Wake-Up Call. Joaquin De Torres
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brains, hideous physical deformities, or nonexistent sensations. For the first decade of my practice, I would lock myself in my office, go into bathroom stalls, or broom closets to sob for my patients. I had wondered for years how I could muster the mettle to go on, day after day, looking into their lifeless, dull eyes, or trying to find warmth or reflex in limbs so atrophied that they felt like bony pieces of rotting meat. How does one look at another human being and immediately know that their lives are forfeit? That they will never know love, challenge, fun or victory? That they will never taste the fruits of life, health or knowledge? It took everything I could in my soul to be able to distance myself emotionally from these innocent, defenseless and pathetic creatures. But somehow, I made it work. I became successful. I could suppress emotions like a light switch when I needed to; when I had to.
I released my grip on her breast and pulled back. She looked at the couch.
“Come on. We can take our time.” Her voice was a seductive whisper.
“No, Brittany. I can’t do this.” She looked at me confused.
“Why? Are you married?” She began kissing my lips softly. “Don’t worry. She’ll never know. You can trust me.”
“No, I’m not married.” Then she pulled back and looked even more confused.
“Then, why?” She was genuinely surprised at my refusal.
“I’m here to solve the case of your brother. I have to focus on him.” She dropped her head, but I raised her chin with my fingers. “Hey, don’t look like that. I really appreciate this. Believe me, as a man old enough to be your father, I’m completely flattered!”
“But you’re not my father. You are so handsome, and in shape, and. . .” She kissed my lips again. “unbelievably intelligent.” I silently thanked God that I had started swimming and bicycling last year. She leaned in closer as if to tell me a secret.
“I want you, Doctor Flores,” she breathed. “I want you so badly.” The sensation began bristling between my legs again, but I suppressed it with a hard swallow.
“I feel the same, but Doogie comes first.”
“Doogie?”
“It’s what his therapists called him. He doesn’t answer to Doug; he likes Doogie.” The fire of the moment was now extinguished. Her brother had entered the scene, which is what I intended. She nodded in acceptance. She pulled her panty up and adjusted her bra; her lips pursed, her eyes fixed on the floor.
“If I can find and help your brother, then I’ll be back.” I gave an encouraging smile and she returned it.
“Maybe we can have lunch or dinner sometime,” she suggested in a more mature and professional tone.
“I’d like that.”
She let me out and watched me get into my car. I waved as I drove away, knowing that I would most likely have to come back one day. . .to tell them that Doogie was dead.
Chapter 2
Village Idiot
In retrospect, if I had knowledge of Doogie’s condition back when I first saw him, he would have already been under my care and I wouldn’t be driving around the Bay Area like an idiot.
I had been following his movements for about two months around the East Bay before I lost him. To my regret, I never bothered to stop and talk to him when I took these photos; never bothered to offer him help, or a ride, even in the rain. That’s not like me at all, but my case load was stacked, and I only saw him while on the road. And that’s what pains me; I didn’t just see him while on the freeway, but on streets and boulevards where I could have actually stopped. My normal route from my home in Concord to the clinic near the Oakland Coliseum took more than an hour one way in morning traffic, on a good day. So, needless to say, there was a lot of time sitting in the gridlock as thousands of commuters made their way towards the Bay Bridge to get to San Francisco.
Somewhere within that stretch is where I’d see him. Sometimes just off the freeway, but mostly along the streets;
Picking through dumpsters, meandering about alley ways or open lots, rummaging for food in restaurant trash bins, or just sitting on the steps of abandoned buildings. I’d slow down enough to see his facial expressions; always the same, clueless, indifferent and ignorant of the world and its trappings. I never saw panic or urgency on his face, though. I guess it’s true what people have written; that a homeless life is free of appointments, deadlines, tardiness, missed meetings, excuses, politics, and accountability. Instead, it’s a timeless existence. Hours of everyday are spent wandering, searching, gathering, hording, and hopefully finding a comfortable, safe place to sleep in order to do it again the next day.
But that’s a dangerous, volatile gamble in these neighborhoods. Oakland has the deadly distinction of making America’s Most Dangerous Cities list every year without fail. It also triples down by making America’s Most Murderous Cities list, and is the perennial number one on the FBI’s Most Dangerous Cities in California list. Other statistics are equally ghastly such as the fact that the city is ranked first in the nation for violent robberies. With a population of 396,000, Oakland has long been plagued with higher crime rates than other major Bay Area city. In addition, its residents are, on average, poorer than those in San Francisco and San Jose. In Oakland, 20% of people were below the federal poverty line from 2007 to 2011, according to U.S. Census data. This fuels the gang wars, massive unemployment, unending drug use, and prisoner recidivism that plagues the town. Over the years, deep cuts in the city’s police force have left the streets unprotected, so the wounds of rampant violence continues to hemorrhage year by year.
I can’t help but think that if something has happened to this guy, something tragic, I may not be able to forgive myself for my blind stupidity.
“Stop kicking yourself in the balls, Javier!” I spat as I continued my cruising and surveillance run. “This is your day off, so just keep looking for him until you run out of gas!” Between jerking my head between streets and squinting my eyes to check alley ways, I keep trying to convince myself that I can find him. But reality is what it is. After spotting him consistently for two months, I had lost him for two weeks. “Goddamn it! Why didn’t I do anything then?” My fist hammers the steering wheel in self-disgust.
I’d been on the road for nearly five hours now, checking places where I had consistently spotted him; parked the car and searched on foot within the radius of those areas. But Oakland isn’t a small town; it’s the seventh largest city in California, covering 54 square miles. Expand those miles exponentially because of the fact that I’m searching from within a car; shit! Doogie could have been anywhere! I got in the car, and decided to search “outside the box”. I began checking other areas of town that I had maybe overlooked or didn’t consider. Who knows? Maybe I’d get lucky.
Doogie wasn’t someone one could easily lose sight of; he stood out. He walked everywhere, and not very fast. He sort of lumbered about, sloth-like, stopping often to look around. Two months ago, when I began to casually watch him out of curiosity, I followed him as he skirted around public parks, behind the strip malls, along loading docks and construction sites, parking garages and behind shops and restaurants-anywhere where there were garbage bins or junk piles. He made his rounds carrying large GLAD garbage bags over his hunched shoulders, or pushing a rickety COSTCO shopping cart full of stuff he’d picked up. This was a stereotypical image: a homeless person pushing a shopping cart. But in Doogie’s case, it just looked different, and according to those I’ve talked to on the street concerning him, it sounded different.
After visiting the Tuckmans, it occurred to me how much Doogie stood out from the rest of his family. Blaine stood around five-eight, the same as myself; built thin and angular; Faye was a statuesque five-nine, and Brittany towered over all of us at nearly six feet. The contrast was stunning and saddening. The description I received from the orderly who gave me his file, the photo within the file taken five years ago, and the photos I took of him two months ago, in no way reflected the Tuckman bloodline; especially reviewing my photos, and my photos were the reality.