13. Social Worker

A fine day for the social worker, I say.

No, it's not, I also say.

Just shoot me are my final words on that subject.

But no, I actually have to talk to the social worker today, a very unfavorite part of my job here.

"Hey, beats having a parole officer," Jack says every time I complain. I don't know about that. I might prefer a parole officer. They are tough and mean and get right down to business. Being busted for busting parole might be better than being cared about and empathized all over. She can't even empathisize me. She's a 27-year old college graduate who grew up in San LaLa and drives a blue Toyota. I saw her in her cute little tennis suit at Community Park last week. I hid behind the dumpster.

Guess I better go to my appointment.

I hate that mental health building. Not because it's old and drafty, I sort of like that. It's the orange plastic chairs that get me. Oh, and the very huge problem that I have to leave my cart outside. Sitting next to crying kids is no picnic either. But if I don't go, she comes and finds me and then I have to go anyway. Or she does our "session" in front of everybody, which is horrible just thinking about. Well, okay, she never did that, but if I don't go she might.

Her name is Eva.

I think she's some sort of Mexican. Eva Prettybrowngirl. No accent. I never heard her speak Spanish. Might be a Philippine girl, or Hawaiian. Or just very tan. I see her through the glass partitions, talking of course. That's what they do, social workers, they talk. She uses her hands a lot. Maybe she's Italian. No, they yell more. This one never yells, but I always feel that I am disappointing her. I answer her questions, which is more than I do for most people. I cooperate. I even appreciate what she does. I think they especially try to look out for us women. There didn't used to be so many women out here. It's the mental hospital crowd that has filled out the ranks. And drugs. Somehow alcohol seems to be more of a guy thing on the streets, but drugs is an equal opportunity amigo. However, this is not a very rough town, not in comparison to the city, so we are mostly no worse off than the men.

She's waving at me. Ugh, time to take my medicine.

Hey, that was not bad at all. Here I got all worked up for the grilling and instead she gives me a pass for this church I never heard of. Some special deal, with food, and a bed. I am happy to convert for such splendor, but she says I don't have to. Yeah, sure. If it looks like a church, and it sounds like a church, I say it is a church, and all churches want to save you and have you join up. But hey, a few Hail Marys are okay by me. What could it hurt?