KATHERINE Womack, bestselling author

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Today is officially my first day on the job. Klaus Funkhouser, the previous psychologist managing my case load, shadows me for training purposes.  We're meeting patients, conducting mental health screenings; I'm taking copious notes.  We'd gotten off to a rocky start, as the first patient we'd met, was having a bad day, shouting "Eat shit and die!", throwing feces towards us. The next, had a psychological crisis, claiming the voices in his head, were encouraging him to harm himself.  For those suffering from terminal illnesses, we'd ensure they're receiving adequate care; and there were a few less dramatic patients, who'd simply needed to be evaluated for developmental delays and illiteracy.

 

My digital clock reads 5:00 PM, my body says it’s 10:00 PM.   

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I'm worn out!

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In an ineffectual attempt to leaven our disdain, Funkhauser decides to summon one more patient. 

 

"This next one is easy. The name is Brayton Eldridge III. He refuses to speak.   He'll be in and out and we're done for the day" He laughs, slamming the manila folder on the desk. 

 

I should be relieved.  I'm not. 

 

 

"Is he hearing impaired or aphasic?"  I ask, grabbing my reading glasses, skimming through his file. 

 

"No! This guy is college educated—he’s got 3 degrees. He was a Trader at a bank; in for fraud, identity theft and racketeering; he's got some rage issues, been Ad Seg (in solitary confinement), for beating the shit out of several other inmates; a few years were added to his sentence for that.  He's also heard talking to himself at night."  

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Funkhauser’s earful, refreshes my memory. 

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"Bring him in" He exhorts.

 

In walks Brayton Eldridge III, Inmate # 2243659.  An obvious shift of energy in the room causes a metaphysical stir.  He's 42, African American, 6'5, 200lbs of mostly muscle, hand-cuffed, phlegmatic and commanding our senses.   His uniqueness is evident, even standing straight-faced and still.  

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Funkhauser takes the lead.

 

"Good evening, Mr. Eldridge; you may have a seat" He says, waving nonchalantly towards the empty chairs facing my desk. Brayton doesn't move.  His intimidating demeanor, can be very easily mistaken as the theoretics of the stereotypical, combative black man, but there is much more to this guy than that.

 

The men are watching, me fumble through papers, moving files around on my desk, in search of my pen. Where did it go? Why am I trippin' ? 

 

"This is Chenoa Bradley; she will be your new therapist...."

 

"It's your turn; say something, Chenoa!  Get it together, Girl!"  (I'm talking to myself). 

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The inmate sits, staring at the both of us, from underneath billows of hair, a nice grade, thick and as dense as the darkest night.  On his head and face, natural waves with random argent sprouts, most likely symbolic of his days spent incarcerated. His swag is lofty and proud.  He's coherent and as quiet as a church mouse.

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I've finally found his chart. 

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"So, you've served 12 out of your 15-year sentence......um.......um....."

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Crickets.......

 

Funkhauser, chimes in again.

 

"Do you have any questions, concerns or updates that you'd like for us to document? Perhaps there is something that Miss. Bradley can start working on, before your first official appointment." 

 

The inmate has been in the office for 20 minutes, he hasn't moved an inch.

 

Not a blink nor a sniff—nothing!

 

At the very least, I can close the meeting, right? That's easy. 

 

"Well, thank you, Mr. Eldridge for coming in.  I'm pleased to meet you; I look forward to our appointment."

 

The officer immediately walks in and grabs the inmate by his elbow, escorting him back to his cell.  I'm feeling beads of sweat infiltrate my foundation; I need to powder my face. Is it hot in here?

 

"Where are the previous chart notes...."

 

I ask, fanning myself with a stray piece of paper.

 

Funkhouser is half smiling and frowning. 

 

"Funkhauser, are you sure he isn't mentally delayed?"

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Is the air conditioner on?  The room is stuffy; my makeshift fan isn't cooling me off.  I'm chocolate; I will melt!  

 

"He may be suffering from depression.  His father died before his mother gave birth; he lost his Mom, just before he'd entered college."

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Funkhauser, continues to yap, walking to the thermostat mounted on the wall, to take a look. 

 

"Bradley, it's 40 degrees in here."