My First Client
It's likely that you've seen him around- the Phantom. That's what people call him, humorously enough. He also goes by Jeff, or sometimes Well. And the kids called him Toasterback for a while. As the story goes, the Phantom envied all the college kids and their backpacks, so in a creative fury, he fashioned some rope together with a toaster and made a "toaster-back-pack". He wore the backpack around town and put books into where the toast goes. He slums the streets, wild eyed, talking to himself and looking for conversation in between. He attends punk shows when he can and he always gets in for free. The Phantom hands out pamphlets to strangers about the cruelty of factory farms and KFC. No one seems to know where he lives, if he even has a home. I've seen him at parties walking around googely eyed, speaking in tongues. He outlasts me every time. He has long, brittle hair and wears his trusty yellow trench coat. His frail and thin unshaved face alters between a hypnotic mantra and bafflement. He picks at his hands and arms, and continuously speaks to himself- both general signs of schizophrenia. It's hard to gage the Phantoms'level of coherence, if any, but it is safe to say that the Phantom is just exactly that. He appears and disappears when you aren't aware. He is most likely a shell of a person he used to be. On the fringes, forgotten by society, and left by his own device on the cold streets of Fargo.
I didn't always want to be a social worker. When I was younger I had aspirations of being a doctor. I had grown to love hospitals at an early age after spending many weeks visiting my grandma as she succumbed to a brutal battle with cancer. I felt safe and at peace inside waiting rooms and walking down long hollow corridors. While in high school, it was then when I realized I had neither the ambition nor the intellect to guide me through 12 years of med-school. F's usually appeared behind "Biology" on my bi-annual report cards. So my attention diverted to computer drafting, where I put my perfectionist traits to good use and learned the ins and outs of architecture with ease. But interests swell and shrink over the years and I decided to put my acquired knowledge of the social system to good use. Being around fucked up people or people who needed help sounded better than construction work or sitting in a cubicle all day.
June Panic was playing a free show at Atomic Coffee, so Julian, Kenny and I checked it out. I've seen Fargo's highly renowned native son (not that blues-raping wanker- Johnny Lang) play on a few other occasions, and have grown quite fond of his unique folk delivery and nasally toned voice. He pulled along the curb to unload his gear, and lo and behold, in the passenger seat was the Phantom. June went back and forth from his van to the shop, hauling in equipment. The Phantom wandered in and out without any clear objective or direction. He appeared suspect at best.
You should see how people's eyes light up when you tell them you're going to be a social worker for a living. They will cheerfully pat you on the back for taking on a low-wage job doing "God's work". I tell most people that I wanted to be a social worker to carry the flag for have-nots and people with deficiencies. That's only half true. Sure, most people get that warm, self-gratifying glow from helping others out. It feels good to make an impact on something. As for me, I don't tell these people that my compassion for the needy isn't any more extraordinaire than anyone else. I'm no Mother Theresa. Far from it, actually. My motives for being a social worker are probably more along the lines of trying to understand humanity and how I fit into this whole charade. And perhaps save that troubled teen I used to be.
I had to run to the car for something, and upon returning, I found Kenny wide-eyed and fiddling with his scarf.
"There is some guy over there. He wants to talk to you. I don't know, man..." Kenny trailed off. He pointed me into the direction of the Phantom. The Phantom stood in between pools of interacting hipsters, swaying his head back in forth, for no particular reason.
"Hi." I said, trying to center the Phantom to my attention. "Umm...did you want to talk to me?"
The Phantom stooped over to a table and picked up a book called the Burn Collector by Al Burian. "Is thisss your book?" He asked.
"Yes, that's my..."
"Do you c-collect thi-ings? Are you a-a-a collector?" he pries with unthreatening, childlike intensity.
"Uh, sure...I guess everybody collects things. I used to collect baseball cards." I offer.
"Can y-you help me? I was-s-s li-ke you wh-when I was your'age. I ss-stopped-uh caring. I need your help. It's hard for me out there." He pointed to the window. "I have aaa har-d time talk-ing to people. Make 'dem understand. I em lost. You can help meh. You are liiike me" As he pointed to his chest.
His body jerked and his arms shook, as he struggled to form the words that would describe why his eyes welled up and his mouth formed a kind of desperate, soliciting half-smile. It was all that he had to offer me...the saddest face I have ever seen.
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