The Stardust Lounge_ Stories From a Boy's Adolescence - Deborah Digges [28]
Friday, 11:43 P.M.—A woman reported to police that youths had thrown Slim Jims into her dogs’ kennel and tried to coax them out. Subjects were gone when police arrived.
Sunday, 2:04 A.M.—Police found youths jumping from vehicle to vehicle on Fearing Street. No damage was caused by their activity, police said.
Tuesday, 9:30 P.M.—Police checked out speeding vehicles on South East Street.
Thursday, 2:19 A.M.—Police received a report that a person driving too fast on Hobart Lane left skid marks when leaving the area.
Monday, 5:20 P.M.—Amtrak officials told police that youths had jumped on the top of a passenger car while it boarded in Amherst and ridden to Springfield. Police are investigating.
Monday, 9:45 P.M.—Youths attempting to overturn an occupied phone booth were told by police to stop.
Fall, 1993
I am sitting in a waiting room of a therapist's office in tiny downtown Amherst. Stephen, who has been living at a friend's house, has agreed to meet me here. Yes, he'll bring the dog, too. Whether he comes home or not, he says he thinks I should take G.Q. home. He is worried about the pup, who is uncomfortable in a strange place.
What is in store is uncertain. I've spoken to the new therapist over the phone, briefed him on our troubles. The therapist has been recommended by the parents of the child with whom Stephen has been staying.
I imagine a session in which we'll cull the same grueling details of the last three years, details under which Stephen will smart and grow sullen; under which I, through the telling, will feel the old anger and frustrations rising.
The waiting room is lively—boys around Stephen's age playing video games on the floor in front of me. From the room to my right I hear shouts and congratulations, Latin music from the room to my left.
I look around for something to read to isolate myself. They can't fool me, I'm thinking. I'm not about to get my hopes up only to have them dashed tonight, or tomorrow, or in a week—whenever tensions heat up between Stephen and me. Besides, it's 10:00 A.M. on a weekday. Shouldn't these kids be in school?
I hear Stephen and G.Q. approaching, hear the bulldog's panting, Stephen talking softly to him as they enter the suite. I spring up from my chair to hug my son, drop to my knees to caress G.Q., who is so excited he pees on the therapist's rug. Stephen takes a paper towel from his pocket and kneels beside me.
“He does this a lot,” he says. “Now I come prepared. He's really missed you,” he adds, blotting up the urine. “He hasn't been eating too well.”
“I missed you both,” I answer, trying to catch Stephen's eyes. “He looks okay. You've been taking good care of him.”
When the therapist appears at his office door, we stand, stiffening again, freezing away from each other, the panting dog between us, stand up into familiar roles of difficult son and clueless mother.
But the dog won't let us for long. He's panting, huffing. Stephen breaks character as he suggests that maybe G.Q. needs some water. I fill the paper cup the therapist offers us.
The therapist gestures at the kids playing Nintendo. “Why don't you let these guys watch the dog and we go throw some knives and talk,” Dr. Eduardo Bustamante greets us.
“Throw knives?” Stephen and I are baffled.
Dr. Bustamante doesn't look like the other therapists we've known. For one thing he is young—I imagine he is younger than I—and quite handsome. He speaks with a slight Spanish accent.
“Ya, throw knives—not at anyone.” Eduardo laughs. “Well, not really. Come on in here, I'll show you.” Eduardo leads us to the room from which I'd heard shouting.
“See you later, Isaiah,” he says to a boy putting on his coat. “Here's the keys.” Ed hands car keys and a ten-dollar bill to the kid. “I'll take the Super Chicken Burrito and a milk. You get what you want.”
“Sure, Ed.” The kid grins.
“Don't steal this car.” Ed laughs as the boy heads out the door. “Little joke between me and Isaiah,” he