Disclaimer: Jay & Silent Bob are the intellectual property of Kevin Smith and View Askew Productions, and I have no intent to profit financially from the use of these characters.
TWELVE
"What are the odds you'd send him home with me?"
Julie Campbell's mouth drops open and she stares at me like I've just grown a third eye.
Twenty minutes we've been out here on the third floor balcony, exchanging pleasantries and information while I try to make my one cigarette last, and I've discovered that Julie, as she's insisted I call her, is not as dumb or as naive as I, and undoubtedly Jay, had assumed. Seven months out of college and six months on the job, she's been sitting in on other people's cases and taking notes until now. Jay's her first real "client", dumped in her lap because no one else wanted him.
Inexperienced and nervous to be sure. But not dumb.
We've been discussing the difficulty she's going to have in "placing" him when he leaves the hospital. A foster home is one step shy of impossible, given that there's three times as many children in the system as there are willing parents. The likelihood of getting him into a group home, where he'd get counseling and some one-on-one attention if not a surrogate family, isn't much better, considering they've all got waiting lists the length of my arm.
And even if by some miracle she was able to find space for him in one of these places, Jay's a hard sell. I was disheartened but not surprised to hear that he's been tossed out of too many placements to count, for shoplifting, smoking weed, drinking, fighting, skipping school, running away . . . not to mention his "disrespectful" attitude toward authority.
Which leaves a youth center. Two of them in this county, and neither of them any better than juvenile detention. Both seriously overcrowded, with on site dorms and schooling and medical care to ensure no child escapes the premises, understaffed to the point that supervision is limited to making sure the kids don't kill each other with their forks during lunch period.
All of which only confirms the necessity of my asking the question that has Julie's neatly lipsticked mouth gaping right now. She still hasn't answered and my cigarette is now sucked down to nothing. I throw the butt into a sand filled ashtray, wishing I'd brought the pack. Maybe I need to ask her again.
"Julie? I realize I must sound nuts, but I still need to know. What are the odds you'd send him home with me?" The half smile and the single arched eyebrow that replace the open mouthed stare are not unkind or contemptuous, but they do suggest we've switched places, with me now playing the role of the simpleton.
"Slim to none." she says. Short and to the point. But the wrong answer altogether. I'll be damned if I've spent ten days watching over Jay's fragile, sleeping form in intensive care only to stand aside with my thumb up my ass while they bus him off to reform school.
"Slim? Ok. I'll bite. What do I have to do?" Julie blinks, shifts her weight from one slightly scuffed grey pump to the other, and crosses her arms.
"Bob, how old are you?"
"Twenty." I say grudgingly, knowing full well it's a strike against me.
"And do you have a job?" I roll my eyes.
"I'm between jobs right now." Can hardly tell her I've spent the last two years beating up and intimidating junkies and small time drug dealers for a percentage of the debt I can collect. Constructing a more elaborate fib would be a mistake, although I've got the urge to try, because I'm a bad fucking liar.
Julie's brows come together and she shakes her head. Please drop it, Bob, she's telling me. There's no point in going any further.
"What else?" I press on, swallowing hard against the hopelessness climbing up into my throat at the thought of him walking out of the hospital, weak and thin and shaky, straight into a viper's nest. Can't let it happen. I can't. I won't. "Come on, Julie, what else?"
Reluctantly, she says, "Police record?" Fuck, finally, one with a positive answer.
"Nope. Not so much as a parking ticket." Silence, restraint and self-discipline have so far kept me under the radar of New Jersey's finest. Except . . .
"Funny, the detective I talked to about Jay's stabbing seems to think it had something to do with pot." Julie says. "Territory dispute, something like that?"
Fuck her for holding onto that until now. And fuck the cops for caring more about pinning a bag of weed on a boring asshole like me than they do about finding the animal that nearly killed Jay, who still doesn't have the strength to fucking sit up by himself.
Some of that restraint and self-discipline I mentioned would come in handy right now, because I'm about to spew something that could only hurt my chances of getting him out from under the care of these clueless fucks who've sent him to live with at least one pedophile and at least one old lady who whipped him with an electric cord.
Damn I need another cigarette.
Turn away, take a few deep breaths. The savage anger that's clawing at my stomach begins to subside. Maintain, Bob, maintain. Don't fuck this up. You've got enough cards stacked against you already.
Turn back, hoping my lips are now arranged in some non-threatening pantomime of a smile, hoping my eyes aren't too hard or too cold. Julie doesn't flinch. Ok, good. "If the police had evidence of any sort of crime on my part, don't you think I'd be in jail right now? Instead of standing out here freezing my ass off, talking to you?"
I'll give her credit. She may be scared shitless of Jay, infirm and frail though he is, but she doesn't seem fazed by me in the slightest. "Just because they can't make something stick doesn't mean they're wrong."
"You asked about a record, Julie." I remind her, feeling that rage bubbling up again, and I bite my tongue. "I don't have one. Next question?" Negotiating this minefield is giving me a fucking headache.
Julie sighs and abruptly walks away toward the balcony rail. I follow her until we're both looking out over the dirty one and two story rooftops just below, at the soot, at the flocks of pigeons and the shit they leave behind, at the odd bits of debris that have found their way out of the hospital's windows. Candy wrappers and pop bottles and endless cigarette butts, a plastic trash bag ripped half open and a torn hospital gown.
The February chill blew through my sweatshirt and jeans a long time ago. Miss my trench coat. Hope they find something to get the stains out. Don't see how I could ever wear it again unless they do, day after day having to look at rust colored splotches of Jay's blood, reminding me of those panicked moments when I thought he might be about to die.
Wish I could say something to Julie about that. Explain how I feel. How empty my life had become before Jay and I crossed paths and how full it's felt ever since. That I understand his "disrespectful" attitude and wouldn't dream of trying to change it. That my acceptance of him is unconditional. That I love him as if he were my own kid and that I'd die or kill to protect him.
If I could explain any of these things, it might make a difference. But I don't speak because it's not in my nature. Instead, I just stand here beside her, staring at the filth that seems to be eating this city from the ground up, and hope that she can see his best chance at survival, physical and otherwise, is with me.
"You've got better odds of winning the lottery than you do of getting custody of him." Julie finally says. "You're too young, you don't have a steady job. And proof or no proof, the police think you're involved with drugs, involvement that may already have resulted in Jay's being stabbed and almost killed. Even if I believed you . . . " She pauses. "It would take alot of work on your part to even try."
She sounds tentative. Open? As if she's thinking about it. Seriously thinking about it.
"Like what?" I encourage her.
"A job, for starters. A legitimate job with a steady paycheck and hours that would have you waiting for him at home when he got out of school."
"Done." I have no fucking idea where to look or what kind of damn job I could get but I don't care.
"You can't do anything about your age. Maybe your parents could vouch for you, write a letter about how responsible and mature you are?" Question stings, unexpectedly, and my eyes are suddenly burning with a few tears. I sniff them back.
"Not likely. They kicked me out when I was sixteen. Been on my own ever since." Clear my throat. "Same apartment, though, same landlord for the last four years. Does that help?" Julie shrugs.
"Can't hurt."
She turns away from the view then and we sit down on one of the rough concrete benches that dot the balcony. She grips my arm and forces me to look her in the eye.
"Listen, Bob." she starts off. "This is a real long shot. You need to understand that. You'll have to submit an application to be a foster parent, undergo a background check and a committee interview. It's grueling. It's unlikely they'll approve you, even after all that work. And what if you're successful? You'll have to be there for him. Day and night. No parties, no bullshit. Do you realize what you're getting yourself into?"
"Yeah, I do." I say, without hesitation. "Where the fuck do I sign?" Julie shakes her head, only now she's smiling.
She reaches down and digs through her briefcase, pulls out a handful of paperwork. I grab it. "Be sure you know what you're doing, Bob. Don't raise his hopes. Don't raise his expectations if you think there's any chance you'll back out. He doesn't need anymore disappointments." It's the first time she's expressed anything resembling care for Jay and I wonder if it's been there all along, hidden behind some ethically correct professional facade. I raise my eyebrows and tilt my head in question.
"The file on him is two inches thick." Julie says in answer, digging again through the briefcase, pulling out a battered manila folder stuffed nearly to overflowing with dog eared papers. "I've read this thing cover to cover. I'm deadly serious when I say the last thing he needs is one more adult throwing him away. So if you think there's any possibility you won't be able to follow through on this, I want you to stop now."
Shit. I've underestimated her. Misjudged her. Entirely. Her eyes have the same look mine must take on when I'm watching over him or arguing with someone like that bitch nurse Michelle who made him cry the other day.
Fuck.
"There's not a chance in hell I'm leaving him, regardless of how this application shit works out." I say quietly. Julie nods.
Appointment is set up for her to come back, meet with me about these forms and another dozen she'll have to fill out herself, and then she shakes my good hand and leaves. I roll up the sheaf of papers and go back inside, shivering, cracking my neck.
Jay's sleeping again, as he is so much of the time, head tilted slightly toward the television. All of his golden hair is gathered and laying over one shoulder and his arm is curled around a length of his bed linens, cradling them against his chest like Linus with his security blanket.
Careful not to make any noise, I slide the chair closer to the bed, stuff the papers into my coat and sit down. Want to take his hand but I know it makes him uncomfortable sometimes, so I don't. I stroke his arm just once instead, reassuring myself that he's warm and safe and still breathing.
I will do anything and everything to make sure he stays that way. Anything and everything.
Whether the government sanctions it or not.
I'd rather have their blessing, of course . . . which is why I'm going to sit down later and labor over these papers. And why I'm going to figure out some way to get myself a straight job, although it's the last thing I ever thought I'd want. There's gotta be something I'm good at besides cracking heads.
Which reminds me, I'd better give that up, for a while anyway, as long as social services is scrutinizing my activities. Tony's gonna love that. He was pissed enough when he had to come down here to the hospital a couple of days ago to pick up Jay's money and two other collections I'd managed to make on my way home to shower and sleep.
Tony. Light bulb goes off in my skull. Tony has fingers in a few legitimate businesses. Restaurant, pool hall, used car lot. He may not be my best friend, but we go back all four years I've been on my own and I've never stiffed him. He might be able to get me a job.
Shit. I may be able to do this after all. I may just be able to tidy myself up enough to make this work.
Glance over at Jay again, sleeping peacefully, and wonder for the first time whether he's going like any of this. What he wants is important to me, but I hope to God he doesn't object, because I meant what I said to Julie. I'm not leaving him.
No matter what.