Of Mice and Meth
Story Number 3: Servitude Saga Number 1
It was Jenn’s first foray into the field. Jenn was an AmeriCorps home visitor at the Family Resource Center (FRC), exploring her options for her future career. (Jenn did go on to earn her Master’s of Social Work and I am immensely proud of her for the person she is and the work she does.) Jenn, Sandra (another all around awesome individual who was a FRC case manager and a very fine one at that!) and I were doing home visits to offer clients voluntary services to support their family and give them resources. Jenn was shadowing as part of her training and that day she was driving us around in her car, a Charger.
We reviewed and staffed the referral and its particulars on the way to the client’s home: who resides in the home, what was reported to CPS, what was the family’s history with CPS, what services and resources could be offered to the family, strategy (how best to approach what was alleged in the CPS referral, what questions to ask the family), et cetera. This family was well-known to CPS. Several generations lived under the roof, one of the household members was a registered sex offender, there was “suspected” meth use (“suspected,” yeah, sure). The concern was that the children were missing school and when they were at school there were behavioral issues; the mother was notoriously hard for the school to contact and she failed to show up for school meetings.
We got near the home and I reminded Jenn, from the training we had just done to prepare her for the field, to always park for a quick getaway, which she did. Even though this was not a CPS “investigation,” all initial home visits were to be conducted, for safety reasons, as if they were an investigation, to wit: park to not block others or be blocked and for a quick getaway, take in the full environment (sight, sound, smell, gut feelings), look for things that could be used as weapons against you, look for dogs or signs of dogs (feces, chains, food dishes, paw prints, dog houses, signage), look for chemical, unhygienic or trip hazards, look at the windows when approaching to see if you are being observed…yeah, this work is not a joke and requires hypervigilance, quick reflexes and even quicker thinking. And the trick while maintaining hypervigilance, laser-focus, attention to detail, knowing your safety or life could be on the line, was to look relaxed, friendly and approachable, in case you were being observed. Approaching the house was not the time to comment on the contents of the referral or the condition of the yard or home (even if you were thinking, “God, what a fucking shit hole!” as you played hopscotch around all the dog feces, maggot-infested trash and broken toys). No, our job was to emanate a calm, non-judgmental, caring aura of goodwill and kindness as we entered their domain. Think of us, not as the Three Wise Men, but as the Three Kind, Caring, and Helpful Women; you get my drift. I think if we could have had an angelic-sounding sound track to accompany us, I would have used it; we come in peace.
As we approached this particular house, I was doing my usual safety and clue scanning. Clue scanning was to look for signs of things that could confirm or deny what was in the referral, and to gain additional knowledge about the family, but all the same to not be taken in, such as, “this is such a lovely, clean yard and beautiful house, no abuse could be happening here!” Take in and take note of EVERYTHING! The house itself was leaning toward decrepitude for sure, but not the look of needing to be condemned by code enforcement. The yard had dried weeds, but not bad and there was minimal pieces of trash and no clutter. I saw no obvious signs of humans or dogs, but as we approached the front door I did notice minute movement coming from a bookcase next to the front door. When I got to the front door I looked on the bookcase and the movement was two, struggling, emaciated mice stuck to a glue trap and several roaches, some dead and some alive as indicated by their twitching legs and antennae. Oh boy. I cannot stand needless suffering, of any kind. But I could not be distracted by this. The bookcase contained other flotsam and jetsam of the clients’ lives: candy wrappers, soda cans, some mail, some toys, a half-eaten bag of chips (yum), but nothing that could be used as a weapon. I knocked on the door. Every initial home visit started with me introducing myself as a CPS social worker, there not to investigate, but to offer the free, voluntary FRC services of the kindly, not-employed-by-CPS (huge emphasis there!) home visitors. Also, if something did rise to the level of an investigation in my presence, then I would shift into the role of investigator—many hats were required at all times.
I heard movement in the house and slowly the door opened, a few inches, and barely revealed a child, about 12. The opening of the door by only a few inches could be about several things: extreme caution, not wanting anyone to see what was going on in the house, the house is so cluttered that the door only opens that far, or scary uncle with a shot gun is behind the door instructing the kid to get rid of the authorities ASAP. That the kid answered the door, at 10:00 on a school day confirmed lack of school attendance.
“Hi. Is your mom here?” I said in a friendly tone.
“Yes,” said the kid, with no movement to call her or get her.
“So, I would like to speak to your mom, okay?”
The kid said “okay,” and closed the door.
Jenn, Sandra and I just stood on the porch and looked around and at each other and listened for what could be happening in the house. I looked again at the captives on the bookcase, horrified as I was guessing they had been there awhile based on their pathetic condition. I even felt bad for the roaches, stuck on their backs with their wiry legs weakly flailing. I swear they all looked at me with pleading in their eyes, “Save us! Please have mercy on our souls. Or just fucking kill us!” A plan hatched in my mind, but again, I could not lose focus.
I could hear movement in the house again and the door opened its obligatory few inches. Generally, I would take this opportunity to “get eyes” on the kid (assess overall appearance, hygiene, clothing, any marks or bruises, demeanor, expression, et cetera), but the few inches in the doorway allowed for little evaluation. There was definitely an air of malaise and unwholesomeness about him and the kid was not a rosy-cheeked cherub by any means, but neither was he a scruffy, beat down Les Mis urchin. Knowing the history of the family and the aura of the situation my heart really went out to the kid, but without obvious signs of abuse or neglect and a full investigation, there was nothing I could do but hope the family would accept the FRC services.
“My mom is sick,” the kid reported, which I knew most probably meant “under the influence,” as “being sick” was an oft used term I was way too familiar with.
“Well, I am sorry to hear that. My name is Bunny and I am from CPS, but I am not here to investigate and no one is in trouble,” I quickly added as per usual. “This is Sandra and Jenn and we wanted to offer your family help from the Family Resource Center. I have a letter that says all of this for your mom. If I give it to you, would you give it to her?” I said with all the friendly laidbackness I could muster. The kid said he would so I got out the standard form letter for this purpose and wrote a few extra sentences at the bottom for a more personal touch “Hi, sorry I missed you. I’d like to talk to you. Please call. Thanks! Bunny,” smiley face. I added my business card and put them in an envelope. I asked the kid if he had any questions and he did not. I profusely thanked him and wished him a good day. He took the envelope and slowly closed the door, much like I imagine his little heart and soul were learning to get closed off. I pictured the envelope being placed on one of a multitude of piles somewhere in the house, never to be opened.
I looked around and saw no one in the vicinity and I told Sandra and Jenn in a very quiet voice, “I am going to do something and I need you two to head back to the car.” They both looked at me oddly, but did not question me and headed to the car. I looked around again, trying not to look furtive or suspicious, more trying to look like I was just having a friendly glance around, thinking maybe I would like to buy the house or I was looking for decorating ideas.
In one swift movement I turned to leave and simultaneously grabbed the glue trap and its stuck-on inhabitants off the bookcase and I aligned the trap parallel to my leg and under the investigation bag I always carried that hung off my right shoulder. I then proceeded to walk in a normal fashion back to the car. Just another routine home visit. Nothing going on here. Nothing to see. Technically I was stealing something from the family’s porch and anyone who could be watching me, unbeknownst to them that it was a well-used, pest inhabited, moribund platform of despair and impending death, well that did not matter. A CPS worker just stole from a family.
Back at the car I moved the trap from under my investigation bag just enough for Jenn and Sandra to see what it was. I think they were appalled and shocked by either what it was or what I had done, or both, but when I explained that I wanted to put the poor things out of their misery, they were both onboard. I asked Jenn how she would feel about driving over the trap to accomplish the mission of mercy and she said she would do it. I did briefly consider bashing them with a rock, something I had done before for suffering creatures, again out of mercy, but even if I found a suitable rock with which to do the deed, that surely would have drawn attention to me and aroused suspicion—a CPS worker bashing small, defenseless animals to a bloody, ragged, pulp with a rock in front of a client’s house. I could see the headline with the spin of condemnation of CPS’s insensitivity, lack of tact and its hiring of questionable, mentally unstable workers, and my ultimate dismissal.
I told Jenn my plan was to place it in front of her front tire, the nice, wide, perfect for the job, Charger tire, and would she just drive over it straight and fast so the mercy killing would be quick? Yes, she said she could do this. I told her I could drive the car over the poor souls if she didn’t mind me driving her car, if it bothered her at all, because being her supervisor I didn’t want her to think she was being forced, bullied or that my “power and authority over” her could not be questioned, because it most certainly could, me not being a high-on-my-power worker like some. No, Jenn assured me, she was okay driving over the suffering critters.
As Sandra and Jenn got into the car there was already an air of how absurd and ridiculous what we were doing was, but I knew I was being supported in helping these pathetic, suffering creatures on their final moments to the other side. It was indeed a somber moment, but we were already starting to quietly giggle. And from the time I swiped the trap from the bookcase to the formulation of the plan was about 90 seconds—quick, efficient and thoughtful—that’s how we delivered all our services!! I placed the trap in front of the driver’s side front tire, apologizing to the mice and roaches and telling them I wished for them a quick and painless death and a good afterlife.
So my thinking at the time, don’t ask me why, was that I was worried that the trap would get pushed a bit by the tire, rather than the tire going immediately over it, you know, prolonging the suffering. In my infinite wisdom I placed the trap with the glue-side up and the mice and roaches down, on the pavement, knowing for sure the trap would stick to the tire the moment the car rolled forward. I’m a thinker and a planner after all!
I jumped in the passenger seat, Jenn turned on the car and it rumbled in the appropriate Charger fashion, and we were all nervously giggling, but we did need to maintain the appropriate home visitor demeanor, in case we were being watched by the public, which was part of the training. This demeanor, which we called “home visitor face,” was another part of our body language repertoire that was essential—two modes only: neutral or deep concern. Just like the aura of goodwill upon the approach to the home visit, the exit demeanor was probably more important, especially if we had been inside the home and had spoken to the family. We were witness to all manners of oddness, horror, filth, and disclosures of domestic abuse, molestation, rape, mental health and/or addiction symptoms and behaviors, the presence of developmental delays (sometimes openly acknowledged and talked about by the DD parents themselves), and all manifestations of physical ailments and issues. No matter what we were told, what we smelled, what we observed, to have a reaction other than empathy, kindness, concern, shared troubleshooting and hanging on the client’s every word, while concurrently observing the environment for concerns or danger, well to just lose your shit, even if it would have been righteous, was not acceptable, not at all. I trained my home visitors to wait not only until we were in the car, but out of the neighborhood before we were allowed to emotionally vomit and splutter our thoughts and observations. There could be no worse sin than saying within the line of sight or hearing of the client: “Wow, could they take a bath!? Worst BO ever!!,” or “Holy fucking shit, what a dumpster fire of a life!,” or even a simple but explosive, “Oh my God!” And it was not that we had no real concern or compassion for our clients, because we really did, especially at the FRC, where we did shed tears over the tribulations of our clients’ lives. But the horrors we were exposed to, we were right and justified in exorcising them; you best not bottle that shit up and carry it with you!
Jenn asked if we were ready and we said whenever she was, stifling our nervous laughter. Jenn pulled forward quickly with grim, but compassionate determination, and the deed was done and then it was just us humble social service workers leaving another home visit. Except. . . because I placed the glue side up it, of course, stuck to the tire. So yes, we were, just humble workers leaving a home visit, but we were not making a quiet exit as the trap made a clicking, flapping sound every time it came around on the tire and on hit the ground. Flap, flap, flap, flap, flap as we made our way out of the neighborhood. That glue was GOOD! And the plastic tray was sturdy and tough and NOT quiet. Flap, flap, flap, flap, flap, flap, with every rotation. And the faster Jenn drove, the faster and more frantic the flapping sound got. Anyone within earshot would know that something was going on with the tire; so much for being incognito. We were able to quell the tsunami of laughter that was rising within us for about one block, due to our training, professionalism and dedication, of course. But beyond that we were howling maniacs, laughing like jackals on the Serengeti in the night, gasping for breath as Jenn continued to expertly navigate out of the neighborhood while under the influence of extreme guffawing. The absurdity of the situation coursed through us and the fact that the glue trap was stuck well and good to the tire and it continued to flap and click with ever increasing intensity and tempo did nothing to subdue our laughter, but only served to turn our laughs into hysterical convulsions. Twenty-five mph in the neighborhood, click, click, click, click, 45 mph on the main road, click, click, click, click, click, the velocity increased the cadence to a maddening clackety whir.
While I do not support the manufacture or use of glue traps (have some compassion people!), I do have to give the makers credit for the excellent hardiness of that damn glue! On we flapped and clicked to the freeway where the trap finally flew off after about one-quarter of a mile, for a total of about four miles from the client’s house. Of course the pace of the freeway speed and the sound the trap was making at that point really pushed us over the edge even more with side-splitting cackles! it just occurred to me now, as I write this, that the trap sticking to the car tire and being carried away and deposited elsewhere was really a marvelous thing, because we took the evidence of my thievery away from the scene of the crime. So maybe I knew what I was doing after all in the decision to place the trap glue side up. Good job me!
The family, despite several more home visits to try and engage them, did not accept services at that time. Later CPS did have to intervene and at that point the FRC was able to offer support and it was really nice to work with the mom as she removed herself from a bad relationship and got her own place for her and her four kids and she worked really hard on her sobriety from her meth addiction, eh, I mean “sickness.”
I am not sure what to think about that home visit being Jenn’s first. She was probably thinking “What did I get myself into?! My supervisor is nuts!” But the work we did was so insane, dangerous, complicated, yet empathetic and beautiful on so many levels, what we exposed ourselves to and what we were trying to accomplish, with a high frustration, low good outcome ratio, any positive that happened was a momentous occasion for us workers and the clients. The bonding we did that day as a team, Jenn, Sandra and I, because of what we did with the beings on that glue trap and how hard we laughed, well you can’t put a price on those moments. And as social service providers, who ultimately want to make the world a kinder, softer, more compassionate place, at least on that day, those creatures did get the full measure of our compassion, all 4,200 pounds of it. Godspeed mice and roaches.
RIP