|
So far it has been one of those weeks. Months. Quarters. Whatever.
It has been so crazy-busy that I've barely had time at work to play with my Webkinz (yes, you read that right. I'll try to find time to explain elsewhere).
So, last night this guy gets brought in by police. We only let him go four days ago, but for some people, four days without medication is like a lifetime.
He was ranting about hillbilly motherfuckers, screaming "Pussy" at random, and made up a little song that went "Boom da da boom da da boom, motherfucker."
He had also threatened people at an outpatient center, and banged on the glass of their reception window.
"That wasn't me. That was some other dude. I was in a sandwich shop across the street. YOU HEAR WHAT THEY ARE DOING TO ME RONALD, MY BROTHER, YOU HEAR?"
So, he ended up restrained to a litter, and got a load of medications that would have tranquilized an elephant shot into his ass.
He never stopped talking.
Not for a second.
At one point he managed (and I still don't know how, I assume someone who assisted in the restraint didn't put the strap through the lock properly) to get the strap totally out of the cuff and he grabbed my wrist, which could have gone very badly ... luckily between commanding him to let go in my best I'm not taking your crap voice and twisting out of his hold, I escaped without injury.
That wasn't the worst of it, though.
Since he was in leathers, I had to sit in the room with him and monitor his safety.
Usually this isn't so bad. It's annoying because you can't do anything else but watch a crazy restrained guy (or chick) breathe and occasionally demand a cigarette while paperwork and other stuff piles up in the office. I have a Master's Degree. Surely I should be able to assign someone with lesser education to do this, right?
So anyway, there's the dude, laying there. I get him rerestrained but there's still enough play in them for him to grab onto the edge of his rather large and baggy jeans ... and yes, he pulls the pants down and his shirt up ... "Bitch, you know what that is?"
Now, I had a lot of opportunity here. I could have said a lot of things. You know, like "Well, it looks like a man's penis, only smaller" that kind of thing. But as crazy as he may be, a man remembers some things. And I know that I'll be seeing this particular man at least once every six months, or more frequently than that.
So I couldn't do it.
"Bitch, you know what that is?"
"Sir, that is inappropriate."
Oh, and you know what ... that thing about black men? It's a myth.
|