While a majority of our clients’ delusions were pretty benign, we did end up with some that were a little more troublesome. We had someone who thought he was Jesus Christ and wanted to start tickle fights with police, another that wanted to stab people “just a little bit, just a little bit of stabbing,” and another who literally tried to bomb our building with a burrito. To be fair his burrito did have a wrapper that read “The Bomb” on it.
It was not long after our attempted burrito bomber that we had another bomb scare. I was sitting in my office, innocently trying to slog through the mass of e-mails before me, when there was a panicked knock on my door. I opened the door to see one of our patrons who looked like she had just seen a wallaby on a unicycle.
I smiled, “Is there something I can help you with?”
“There’s a bomb!!!”
Of course every head in the near vicinity turned in our direction, the full magnetism of drama setting in on the crowd. I quickly encouraged her to talk more quietly as I said, “All right, ma’am, where is this bomb?”
She pointed towards the door, “Out there, by the trash can!”
As calmly as I could muster I followed her outside and across the street, where she pointed to a small metal tube on the ground, “See! It’s a Taiwanese bomb!”
I blinked at the small object for a second before realizing what it was. Her “Taiwanese bomb” was in fact a laser pointer with a sticker that read “Made in Taiwan.”
I blew out a sigh, “Umm… Are you sure this is a bomb?”
“Yes! Of course it is, can’t you see that!?”
One of the first things you learn in social work is that when someone is delusional, as long as their delusion does not involve directly harming themselves or others, you just go with it. If it a client tells you they are riding to work tomorrow on a unicorn named Larry, you say, “That’s nice, and what color is Larry?”
In this case I knew there was nothing I could say that would change this from the “bomb” she was seeing to the laser pointer I was seeing. I had to think fast; any second now she was going to run back inside and announce, again, that there was a bomb outside. Whether people would believe her or not was irrelevant, it only takes a few to start a panic.
If you’ve ever done improv you know that the first rule is, “Always say yes.”
In this case, not only did I have to pretend that this was a bomb, but I had to find some way to diffuse it. Taking on a superhero-esque voice I told her that I knew exactly what to do, as I instructed her to stand guard for a moment, lest someone wander up and step on the “bomb” on accident.
I rushed back to the shelter’s kitchen and grabbed a, “World’s Best Mom” mug that someone had donated, apparently believing they didn’t deserve the title. The kitchen staff then stared as I filled the cup with water and snagged some olive oil and added it before throwing some pepper in on top.
“You aren’t going to drink that are you?” one of them asked a bit dubiously.
“No! I have to go diffuse a bomb!”
The kitchen staff, already used to my shenanigans at that point just shrugged their collective shoulders and went back to work, as the one who had spoken replied with, “Oh, well, have fun with that!”
I ran back outside, wearing blue rubber gloves from the kitchen and carrying my mug full of a noxious concoction. The woman bravely stood there, daring anyone to come near the bomb so that she could officially warn them away. I told her to stand a good distance away, then with all the flair of a 1990’s action film, I snatched up the laser pointer and tossed it into the mug.
Nothing happened. Which is exactly what I was expecting. She, on the other hand, was shocked.
“It didn’t go off!”
“Nope, it’s a good thing I had some of this bomb diffuser stashed in the building, huh?”
Satisfied with that explanation she said, “Good thinking! You should always keep bomb diffuser on hand for these types of situations.”
She then marched back into our building, leaving me to wander back to the kitchen with the mug, my magical “bomb diffuser” solution and one very unusable laser pointer. At least the kitchen staff didn’t ask too many questions.
So what lessons can be extracted from the remains of my experience?
1. Sometimes all you need to succeed is a little luck, a little creativity and the willingness to sink to someone else’s level of crazy just for a moment.
2. If you act confidently enough, it’s amazing what people will believe you can do. Do I know how to diffuse a bomb? Not even a little bit. Do I now hold status as the world’s preeminent Taiwanese bomb diffuser? You betcha.
3. Always keep magical bomb diffusing solution on hand, you never know when you’re going to need it.
5. Lurking Danger
From Life is a Circus Run by a Platypus
I have mostly had a good relationship with animals throughout my life. True, I have been chased by a turkey, bitten by a horse and sneezed on by a llama, but by and large the animal kingdom and I have had peaceful relations and very few border wars.
I’m normally fine snuggling up with an animal, assuming it has fur, has been bathed semi-regularly, doesn’t inflict injury for fun and/or doesn’t attempt to release any form of bodily fluid on my face. For the most part one could pretty much place me in that forest scene in Snow White, aside from horrid dress and a vibrato wide enough to drive a truck through, and I would be ok.
This all changed with Lord Byron. Lord Byron was the cat of a professor who let me, quite frequently, stay in her house while I was working in town over the summer. I also often pet-sat while she was gone.
Lord Byron weighed about as much as a pregnant killer whale and was not so much a cat, as a bowling ball with fur, legs and eyes. This kitty often had problems with not rubbing his belly on the ground when he walked, and often would give up on movement altogether and just flop down to merely roll across the floor.
Lord Byron also had a couple slight mental defects. One was that he had the worst separation anxiety in the world. He needed to be the center of the universe at all times, and considering his substantial size, that wasn’t hard.
He also had the teensy weensy, hardly noticeable, habit of peeing on beds. He would not urinate indoors anywhere else, just on beds. Due to this fact he had a shock collar installed to keep him out of the professor’s bedroom, and all other bedroom doors were also closed to him.
This only multiplied his desire to be around someone when they were locked away out of reach. Byron would sit outside a closed bedroom door for hours repeating the same routine of yowling in a tone comparable to someone beating a bagpipe next to a microphone that was having constant feedback issues, then scratching at the door, and then there would be silence.
The silence was misleading, a calm moment before the terror that Byron’s next actions would always bring. One would feel relieved that Byron had lost interest, but then one would hear a rhythmic thudding noise.
The noise would grow, like a train laden with the entire cast of Desperate Housewives, spreading terror on the inhabitants of the room behind the closed door. Then, suddenly, “BOOM!” The walls would shake as the door sounded like it was about to come off its hinges. Lord Byron, in all of his kitty might, would get a running start and full on crash into the door like a cannon ball.
Byron always felt the need to do this at approximately three in the morning. As a result, I had multiple times in which I woke up believing I was in the middle of the Civil War.
Failing to rouse an immediate response from me, Byron would eventually wind down after an hour or so of repeatedly throwing his sizeable bulk against the door. This, however, was only a short reprieve, for somewhere, out in the rest of the house Byron was perched, waiting, and watching for a person to emerge.
In the morning I would blindly stumble from my room to get on with my morning. This newly awakened state made me easy prey for a needy kitty. At any time, from anywhere, Byro
n could spring. I would suddenly find my ankle bludgeoned from underneath a chair, or the back of my knee smacked from coffee table, he once even attempted to pounce on my face from atop the fridge.
For the most part, however, I was able to avoid most of Lord Byron’s more serious attacks. I deftly dove and ducked to avoid the penalties in our furry game of dodgeball. Byron, however, was keeping score, and he got his revenge for my avoiding him tenfold.
One day, I was performing my normal morning routine of ridding myself of the previous day’s adventures under a pipe driven waterfall. I was just about to start washing my hair when suddenly the shower curtain moved. This little movement was my only and last warning. Suddenly the shower curtain was flung back from the wall and something big and black was sitting in the shower with me.
I’m not entirely sure how Byron’s tiny little mind thought this was going to turn out. I’m relatively sure his thought process was something along the lines of, “I will defeat the evil barrier keeping me from the human, then the human will pet me, and I will win.”
It was only after Byron jumped into the shower with me did he realize, “Wait, this is wet, I don’t like being wet.”
There was a moment of shock between both parties, then, a maelstrom of activity only paralleled by a group of kinder-garteners being given several shots of espresso and water guns. There was flailing as Byron’s solution to being wet was to reach higher ground, in this case me.
The resulting tussle ended, after about 30 seconds of useless random movements from both parties, as Byron was ejected from the shower like a shot put. Both kitty and human remained traumatized for days afterwards.
The morals that we should gain from these stories:
1. Some animals need medication for their personality disorders.
2. Stay physically fit. You never know when you have to have the ability to hoist and throw thirty-five pounds of fur, claws and cat food.
3. Always, always, always, always check the bathroom door to make sure it is closed when you go to take a shower. Sure, one time it might be just your run of the mill psychopath who decides to invade your private time, but the next time it could be cat with dandruff that is roughly the size of William Shatner’s ego.
6. It’s Hard to Samba in a Kilt
From Life is a Pirate Ship Run by a Velociraptor
I cannot dance.
I am not just saying this to downplay an actual ability like when people say, “Oh, I can’t sing,” and then they belt out an aria from Carmen. Jerks.
No, I really cannot dance.
I have what I like to refer to as Caucasian Rhythm Disorder. I am of Scottish descent and we are a people known, at our stereotyped best, for throwing heavy objects, playing bagpipes, producing whiskey and eating haggis, none of which are really activities that bring about a culture of smooth and sensual rhythmic movements.
Even our traditional dance is called “The Highland Fling” and mostly revolves around hopping about like a one-legged bunny on caffeine. I do not intend to disparage any of my dancing kin, it’s a very difficult dance to do, but I wouldn’t call it smooth by any stretch of the imagination.
One fateful night, my friend Sarah invited me to go to an aerobic toning class, and always looking for something new to try, I went.
Being a few days past laundry day, I threw on the only clean piece of workout clothing I had left; my Sport Kilt. Yes, they exist. If you doubt me, Google is probably not that far away.
We got through the aerobics class, with me happily sweating along, kilt befuddling the rest of the class.
The class ended and as we were all leaving, a Zumba class began to arrive.
For those of you who have never been exposed to the wonders of Zumba, it is basically Jazzercise on crack.
Zumba participants are devoted, much like the members of a cult, to their classes. They show up several times a week, often wearing Zumba uniforms, and they often chant along with the music.
My friend Sarah turned to me and said, “Hey, we should stay and do Zumba!”
I blinked at her a couple times with the same expression an ant has for an incoming dump truck tire.
I tried to explain to her that I am not a dancer, that the second I am given a beat and rhythm to follow I become a danger to myself and others, but she did not heed my warning and so out onto the gym floor we trundled.
The music started and the first thing the instructor shouted was, “Go to the left!”
I promptly went right, nearly crashing into a wall.
Correcting my trajectory, because that is all it really can be labeled at this point, did not help much. I had no idea what the Zumba-trons were doing with their feet, much less what they were doing with their hands or hips. I do not samba, salsa, hip-hop or use my hips to tell truths. That’s right Shakira, my hips tell terrible, terrible lies. They all moved in a wonderful synchronized form while I did something similar to The Time Warp meets “Hulk Smash!” in a kilt.
I will admit I had fun, even when an older lady tried to help me learn some very basic steps. She eventually gave up.
I can promise you I was a dancing tragedy, a fact that was confirmed by the pitying/attempting to be encouraging looks I got from a very adorable gay couple across from me. In fact, one of them later came up to me and said, “Honey, this really just isn’t your thing, is it?”
No, no it is not.
What I found fascinating is how into it everyone in the class seemed to be. It didn’t matter how big or small the person was, orientation, religion, The Bachelor devotee or not, this was the most accepting cult I had ever witnessed. I will probably not be returning anytime in the near future, due to the fact that I almost gave some poor woman a black eye due to directional mishap.
So what lessons did I learn from my boogie-bedazzled enterprise?
1. You can have a lot of fun making an absolute fool of yourself. This is a fact I already knew, but it’s nice to have a refresher course every once in a while.
2. If at first you don’t succeed, then do the Running Man for three minutes until the song changes and you have some smidgen of hope that you will have some sort of a clue what to do for the next song.
3. Always wear a kilt in new situations; just wearing one increases one’s courage, I promise.
About the Author
Allison Hawn was born in Idaho and has spent her life obtaining adventures. The daughter of a musician, she was brought up all over the United States with occasional dalliances into foreign lands.
She holds a degree in psychology from Northwest Nazarene University in Nampa, Idaho, where she also had a weekly humor column with a small time newspaper The Crusader.
Allison is the author of Life is a Circus Run by a Platypus and Life is a Pirate Ship Run by a Velociraptor, both of which were picked up for publication by Sweatshoppe Publications. She currently resides in Spokane, Washington, where she works with the homeless, domestic violence victims, and other disenfranchised populations, but calls a myriad of locations home.
Find out more about Allison Hawn on:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/platypusringmaster
Twitter: https://twitter.com/AllisonHawn (@AllisonHawn)
Blog: https://circusplatypus.blogspot.com/
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends