Meltdown

Meltdown

By Sue Binder

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 by C. S. Binder

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden, without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover image Used under Creative Commons Attribution/Share Alike License.

About the Author

Sue Binder has written most of her life. While still a preschooler, she was reprimanded for scribbling in the back of a family book. She continued writing throughout her school years, working on high school and college newspapers, and eventually getting a BA in journalism and creating writing.

As a child, reading also became a magical world where she could learn, laugh, and be entertained. As a result she continues to read voraciously in many genres and levels. Favorite authors include Tony Hillerman , Steve Berry, Henning Mankill, and Patrick Taylor. And, of course, she loves the traditional works of Agatha Christie.

As an adult she has held a variety of jobs, including selling Avon, hosting toy parties, and promoting public relations. She has also worked as a newspaper writer and edition, an alcohol and drug counselor, a substitute teacher, a college instructor, and a mental health counselor. In addition, she loves to crochet and knit, primarily afghans and doilies. She loves music, with her current favorites being Josh Groban and Celtic Thunder.

She returned to college, three times: once out of high school, a second time as her children grew older, and a third and final time after her divorce. As a result, she holds two masters in humanities and in psychology. She is a licensed addictions counselor (LPC) and Licensed Professional Counselor (LPC), currently working as a mental health coordinator in the prison system.

Her pride and joy are her four children along with five grandchildren. She lives in southeast Colorado, where she continues to write, focusing on short stories. Her current burning desire is a trip to Ireland.

I dedicate this book to my four children, Carl, Pam, Angie, and Kris, and five grandchildren Melissa, Katie, Matthew, Stephanie, and Philip, who over the years have inspired, delighted and challenged me. I hope you enjoy and find within these pages one or two stories that hold personal meaning for you.

INTRODUCTION

The following short stories are intended to challenge and provoke the reader. They have been compiled from selected writings over a period of thirty years, with some loosely based upon an event or idea in my life. However, the stories all hold similar themes: themes of loss, of searching, of the thin line between reality and insanity—basically depicting people at crossroads in their lives.

Originally, I referred to these stories as slices of life. When I began to assemble them, I came to realize that all of the searching for my own voice was encompassed in the short story format. With the short story, hopefully readers will be able to glimpse into someone’s soul for a brief moment and to question their own values and ideas. The focus of each story, whatever the length, is on the psychological and existential moment when a person must make a crucial decision that will affect the rest of their life.

Haven’t we all been there?

Sue Binder

September 2011

CONTENTS

Meltdown

Switch

In Due Season

The Homecoming

Auction

Foreclosure

The Belt

Posters

Words

Rage

The Shadow

Anticipation

Preparations

Segregation

Indifference

The Bystander

The Weekend

Weeds

Flashpoint

Nine Numbers

Foxholes

Rejection

Cash on Hand

The Cellar

Afterward

MELTDOWN

I am a professional!

Cheryl Womack stared across the desk at Tom Banyon. There he sat with his legs crossed, so casual in his three-piece Armani suit, a matching beige tie with a contrasted patterns of tan swirls. Yes, so professional, down to his Zellis slip-ons with socks that matched his tie. Matched his tie!--she realized with a start. How in the hell did he manage that on his salary? . He sat there so calmly, his hands folded across his lap. Gray sprinkles ran through his chestnut beard and neatly trimmed mustache. Yes, he definitely looked ALL PROFESSIONAL, she thought, inwardly cringing.

But it was the same story with him every day. She was so tired of the arguments and the implications that she was incompetent. The continual questioning of policies and procedures. Day after day. She should have been used to it by now. Banyon had been at the prison for over a year. But today was just another example of his inflated ego. She felt tired, so tired of trying to avoid the arguments that seemed unavoidable. She was tired of trying to supervise a clinician who was so professional that he needed no supervision. He was always right; she was always wrong. She swallowed hard, fighting to keep her defenses in check.

Tom, I don’t doubt your clinical judgment. I’m simply stating that there’s not a single case study I can use for the audit. Your judgment is on track. It’s the paperwork that presents a problem.

You and I both know that most of that paperwork is unnecessary. It’s duplication. It’s stupid.

I agree that some of its duplicated, but it’s required by the auditors, so we don’t have a choice.

I have corrected these file twice now. His right hand slammed down over the top of the stack on her desk, I know I corrected them. Someone is changing them before they come back to me!

An accusation? Cheryl couldn’t let that go by. She rolled her chair closer to his and looked directly into his eyes. Are you accusing me of messing with those files? Because if you are, I want you to say so right now. She stared hard at him.

Banyon dropped his eyes. Uh…uh, I didn’t mean it like that. But I know I already corrected them…

Cheryl sighed. I have a meeting now, Tom. Please get those on my desk by morning. I can’t, and I won’t do your job for you.

I’m a professional, he repeated. I know how to do my job, but this is foolishness.

Tom, if I need to, I will give them back to you 100 times until they are correct!

Cheryl heard her voice going up the scale. She fought for control. Don’t let him do this to you, she thought. Don’t let him control you. Her hands were starting to shake. She took a deep breath and calmly rose from her chair. Casually she picked up her nameplate from the edge of her desk. It was much too large for her desk, and weighed so much that she generally used it for a paperweight. But it had been a gift from her mother in recognition of her first promotion, so she’d kept it over the years, one of a few pleasant memories of her mother. Besides the feel of it in her hands helped her relax, diverted her attention from Banyon.

She placed it on top the file cabinet, as she opened the door. I’ll talk with you later.

Banyon was gone. She let out a deep sigh. He tested her emotions on every level. She wanted to pick up the files and ram them down his throat, no, shred them first, and feed them to him until he choked on them. Did he really think she loved auditors and enjoyed having to comply with standards that sometimes made no sense to her either? She had worked at Rollins Correctional for over ten years. She had seen rules come and rules go, as well as staff. She knew that nothing or no one lasted forever. That was her hope with Banyon. Eventually he would get tired of the job—the job he wasn’t doing. Eventually he would make a mistake…Hopefully not a tragic one. That would be the end. But when? It had been over a year now. A year of his constant pushing at the edges. She picked up the folder on her desk and headed to administration. Another meeting.

As she made her way between the concrete walls which separated the medical department from the adjoining cell houses, she thought back to the first day she learned he’d been hired. Of course, she’d known the counselor position was posted, and she was looking forward to getting some definitely-needed help. With over 1,000 inmates now, it was all she and Sheila McIntosh could do to keep up with the mental health case load. The continual requests for changes in medication, conducting anger classes, referring inmates for sex offender treatment, and segregation rounds… In addition, her duties included ongoing auditing of the department, monthly quarterly reports, keeping statistics, compliance with standards, meetings…The list went on and on.

So when her supervisor, Joseph Gibbons had unexpectedly entered her office bearing that broad .twinkling smile of his, she’d smiled in return, hoping he was bringing good news. Got you some help hired, he announced, his Oklahoma accent emphasizing each word.

I’m certainly glad to hear that. Cheryl was a bit miffed at having not been in on the selection process. The most she’d known was that there had been three candidates.

Yes, you might know him—or know of him. He’s fully licensed, has spent a couple years in corrections in Canon City, has a firm grasp of working with inmate population. I think you’ll be pleased.

Joe, uh, you have a name for me… She smiled back. Her boss was easy-going, jovial, productive, but at times a bit too laid-back.

Tom Banyon. Gibbons spit out.

Cheryl felt frozen to the spot. Any name he might have spoken would not have shocked her more. Although she had only worked briefly with Banyon previously in a substance abuse program in Colorado Springs, those six months were forever engraved in her mind. He had refused on-call duties, leaving her to bear the extra hours. He had shoved clients over to her when he didn’t want to deal with them.

So she sat before Gibbons, a bit tongue-tied, thinking back…That had been over ten years. Surely the man had changed. And she certainly would welcome the help.

As soon as he’s finished training, I’ll hand him off to you for his On-the-Job. He’ll be by the first of the week to say ‘hello.’

Gibbons was gone, leaving her with a lump in her throat. Why, oh, why didn’t they let me sit in on the interviews? She wondered. Then she stopped herself. She was a therapist. She had to give him a chance. She had to be objective and fair.

That had been over a year. And in spite of her best intentions, she found herself comparing his current actions with his past. But then, she told herself, he had not changed, and she was still continuing to pick up the broken pieces of his practice. No, not a thing had changed in his work habits in the last ten years.

Well, perhaps his bragging. If anything, it had increased. He found time to talk a lot—to everyone, except his case load of inmates. At lunch he spoke openly about his past employment. Once he told a group, When I interviewed for my stint with the Special Forces, they took my therapist credentials as a strong point in my favor.

Another time, she had mentioned to someone about her past feature work with a magazine. Banyon was present. He chimed right in. Yes, I did some early work in my college days with Hunter Thompson. We got to be very close.

Month after month Cheryl ran the monthly reports. He averaged 1.3 inmates seen per day. Well, except for the two anger management groups he conducted. Adding those numbers in, twelve per group, twice per week, well he could pull in almost fifty more bodies. She gave him some leeway. After all the first month, he was getting his feet wet. The second, well…he should be picking it up.

When she called him in to review the numbers, he just smiled at her and said, I’m trying to set my pace now. Just as soon as I get that going, I’ll be fine.

Only he wasn’t. The numbers never increased. She and Sheila continued to amass over 150 inmates per month, not counting clinic and segregation, while he held strong at about 65 to 70. She complained to the Supervisor.

We have to give him sometime to adjust. He hasn’t been in corrections before.

He’s spending a lot of time just walking around, talking to staff and inmates, outside of his office. Also he’s been leaving early—a lot.

Okay, I’ll talk to him.

But nothing really changed. She didn’t want to constantly complain about him. After all, it would look like she couldn’t do her job. What kind of a supervisor had no control over her staff? Subtle…I have to be more subtle, she thought. So she hinted at improvements.

Gosh, I’ve got to be more careful. I noticed that I’ve been leaving a little early for several days. The boss is a perfectionist about us getting in the full 40-hours….

He didn’t get it. But if he did, he didn’t acknowledge it or make the slightest change. In fact, it got worse. On a Monday, she clocked him leaving at 3:30. On Wednesday, it was 4:00 and then Friday, 2:30. She went to Gibbons.

Tom just isn’t punctual. He comes in late. He leaves early. Almost every other day. I’ve tried talking to him. It just doesn’t work. Really, it’s not fair to Sheila and me. We work our butts off, Sheila often works late, and he just scoots out of here.

He’s still pretty new, but I’ll talk to him.

Maybe we should talk to him together.

That’s not necessary. I’ll take care of it. You just keep on doing your little thang… He said it with that Oklahoma twang that she knew he exaggerated when he wanted to seem like a team-player, but he wasn’t. And nothing changed.

The confrontations grew. Cheryl tried to keep them on a professional level. But Tom questioned everything. He challenged her authority, challenged her therapeutic ability. He seemed to be mocking her on every level. Day followed day. Sheila didn’t help. She actually seemed to be siding with Tom. On a Friday she saw them coming back from lunch together, laughing, as they passed through the lobby together.

A month passed, then two…She dreaded the days…the Monday morning staff meetings when he would complain about something…Sometimes it was the amount of paperwork, sometimes a policy, often just the temperature of his office. Cheryl was tired of it. She kept thinking, he really doesn’t belong in corrections. He’s bound to see that and quit. But he didn’t .

During the third month, on a Wednesday, he popped into her office first thing in the morning. She didn’t want to listen to his complaints—or his bragging. She kept her head buried in the computer screen, pretending to focus on some data that wasn’t there. Perhaps he would just go away….but he didn’t.

He started to speak. At first she ignored him. But he continued. Rafferty out of my cell house said that someone stole his med card.

What? She was suddenly alert. For a medication card to be missing could present a serious security problems. She swiveled her chair to face him. When did this happen?

Oh, two or three days ago.

"When did he tell you?

Two or three days ago.

Did you report that, write it up?

No. I didn’t have any reason to. I got the report second hand.

What?… Cheryl didn’t believe what she was hearing. What is the med?

Clonadine.

Tom, don’t your remember this past week, we had an inmate with an overdose of Clonadine?

No, I don’t remember that. What of it?

She shook her head. Please write the report up now.

But I don’t have enough information. I need to investigate it first.

You don’t investigate anything. You just write what you know.

She spent the rest of the day, off and on, arguing with him about the importance of writing up the report. She explained, as to a six-year-old, that the theft of drugs could result in them not being able to leave the facility, that this was a safety issue. And still he argued. Finally, she turned it over to Gibbons, saying, He doesn’t listen to me. Please make sure he writes this report.

Apparently Gibbons took care of it. Tired, bone-tired of the past eight hours of arguing with Tom, she drove home. Her head throbbed. Her stomach ached. She reached for the Tums in the seat next to her and grabbed a handful to ward off the ache that seemed to permeate through her upper chest. Her only relief was the radio. She turned the volume up, hoping to distract herself. The