Tuesday, February 10th

10:30am. Amazing the stuff these people are able to drag out of you. It really is a learned art. At least in my case. And I don’t think I’m an easy shell to crack. We all get a Councilor upon arrival. Or maybe they get us. Anyway… I’m not sure if we’re matched up in some way, or if it’s just luck of the draw. Did they choose me or did I get thrown in their lap? This is information that I, for one, would find helpful. (I wondered this same thing about my ‘Buddy’ when I first got here. Was I just next on the list, or did somebody honestly think me and Gene might hit it off? Because… I’m not trying to be a dick here, but seriously? That guy needed more help than he was going to find in this place.) Anyway, when it came to handing out Councilors, I got Rich. Rich worked in Radio for a lot of years. This makes me think he was given my case by design. I envision a conference room where someone’s waving my file around and slamming it on the table saying, “Sure, Eischen’s a tough case… He’s not stupid. That much we know. But if anyone can get through to him.. Rich, you can. You speak his language, Rich. Do it, Rich! The World needs him.” But I’m not sure that actually happens. Maybe they just shuffle our files around on the table and eenie meenie minnie mow it. I don’t know. I keep talking about files. I’d like to see mine. In fact I’d like to take it with me when I leave. I mean… I came in here of my own volition. Why shouldn’t I have full access to everything? I’m going to insist on seeing my file tomorrow. Maybe it’s a small decree of Independence, but I’m exercising my right. There is a file to. It’s behind the Nurse’s Station. I’ve seen it referred to often, but almost always from an angle where I can’t see what’s in there. Why is that? Tomorrow I’m going to demand full access. I can’t depend on these people to get it exactly right. Look at the Buddy they stuck me with. 

3:45pm. Earlier, I was talking about my meetings with Rich. That guy’s either my best friend or the worst thing that ever happened to me. I see him every couple of days. It’s not always a planned thing. Sometimes I round a corner, and there he is. Most days we’re all good. A quick hello and we go our separate ways. Other times I must look like I need a good soul wrenching. I can’t give it to you verbatim, and I don’t mean to cheapen the exchange by attempting to do so, but I just ran into him and it went something like this, “I’m good, Rich. Really. I just finally got to use the phone, and I couldn’t get through, so…” His hand is somehow on my shoulder and I don’t even realize we’re walking, until I’m seated in the chair in his office. ”Do you feel like you’ve been trying to get through for a long time now… and nobody’s on the other end…” Shit. I dunno, Rich. Yeah, now I guess I do. He’s good at what he does, and I’m sure he put it much more eliquently than I did. I sure as hell hope so. Otherwise I can hardly justify spending my subsequent lunch hour crying into my chocolate mousse. The food is really good here. Did I already mention that?   

6:00pm. Are you fucking kidding me? I saw my file. There wasn’t much in there that was very interesting. Except maybe THAT RICH WROTE IN THERE THAT I HAVE B.O.!!!!!!!!!!! Yeah. As in B. O. .  I swear to God. And I don’t. Have it. I really don’t. I am hereby giving anyone that knows me, permission to tell the truth if you if you ask them . I don’t. I actually smell pretty good. That’s why it’s ridiculous. And why it sucks so bad.  I know why he wrote it. Oh, I know when he wrote it. I am seriously beside myself right now. (And no, I don’t smell me.) He wrote it after, possibly during the first conversation I had with him. This particular little back and forth, I can repeat exactly as it went down. Because I remember it. Vividly. As if it was not over two weeks ago. Oh my God. I can’t believe this. Toward the end of our chat, Rich asked me how things were going, in general. You know… Was I having any problems? Did I have any complaints about the facility, anything I’d like to change, etc.? I told him I was Golden. I told him that I was having trouble falling asleep at 10 o’ clock everynight… Other than that feelin groovy. And I tossed in (as an afterthought), “I wish I’d brought more than two pairs of shoes. I’m not used to having to wear them for such long days and they’re starting to get stinky.” That’s what I said. ‘…shoes are starting to get stinky.’ Rich wrote down that I have Insomnia and B. O. I swear to God. At first it took me a minute as I pondered what B. O. could stand for. It seriously didn’t even occur to me at first. I was like Buh… Bree… Beehaaavyio… Omygod. Be. Oh. Honestly, I don’t even know what to say right now. I’m numb. Because my file says I’ve got B. O.      

9:15pm. I’m not so much mad that he chose to use it. So he chose to use that little phrase as a reminder from our talk. He could’ve put F. O. He definitely could’ve put F.O. …but whatever. I don’t think he even meant for it to get in there. Rich is my Boy. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt me on purpose. It was a handwritten… scribbled on a post it note. The kind of thing you’d barely pay attention to. If, you know… it didn’t tell the World that when they meet you they are going to smell you first. No, I’m mad because he was so careless with it. How do you write that about a person and leave it lying around? And the post it has Complaints scribbled across the top if you were just a person looking through files mine would say, “You haven’t had the pleasure yet, but Mark has B.O. to the point where he actually complains about it, himself.” Nice. It also says I’ve got Insomnia, so apparently it’s bad enough to keep me up at night.  Let me tell you something before I force Rich to write it in there in the morning. On the front. With a Red Sharpie. NO B.O. Not even on my worst day. That file’s going with me, when I leave here, I’ll tell you that much.  don’t care if my Permanent Record shows that I spent a little time in here. I’m not ashamed… But BO?! That’s not happening. That’s the kind of stuff that can keep you from getting a job. Or even an interview.

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