it. Lost it all,"
"All?" I offer. "How'd you get straight?"
"Rehab. AA."
"You got a sponsor?"
Her face softens. "I did. Just haven't called her in awhile."
"What do you want to do?"
"Die," she says flatly.
"You really want to die, you and I know there's nothing I can do to stop you."
We stare at the floor a moment.
"I don't want to die," she replies.
"Then you know what you need to do."
Mary nods and tears rush down her cheeks. She pulls her hands as tight as the chains will give but cannot reach. She ducks her head and shrugs up her shoulder but cannot span the gap.
I reach over and wipe her face with the back of my hand. "Hey, you screwed up," I say. "Can't change that. Six months is good. Get back up, keep going."
"I don't know if I can," she sobs.
"What would you tell someone to do?"
She sniffs up her tears, breathes deep. "Keep trying."
"There you go."
Far away voices from the window on the wall. "I love you Todd," a woman shouts. We tilt our heads to listen, a distant wail. The voices fade away.
"You in recovery too?" Mary asks. "Must be."
I nod.
"Figured," Mary says. "Drugs or drinkin'?"
She stares at me, waiting for the answer.
"In recovery from life," I remark. "Aren't we all?"
"Shit," she laughs "Ain't that the truth."
We sit, shaking our heads awhile before she turns up her hands and says. "So. You gonna send me to the crazy jail?"
"Nope. You don't need to go."
"What are you going to do with me?"
"Give your clothes back and let you make bail. You got someone to come get you?"
Mary shakes her head.
"I'll talk to the Sarge and we'll work something out then."
"You mean I can go home?"
"I don't see why not."
A tiny smile slips across her battered face, her eyes flurry into mine. "You're real nice," she says, the tone sweet. She nods towards the buckle of my belt. "Anything I can do for you?"
Moths flitter in silhouette just outside the opaque pane of glass. The halogens buzz softly. Down the hall a radio plays You Belong to the City.
"Yes ma'am, you can, " I answer, leaning in close. "Get clean."
She looks away and I feel awkward, as if I have shamed her and I stumble for words. Giving a quick pat on the shoulder, I laugh and grip her hand. "OK?"
"I'll try," she replies, locking her fingers into mine. "I'll try."
"Hey," she says, trying to focus around my face. "Who you say you're with again?"
I stand and collect my things, one hand at the door. "Who do you think I'm with?"
Eyes bright, she cuts them to the side, like a child. "I think I know."
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62 Comments »
Comment by James Michael Blaine
2009-05-05 10:02:06
I fear my first photo may overshadow my post….
I bet I get more comments on that lovely couple in their pickle.
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Comment by josie
2009-05-05 10:13:46
Yeah that couple looks like Noah and his wife fresh off the ark…
But the story got me choked up.
I loved the part where you wiped her tears.
Painfully beautiful tale, JMB.
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Comment by James Michael Blaine
2009-05-05 10:31:48
Well thanks.
What I didn’t say was I sat there about thirty uncomfortable seconds hoping she could resolve it on her own before I helped her out.
Good call on Noah and his bride.
After spending 370 days on the ark with all those animals, when he finally hit dry land he said “I’m going to my tent, get naked and drink a whole bottle of wine. Dont bother me.”
You never hear that part in Sunday School.
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Comment by josie
2009-05-05 10:39:58
Actually, I did here that one… the good son covers his nudity… Skinny dippers be warned, you’re all going straight to hell. I think that’s what it was titled.
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Comment by James Michael Blaine
2009-05-05 10:50:19
No no, Adam and Eve were skinny dippers and the LORD said it was good.
First book, first chapter.
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Comment by josie
2009-05-05 11:08:08
Now there’s a sermon I could used in my influencial youth!
Comment by jmb
2009-05-05 13:35:51
I thought you were an uptight youth?
Comment by josie
2009-05-05 15:33:41
Well if I’d gotten that “holy skinny dippers” sermon maybe I wouldn’t’ve been.
Reply here
Comment by Irene Zion (Lenore’s Mom)
2009-05-05 10:35:07
I know who you were with.
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Comment by James Michael Blaine
2009-05-05 10:51:13
(hand to forehead)
Oh, its all so dramatic.
I’m with the Fool Brigade.
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Comment by Irene Zion (Lenore’s Mom)
2009-05-05 10:37:30
Sorry, I just have to say one thing about those suits.
They are not flattering.
Christy Brinkley wouldn’t look good in that.
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Comment by josie
2009-05-05 10:41:50
But they look real comfortable, Irene. I bet Walmart starts making them for their housedress line. In big floral prints, of course.
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Comment by Irene Zion (Lenore’s Mom)
2009-05-05 10:45:02
josie,
They’d have to make them with better velcro. No one wants her who-has to show by accident.
jmb,
If I’m ever in a glass cage in one of those suits, I’d want you to come visit.
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Comment by James Michael Blaine
2009-05-05 10:55:39
If I am ever in a pickle suit and you are as well I hope they at least put us in adjoining cages so we can talk.
Somehow, I bet you would sooth things.
Comment by Irene Zion (Lenore’s Mom)
2009-05-05 11:54:15
Hey, the two up top were together! How come WE couldn’t be together in the same glass cage in our pickle suits?
Adjoining, schmajoining.
Comment by James Michael Blaine
2009-05-05 11:56:55
My friend, I hope they shackle us together.
arm to arm
But Are we not all shackled together in padded suits?
(When it came time for group pictures I’d like to think we’d at least muster a smile though.)
Reply here
Comment by James Michael Blaine
2009-05-05 10:52:36
I think that is Christie Brinkley up there. Look again.
They arent comfortable but if you had to pick something to wear whilst falling down a flight of stairs, it would be a good choice.
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Comment by Irene Zion (Lenore’s Mom)
2009-05-05 11:52:32
I never thought of that. But you’d also need a pickle helmet, I think, james michael.
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Comment by James Michael Blaine
2009-05-05 11:57:43
They do have pickle helmets. They are grey with a yellow stripe and look like old football gear.
Comment by josie
2009-05-05 12:08:45
pickle helmet
heh
Reply here
Comment by Zara
2009-05-05 10:38:07
You are a very good man James Michael Blaine.
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Comment by Zara
2009-05-05 10:41:39
Oh and thanks for putting ‘You Belong in the City’ in my head.. it’ll be stuck there for days! The humming has already started…
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Comment by James Michael Blaine
2009-05-05 10:59:32
No no no.
I’m a scoundrel and a fool and a rascal and a neer-do-well who is a bit oversensitive and always sees himself in others dilemmas and tries to think “Well how would I want to be treated?”
That part where moths are flittering and You Belong to the City plays is the slow tick tock of me deciding how to respond to her offer.
Did I choose right? Depends on who I was with.
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Comment by Dawn Corrigan
2009-05-05 11:26:45
“What would you tell someone else to do?”
I’m going to steal that. Thanks.
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Comment by James Michael Blaine
2009-05-05 11:58:06
All that I have is yours.
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Comment by amanda
2009-05-05 11:43:24
This is one of those stories that makes me giggle then cringe, then giggle then cringe. First, I think “pickle suit–hee hee!” then remember no, pickle suit is not funny, the lady in the pickle suit is not funny, this is all very tough and sad and touching and real, including the pickle suit…which brings me back to “pickle suit–hee hee!”
A bit like not knowing where to put my hands when someone says something loudly and confidently that makes them appear very, very stupid in front of a crowd. Or, laughing nervously and awkwardly when someone makes a joke that isn’t really a joke, but I don’t know how to say “man, that is not funny, it is [insert adjective here--racist perhaps, or sexist, or just plain mean, or really ignorant, etc].”
Or, like swearing by accident in front of a parent when I was small…out the word would come and then I’d laugh like I was going to explode or maybe cry, and giggle inwardly in horrror: “ohhhhh my gosh I can’t believe you just said the F-word in front of mom. You are soooo dead now! hee hee ohhhh so dead hee hee…”
In other words, a story that is amazing and beautiful because it brings out something about me, too, that makes me feel weird in my belly, a bit uncomfortable, and nervous all over. And that’s just an initial reaction…I haven’t even got to the part where I try to articulate the compassion…
: )
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Comment by James Michael Blaine
2009-05-05 12:01:08
That’s the same way I felt!
The reason they call it the pickle suit, which is a little UN-pc really, is to bring a little levity to the awful fact that people are so desperate and despondent that you must shackle them in a side cell and wrap them in a padded suit so they dont hurt themselves.
That’s pretty sad.
Thanks, what a cool comment.
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Comment by amanda
2009-05-06 04:48:33
I work for a government agency that manages the affairs of people who no longer can do this for themselves and have no one to take on the responsibility on their behalf…the second thing we do is locate the families of dead people, who die without known next-of-kin…that’s the part I take care of…
I often find myself digging through the dirt of someone’s past and making little jokes, looking at crates of photos or reading old letters, and thinking, “Oh my gosh, that is sooooo crazy and hilarious!” Then I remember it’s not funny, it’s awfully sad, then it’s funny again, then sad, and so on.
In a strange way, I’ve found the perfect job I suppose! One that pushes all the same buttons as “pickle suit–hee hee!”
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Comment by jmb
2009-05-06 09:41:44
Oooh, you should write about old funny pictures of the sadly departed.
Comment by amanda
2009-05-06 10:27:27
I do, believe me, I do!
My current favourite: a pair of Dutch brothers circa 1965 with Buster Brown haircuts…they are at least in their late 50s at that point…decked out in bell-bottom pants, plaid shirts, huuuuuuge neckerchiefs, and huger moustaches…lounging poolside with three much younger (ie: barely legal) latino boys in swimsuits with belts. They appear to be holidaying in Miami or thereabouts…
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Comment by Marni Grossman
2009-05-05 12:34:25
It’s a funny thought: recovery from life. But I suppose it’s as true as anything else.
“What happened?” people ask, catching a glimpse of my scars. “Life,” I say, if I’m feeling cryptic. “Angry text messages and days spent lying face-down in bed and puking up dinner and friends and ex-friends and break-ups and everything else.” In a word: life.
Lovely.
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Comment by jmb
2009-05-05 13:34:33
Life will sure beat the hell out of you.
liquor and pills aren’t the only things that distract us from the slow destruction and frustrating maintenance of life - TV, internet, poker, porn, dysfunctional relationships, BS religion, work, obsessing over your kids - but reality wins in the end.
If this was fiction I suppose there’d be plenty enough metaphor.
I didnt realize it until comments like yours though.
Pickle suits and shackles all around please.
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Comment by Dawn Corrigan
2009-05-05 14:08:59
It’s a good day on the comment board.
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Comment by jmb
2009-05-05 16:08:12
Sure is.
Good feelings, much thanks.
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Comment by Megan
2009-05-05 16:25:17
Masterful, as always, with dialogue. Disturbing as it is the pickle suit cannot overshadow your gentle treatment of the broken. It’s gorgeous. Talking people down from the ledge is such important work and you have the perfect disposition for it. I could read your dispatches from the mental ward all day long.
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Comment by jmb
2009-05-05 18:21:42
Thank you kind friend.
We should team up for levity soon.
All these ledges.
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Comment by josie
2009-05-06 10:50:41
You mean like Pony and Eleven did, back in the day?
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Comment by karyn
2009-05-05 17:10:30
I’m glad to know that there are people like you out there to help people at their most vulnerable.
Last week there was a Frontline on mentally ill people in the prison system. I couldn’t believe how few resources there are for these vulnerable people. The world seemed much darker after watching that episode.
I know that you work with a different population, but the world seems a bit brighter knowing that there are people like you out there.
Thank you.
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Comment by jmb
2009-05-05 18:23:32
Well, I guess I should tell the other side as well, how I’m just faking my way through and glad I dont have to be the person who has to do the hard work of helping, the day to day stick with it help - those are the ones with my respect.
I’m just a guy who passes through and tries not to screw things up any worse.
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Comment by Tiny Feely Reno
2009-05-05 17:36:26
you’re a dream. come true. keep doing the good work.
good things,
r
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Comment by jmb
2009-05-05 18:27:02
Eh, I try.
I’m just warming up the crowd for Reno.
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Comment by Rich Ferguson
2009-05-05 19:09:04
Brother:
You break my heart, then heal it all over again every time I read your words.
Peace.
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Comment by jmb
2009-05-06 01:07:41
Kind words brother of mine.
In another life, you and I were mates - kicking around I bet, having adventures.
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Comment by Kimberly M. Wetherell
2009-05-07 09:32:14
What Rich said…
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Comment by Simon Smithson
2009-05-06 00:00:10
A good story and a better sentiment… you’re right though. The main thought I’m leaving with is ‘Where can I get me one of those suits?’
OK, the SECOND thought. The first thought is I’d better put your number down as my emergency contact.
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Comment by jmb
2009-05-06 01:10:55
270 dollars a suit.
I need to find a way to tell everyone how ironic it is I would even be doing such. I’d be a terrible emergency contact. I’m like Einstein without all the astrophysics.
Tottering around confused about life with no practicality.
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Comment by Autumn
2009-05-06 02:30:54
You do good work. Both your writing and the compassionate help you offer people.
I remember my dad talking to a friend, and fellow recovering addict, all night on the phone. The guy wanted to kill himself, and my dad just kept talking to him until the moment, or whatever, had passed.
I was amazed, and proud. I still am.
People who have that soothing, inner peace, and can send it out to touch other people, are a rare gift in the world.
I’m glad for Mary that you’re one of them.
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Comment by jmb
2009-05-06 09:44:07
Hmm. This comment session has been mightily insightful.
Apparently I need to add a new depth to my writing.
Truth is I am not compassionate, I fake compassion best I can and I doubt I possess any soothing inner peace.
I just got thrown into the job and am winging it.
But thanks for the benefit of the doubt!
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Comment by Jennifer Duffield White
2009-05-06 04:16:12
Is it bad that I got all excited when I read the first lines and realized you had another bottomed-out story to tell? There is something about your combination of compassion, honesty and your storytelling ability (which everyone else has so thoroughly complimented here) that makes your posts both haunting and beautiful. Whenever I read them, I feel as though I know the world a little bit better that day.
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Comment by Irene Zion (Lenore’s Mom)
2009-05-06 05:35:15
jmb,
I wanted to say, when you posted this, that Lenore could have used this suit, along with a pickle helmet when she drove her scooter headlong into a car. But Lenore said not to talk about it. I think I’m allowed to talk about it now since she’s posted it.
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Comment by jmb
2009-05-06 09:47:32
Arent Jewish mothers supposed to be overprotective?
She should be completely pickled each and everytime she leaves the house!
Swaddle her in bubble wrap and velcro from head to foot.
She does have cute little feet.
Doesnt it crush a mother to know one cannot hold watch over those precious toes night and day Irene?
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Comment by Irene Zion (Lenore’s Mom)
2009-05-06 10:15:23
jmb,
When they leave your house, you lose what little control you had. You feel impotent. It breaks your heart, and then it keeps breaking your heart over and over. They don’t tell you this when you venture into motherhood.
Reply here
Comment by jmb
2009-05-06 09:45:03
Well thank you.
I hesitated to even tell this story - figuring I’d done this sort of thing already too much.
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Comment by Irene Zion (Lenore’s Mom)
2009-05-06 06:53:23
jmb,
She’d also need pickle boots. The flip flops did not protect her feet much.
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Comment by josie
2009-05-06 10:53:48
Pickle-boots… the 80’s moonboots make a come back.
Or Pickle-flops…. now those would sell.
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Comment by sheree
2009-05-06 10:12:44
I pray I am never pickle suited in a basket hold while recovering from life. Should I ever be I pray God the grace of your face to be my prize.
Cheers! And thanks for all that you do, and in this case don’t do for those recovering from life. Fairest of travels and happiest of life looting to you Sir.
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Comment by jmb
2009-05-06 15:01:37
Ah, the basket hold.
There’s another whole set of stories I’ve tried to forget.
I made my way through college in the back half of the basket hold.
That was sweet about grace and face and all that but I look sort of like Slash.
Would you really want Slash putting you in the basket hold?
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Comment by sheree
2009-05-06 15:38:06
I certainly would allow Slash to keep me in a basket hold for my own safety. He’s been respectfully married to the same woman for years. He is also a loving father to his children. Besides I bet he had alot of practice with ole Axl while on their musical journey together.
There were times while I was providing someone with the basket hold that I wished I had a pickle helmet on. Unexpected head butts suck.
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Comment by jmb
2009-05-06 17:19:54
Head butts in the mouth suck.
I cheated. They taught us CPI and basket holds and all that but I used the wrestling moves from school.
No head butt from a cobra clutch.
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Comment by Gina Frangello
2009-05-06 15:43:21
Luminous and sad and beautiful. I worked for years with battered women, abused foster kids and girls with eating disorders, and I know, despite my still-deep and abiding cynicism, never to underestimate what depths a person can rise back from. After reading this I’ll be rooting for Mary for a long while.
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Comment by jmb
2009-05-06 17:21:37
Ooh, luminous. Never been called that before.
I like that.
See, you guys are the good ones.
Chances are I’ll never see Mary again.
I go out, do my ten minute thing and I’m back in the car.
Its the day by day walk through the mud people that deserve all the praise.
I never had half the guts or fortitude to do anything like that.
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Comment by Lenore
2009-05-08 08:31:12
oh dear. this reminds me of so many of my clients. it’s heartbreaking. but also so lovely to see how you are in response.
i just want to give her a hug.
and ask you where the hell you get these fantastic pictures.
Author’s note: This was a difficult revelation. I was burnt out and tired of being in these sorts of situations and yet it seemed to produce most of me better stories. Finally I deduced it is because I am lazy and afraid. Camouflage, write about someone else’s struggles to distract from having to write about your own. Not a pleasant lesson.