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Goliath And His Rage

Substance Abuse and Misuse

By E.L. MartinPublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 9 min read
2
Goliath And His Rage
Photo by Isaac Quesada on Unsplash

I will never forget that summer. The air was pungent, stagnant, as if you would never escape the odor no matter how far you ran. The putrid stench coming from the mental health facility at which I interned seemed to follow me to my client home visits and haunt my dreams at night. I was initially reluctant to visit clients at home, but that was a necessary part of my job description. No home visits equaled no pay. I suppose our agency was at least generous enough to pay me additional mileage, and fortunately I was paid more than the Behavioral Health Aids who took far more risks. I was under the tutelage of my superior, Dave Staunton who was rather unforgettable.

He was a shorter fellow, lean, but sturdy. The women in the office joked that we didn't need security, just Mr. Staunton. I wasn't so sure. He didn't look like someone with a lot of fight in him, and I had heard rumors that some clients could not be managed. I supposed we would have to call police if that happened. How could I place my trust in my meager supervisor for everyone's safety and well-being? He didn't have formal training in anything aside from restraints many of which he admitted did not work.

I knew there was a separate section within our agency that handled substance abuse issues, and more advanced clients. He reassured me that the majority of severe cases were handled at the other residential facilities. Because we were an outpatient facility, we merely handled those in recovery which wasn't so bad. Many of our schizophrenic patients were even quite mild mannered. Occasionally we would have sex offenders and other various types released from prison come for treatment and he would assure me that most were fairly harmless. If they acted out, they would just violate their probation. No need to worry.

I recall asking him how long he had actually been in the mental health business. "Oh, I think 20 years or so. Yeah, that sounds about right." he said confidently, and followed with laughs. "I guess I'm in good hands then..." I remarked with hesitancy. He gave me a whack across the back and shoulder, but said nothing. I wasn't sure if that meant I could place my faith in him or not, but I had a feeling I didn't have a choice in the matter.

After much mundane office work; filing, making phone calls, and scheduling appointments many of our clients would miss anyway, Dave came into my office space. "Are you busy?" he asked. Of course I wasn't. "Come on, this will be a good learning experience for you!" he chuckled in a way that made me wish I had continued with the office monotony. I saw him run into his office and pull something from his drawer before taking me to one of the agency's vans. When I arrived, I noticed I wasn't the only one going on this adventure with him. Six other staff members including two of the Emergency Care Coordinators were already inside. Seeing the Emergency Care Coordinators in the back confirmed my suspicion that I had, in fact, made the wrong decision.

"So, uh, where are we going?" I ask.

"Not far. Just Mission Street." he replied.

"Isn't that the bad side of town?" I inquired.

"Oh, it isn't that bad. Many of our clients that live there are nice, including the one we are going to see." he said.

"If that is the case, then why are there seven of us in this van?" I ask pointedly.

"Don't get your panties in a bunch." he said, and laughed nervously.

It wasn't long before we arrived at our destination.

"A dilapidated hotel?" I asked.

Dave said too casually, "A slum lord owns it now. It's low-income housing."

Just then I see a police cruiser pull up behind us. Dave gets out of the van first, and says something I cannot hear to the officers before coming back for the rest of us.

"This internship is really increasing my faith in humanity." I respond smugly.

By Anastase Maragos on Unsplash

Dave isn't fazed by my sarcasm and instead directs us to the client's apartment on the second floor. He tells the two female coordinators to stay outside closer to the hallway's exit. They don't argue. He knocks on the client's door, but receives no response. He knocks once more, announces who he is, our agency, and that he is here to perform a check-up visit. The door creaks open, but the client remains further inside the room.

Dave changes his pitch and tone to a more upbeat, friendly, demeanor. "Hey, how's it going? Is it alright if I come in?" he says and steps into the room. He motions for the rest of us to follow.

Inside is a mountain of a man that doesn't look wholly human. His appearance is similar to a Middle-Earth creature, partially because of his hulking size, but mostly because of his stance and countenance. He is wearing only grimy shorts that are somehow too large for him. They sag to the ground, but he barely notices. I begin to think I've finally met the grumpy old troll, but he doesn't live under a bridge. His stomach pudge protrudes outward, and his titan-sized arms appear twice the size of his body not just in width, but also in length. His bald head glistened with sweat and small specks of stubble. For a moment, I picture him with protruding bottom canines and a large club, and hold back a laugh. His movements, gestures, and peculiar facial expressions hold my laughter at bay.

The fingers on his hands are spread out against his head and move back and forth. While his body and hands rock the same direction, his head moves side to side in an out-of-sync fashion. He is shaking. I think to myself that this is what demonic possession would look like if I actually believed in that sort of thing, and that Hollywood is missing out on some genuinely great footage right now. My next thought is that I need to get out of here, yet here I am. Two men are behind me blocking my escape out the door, and my supervisor and another employee are to the left of me "handling this situation."

By "handling the situation", I mean Mr. Staunton is paying this man's behavior no mind and proceeding to casually introduce all of us staff. Dave finishes the introductions before saying, "You haven't come to your last two appointments. Your case manager came to your home twice before now, and you didn't answer."

The man says nothing, but continues his movements. I see the man's dark brown eyes; malicious, piercing, and irritated. I want to leave. Dave continues, "You know we can't give you any more medications if you don't get re-evaluated for your prescriptions and attend your appointments." I winced waiting for a response.

I hear the client speak for the first time, "No! You can't have them!"

Dave says, "Beg your pardon? You need an evaluation every thirty days to re-prescribe them, that's all-"

He is cut off by the client who, by this time, I deem Goliath.

"No! You can't take them away!" Goliath shouts, slowly and slurring each word.

I watch his shaking stop. He moves his arms in front of him as if in a tackle position ready to launch. "You can't take them. They're MINE!" he screams in agony. As he screams, my vision of him shifts from man to beast. He is no longer a giant, no longer a troll, no longer a man, but instead a raging bull, and he is charging not just at Dave, his matador, but also the rest of us unfortunate rodeo clowns.

By 2 Bull Photography on Unsplash

My first co-worker is thrown up against the wall with a loud thud, and falls to the ground afterward. I'm too busy watching what was happening, and wondering why we're the ones he is charging at first instead of Dave. Next thing I know, I'm across the room feeling pain in my wrist, arm, back, and head. I shake off the sensation just in time to see the rest of our crew meet their fates. The one behind me has been sprawled on the floor. The largest guy in our group, a bodybuilder and gym-rat, attempts to restrain this beast, but is flipped over instead. That is when I see Dave pull a Velcro pouch out of his belt loop. He unfastens it, and shoots the Taser while yelling at the client to stop.

We all watch as the man twitches, shrugs, and rips out the Taser piece. Dave runs out of the room shouting, "We're in trouble!"

Everyone remaining runs, except for me. I'm too stunned to move, but aware enough to observe. I hear the ladies in the hallway scream. I hear more thuds, screams, and unfamiliar noises. When silence prevails, I move toward the exit of the room and building. I see an officer holding his arm in front of the police cruiser. His arm is clearly broken. Our client, Goliath, the bull himself, is seated in the back seat of the police vehicle, handcuffed and unconscious.

"It took two police Tasers to get this guy under control, and this officer here is going to the ER." Dave says. He follows with, "Are you alright? That was quite a nasty landing."

I notice a dent in the police cruiser. The police seemed to have had just as difficult of a time with our client. We gave our statements of the incident, and headed back to our facility. No one said anything until we returned.

"Well, that didn't go exactly as planned." Dave said, and chuckled as he handed us some paperwork, "You can all go home after you're finished with these. You've earned it."

When we returned on Monday, he called me back into his office.

"You still good?" he asked.

"I guess, but not enough for another home visit." I laugh.

"His drug test came back positive for meth, heroin, suboxone, cocaine, Xanax, and codeine. The police also found more pills, syringes, burnt spoons, and a crack pipe in his apartment. Those obviously weren't his prescriptions, so he is in jail and can be removed from our client list. Just thought you'd want to know what type of situation you survived. You should be proud of yourself. Most interns don't get this great of an experience." he says, and slaps me across the back.

I laugh and say, "Gee, thanks!"

Experiences really do change perspectives, and sometimes, like in my case, undergraduate majors.

Just a reminder kids, don't do drugs!

Short Story
2

About the Creator

E.L. Martin

Powered by Nature, Humanity, Humor, Food, Lifestyle, Fiction, and Culture; Oh, and a questionable amount of coffee.

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