The Blind. A.F. Brady

than I cook, I have the big recycling bin between the front door and the fridge. It looks more like a hamper.

      The blue see-through bag has been pulled under with the weight of the bottles, and I need to yank it up by the red strings to get it out of the can. The clattering sound it makes is absolutely insufferable. There is a leak at the bottom, and the putrid stench of week-old wine and booze, mixed with the acidic smell of the Tropicana bottle from this morning’s screwdrivers, is making me gag. There’s a reason I always put this chore off until the last possible minute.

      The noise the bottles make as I pull it along the carpeted hallway is not as bad as it would be if I were to pick it up and haul it over my shoulder, Santa Claus–style. I will have to carry it that way when I walk down the old marble steps to the basement.

      I push open the refuse-room door, and I see skittering bugs as I turn on the lights. They’ve come inside to hunker down for the winter, and this room is a veritable buffet of gnarly shit for them to feast on. I flip over my huge sack of booze bottles into an awaiting plastic can, and it sounds like several of them smash. I feel the ooze that has spilled down the back of my pajama pants, and I try to dry it off with a rag that was hanging on a hook by the door.

      I get back up to my apartment and clean up the smears on the floor. I put the two forgotten bottles of beer into a fresh blue recycling bag and line the can with it. I have two bottles of scotch on my bookcase shelf that I never finish. There’s always at least four fingers left in each bottle so if I have company, it looks classy and sophisticated. I usually have a bottle or two of wine in the fridge, too. Not because I’m saving it, but because I buy in bulk.

OCTOBER 26TH, 3:35 P.M.

      Gary is loitering in front of my office door as I return from running a women’s group.

      “Hey, Gary. Did you need something?” I can see the desperation in his eyes, and I know what he came here to discuss with me.

      “Yeah, I need to talk to you. Do you have a minute?”

      “I sure do, come on in.”

      Gary slumps low in my patient chair and rakes his sweaty fingers through his hair. “This is making me crazy. I can’t get a word out of this guy, and I’ve had meetings with him every day since Friday.”

      “You mean Richard McHugh?” I know exactly who he means.

      “Yeah. I brought him in on Friday, like I said, and I tried to start the evaluations and assessments for his patient file, right?” He’s leaning on my desk and waving a meaty paw in my face. “And he doesn’t say a word. Not a word. He just sits there, and I thought he must be deaf or something, because he just didn’t say anything. He didn’t get mad or anything; he just sat there. I kept asking him the same questions, and he just looked at me or looked out my window. So, then I figured maybe he wasn’t ready. I told him about me, tried to relate to the guy, said I would treat him like a man if he treated me like a man, and still nothing.” Gary is genuinely surprised that his presumptuous macho plan didn’t work. Half of me wants to laugh in his face, and the other half wants to be professional and help him develop as a counselor.

      “Okay. So, the original plan didn’t work. You said you met with him every day since then. Did you change your approach?”

      “Yeah. I mean, I did everything I know how to do. First, I was just trying the ‘talk to him like a man’ thing, and that didn’t work. Monday, I asked him to come back to my office, and he didn’t put up a fight or anything. So, I figured this time I would just be all business and make him answer the evaluation and assessment questions. But he didn’t answer a single question! He started reading the newspaper. He brought this huge stack of newspapers with him to read and wouldn’t even look at me when I asked him questions.”

      “Okay, and I imagine the sessions yesterday and today were more of the same?” I’m already tired of hearing this.

      “Yeah, total silence. He doesn’t even say hello.” Gary leans back, satisfied that this is my problem now.

      “Gary, you’ve made four attempts to talk to a man who apparently doesn’t like to talk much. So, you shouldn’t be surprised or disappointed that conventional methods aren’t working.”

      “I don’t think it’s my methods, I think it’s me. I think he just doesn’t like me.” Gary is saying this to appeal to my ego, so that I offer to take over for him and he doesn’t have to ask me.

      “How would you like to proceed?” I’m not letting him off that easy.

      “I think you should take him. I don’t have this kind of time to waste on someone who doesn’t talk, doesn’t want to be helped.” He is crossing his arms and shaking his head in fast, erratic twitches that make him look like a frightened woodland creature.

      “I can’t make that call. You’re going to have to speak with Rachel.”

      “Oh, come on, Sam, can’t you just take this one for me?”

      “I’ve already taken Shawn for you.” I sigh. “But if Rachel signs off on it, I will take him. Until then, he’s yours.” I close my notebook for effect and open my door, allowing Gary to go find Rachel and deal with this.

OCTOBER 28TH, 9:12 A.M.

      We have a 9:00 a.m. staff meeting most mornings to discuss our patients and any administrative nonsense that needs to be addressed. Everyone usually drags ass in the meeting except for me and my boss, Rachel.

      Rachel is a linebacker. She is a formidable presence, and her booming voice and sharp intellect scare the shit out of everyone. She was born to run an institution, and her lack of a private life really helps her excel at her job. Her stringy, mousy brown hair is pulled back with a velvet scrunchie and she is always wearing a sweater set and chinos that are too tight in the hips and it makes the slash pockets stick out like little ears.

      Rachel likes me because she needs to believe that I really am always energetic and positive and a barrel of sunshine. Whenever I am out on the unit, I am a superhero. I am a troubleshooter, and a problem solver, and the go-to gal to get stuff done. My coworkers hate this about me. Until I cover their groups, or take their patients to the ER, or finish their case reviews/progress reports/treatment plans; then they love this about me. I make self-deprecating jokes as a defense mechanism. I always ask people about their weekend and how they’re doing because people are narcissistic and won’t ask me how I’m doing in response. This way I don’t have to lie to anyone.

      “Frankie’s back in the hospital.” Shirley begins her report. “Apparently he was standing in the middle of the street trying to direct traffic. This was an intersection on Broadway, and it’s amazing that he isn’t dead. Supposedly, when the police tried to stop him and arrest him or whatever, he started running away from them, bouncing off of cars, running in between them… It was a mess. Eventually they tackled him, I’m not sure, and they brought him to the psych unit at Columbia University Medical Center. He is on suicide watch right now, and I keep getting calls from the docs telling me that he’s not cooperating. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do about this.” Shirley is both disengaged and disenchanted and ran out of empathy years ago.

      “You go to CUMC, Shirley,” Rachel responds, irritable, frustrated, possibly menopausal. “You talk to the doctors. You make sure they know you’re the point person in his continuing care. Eventually, Frankie is going to be coming back here for inpatient services once he is cleared to go, and he needs to be aware that he wasn’t abandoned in the psych unit at CUMC.

      “Remember, all of you.” She is looking at us like bad kids who ate all the cookies. “We are the only resource for many of our patients here. We are their mothers and fathers, their caretakers and confidants…”

      I didn’t sign up to work on this unit