“Yo, Duff, what’s up?” Clog was wearing a Hawaiian-style shirt with little airplanes all over it.
“Clog, you’re a little late, man,” I said.
“I am? Shit, sorry man,” he said without a clue about his tardiness.
We got a little into the session and it was tough to focus Clog on any real sobriety-related issues. He was so thrilled with the Yankee Stadium gig that it was hard to get him to talk about anything else.
“It’s a rush, man,” Clogger said, wide-eyed. “The crowd cheering, the announcer, the rolls… the whole thing, man. I’m lovin’ it,” he said.
I couldn’t really find anything wrong with Clogger’s new gig, though I wasn’t convinced he wasn’t doing the whole deal stoned. He was happy, he was working, and he didn’t seem to be hurting anyone.
“Oh yeah, Dr. Gabbibb is giving me some work too,” he said.
“Gabbibb is buying a sign for you to pull?” I asked.
“No, man, he’s having me use my plane to deliver shit to Staten Island on the same nights I do the Yanks.”
“What kind of shit does Gabbibb need delivered?”
“Electronics shit, Duff.” Clogger scratched the side of his head. “You know, CD players, pagers, cell phones. He has two cousins who are always doing business together. The one guy Enad runs an electronics type store in Staten Island. The other guy, Tunad, has a convenience store twenty miles from here in East Dunham. I pick up some shit from them and deliver it back and forth. Each run gets me an extra fifty. Gabbibb even gave me a free cell phone.”
“Not a bad gig,” I said.
“Sweet, man,” Clogger said.
Clogger and I talked halfheartedly about some of his relationship issues. Clogger had a strong preference for Asian women and he had dated or lived with a string of them. The current one, Foon, barely spoke English, but she was a great cook and lived her entire life to please the Clogman. We kicked around the idea that intimacy might be limited by their ability to understand each other, but Clogger disagreed and really believed the fact that it was ideal that Foon and he could barely exchange pleasantries. There wasn’t much to argue about and Foon not only was great in the kitchen and around the house, but she was also quite accomplished in the bedroom. Clogger speculated that before leaving Thailand, Foon may have had some professional experience in the art of pleasing men, but that was not at all an issue for him. She had shown him her tests from the health department and that was all the man needed for domestic bliss.
I finished up with Clogger and wrote a note in his file and got ready for my next session. Sherrie was due out of jail last night, and she was supposed to come in this morning. Trina buzzed me right at ten thirty, and I went to greet her in the waiting room and saw that she was wearing a Knicks cap, pulled down over her eyes. When I said hello and went to shake her hand, I saw why. She had two black eyes and her lips were swollen and split.
“Sherrie,” I said. “Tell me what happened.”
“What the fuck you think happened?” Tears ran down her face, but she kept a hard look on her face. “Michael beat the shit out of me, like always.”
“Why?” I said.
“Why-that’s what he does. He said it was for leaving him alone while I was in jail.”
“Did you call the police?”
“C’mon, Duffy, what are they going to do?” She sat back in her chair. “He will just beat me worse after they leave.”
“Why do you stay with him?” I said.
“Cause he’ll beat me if I leave. I went to a shelter one time and when I went for cigarettes he was there. He took me home and fractured my cheek.”
“I’m going to set you up in a safe house. There’s one in-”
“Fuck that-don’t even try.” Sherrie held up a hand. “The last one I was at, some lesbian women kept coming on to me and all my shit got ripped off.”
“You need to be safe,” I said. “What can you do?”
“If I try to give him what he wants and not piss him off, sometimes that works.”
“What pisses him off?”
“Everything,” she said.
It went on like this for the next hour. I learned that Michael was Michael Calabreso and that he’d made his living dealing hot merchandise, usually DVD players, car stereos, and boom boxes, though he’d hustle anything. He liked to drink and he hung out at a dance club called Cinderella’s.
Supposedly, I should have written up an incident report and alerted the Michelin Woman. Practically speaking, that was going to be a waste of time, and I would lose any trust I had built with Sherrie. Claudia would go by the book, make me refer her to the shelter and call the police. Sherrie would refuse, Michael would find out about the police, make up some story, and not get arrested. Then, Sherrie would get the beating of her life. Letting her go was risky, but it was less risky than following the goofy social work protocol. Despite the wacky dysfunction of it all, women like Sherrie knew how to survive-at least for a while.
I made her promise to call me if she needed any help. I also made her promise to get to an NA meeting and to try to get some phone numbers there so she’d have some support. It seemed like the best thing to do-the best thing, given a whole range of choices that really sucked.
This was the shit about the job that made me nuts. When Eli gets drunk and gets naked at the gas station, I can deal with that. If Martha wants to eat or fuck herself happy, I can live with that. I can even listen to the Abermans bitch at each other or Larry drone on about how his life sucks. I could sleep well on those nights. I couldn’t sleep well thinking about Sherrie.
At seventeen, she wasn’t old enough to know better. Her mother’s boyfriends beat her mom, so this craziness seemed normal. Michael was a guy with money, a city tough guy with city respect and to someone like Sherrie, that was status. It was a whirlpool of dysfunction and all the social work bullshit in the world wasn’t going to stop that seventeen-year-old girl from taking a beating.
I stopped off at the Blue to take Al for a walk and to go through the mail. There was a very official envelope from the Department of State/Athletic Commission and I got a sick feeling. I opened it up and read the first line.
“… due to inappropriate actions in clear violation of the boxing regulations set forth by the Association of Boxing Commissions and the New York State Athletic Commission, you are hereby indefinitely suspended from boxing as a professional anywhere in the United States …”
That’s just swell, I thought. I figured this was coming, but it still sent me into a bit of a shock. The term “indefinitely” didn’t sit well, and at the very least this was going to involve appeals and hearings and a bunch of other bullshit. On top of that, I’m sure I would have to feign remorse and as politically correct as things have gotten, I wouldn’t be surprised if I got sent to some sort of anger management course.
Me and the low-riding Muslim went for a walk to get some air and to give me a chance to think a bit. There comes a time, I believe, when enough shit has happened that thinking becomes worthless. Sometimes I prefer to act than to think, and though over the course of my life that philosophy has gotten me into trouble, it still seemed like the right thing to do. Pondering is the way of the social worker, and I think I’m wired to act differently, even if it too often winds up a tad self-defeating. It’s as if the waiting is so uncomfortable that action, even if it brings about negative consequences, is preferable.
Al sniffed his way up Route 9R and back and seemed to be somewhat mellowing to his new digs. He jumped back up on what was left of the couch he had mostly eaten and put his head down and closed his eyes while I hit the messages. I had begun to learn that good, long walks calmed my brother down a bit, and it was long stretches alone that tended to freak him out.
The first message was from Smitty. As my manager, he had gotten a similar letter, and he was anxious to start a strategy to get my boxing license back. I wasn’t terribly interested in thinking about that tonight. The second one was from Lisa, and I felt my gut tighten when I heard her voice.