As easy as my job is, there are perils that go along with the perks.
To remind you what my job is, I take care of a thirty-four year-old retrograde amnesiac. The bulk of my job is simply conversation, and when you converse with somebody who has no short-term memory, it can get repetitive. While I can get away with making empty statements, exaggerated platitudes, and idle talk, sometimes, I might trip a landmine.
It's just one little innocuous comment, and it sets off an explosion.
As I drive my charge to lunch, he jumps from one object to the next, making comments about houses, cars, and other random things passing by like a dog surrounded by squirrels. I couldn't get a word in edgewise since he was moving too fast.
So I said:
"Spazzin' out."
"What?" he asks me.
"You're kind of spazzin' out."
"Well you're fucking retarded." I turn to him and his face is a portrait of fury. His forehead is scrunched, lips half open in a snarl. "You don't come at me like that, you say I'm spazzin' out? Well I say you're fucking retarded, what do you think of that?" he threatens loudly.
"Are you angry?"
"Yeah I am. I get angry real fast. What are you going to do about it? "
That's when I turn into a gas station to fill up. I don't say anything when I finish pumping and drive across the street to hit up a subway. I get out but he doesn't follow me, instead, he wanders off to a 7-Eleven.
I keep an eye on him and when he notices me, he shakes his head in his trademark display of irritation. Every time I see him do that, it's a precursor to a blowup.
It's clear I'm not gonna get lunch today. Since he knows I'm following him, he stops and waits for me to approach.
"You wanna go home? I'll drive you," I offer neutrally.
"Let's go."
We drive to his house in silence.
I walk in and get myself a banana. I eat it while he listens to a voice message on the phone. He tries to call back but is unable to, which frustrates him. He walks to his room, muttering under his breath like a petulant ten-year old.
I take the opportunity to stuff his fridge with water bottles and take one for myself. I also grab a Santa Fe turkey burger from the refrigerator. I bought it two days ago for him to eat, but he never did. I leave it on the counter since I plan on heating it up in the microwave.
I do a one-minute plank and I hear him coming. I stand up.
"Is this your water?" He points to my bottle.
"Yeah." He takes it and places it closer to me on the counter. "Is this your burger?"
"Yeah."
"Are you going to eat it?"
"I'm going to eat it later."
"WHY AREN'T YOU EATING IT NOW?"
"I'm going to heat it up later and eat it."
"DON'T LEAVE YOUR BURGER ON MY COUNTER ASSHOLE. THAT'S ALL YOU EVER DO. YOU DON'T DO NOTHING. GET THE FUCK OUT MY HOUSE."
At this point, I grab my things and leave.
It's not a particularly pleasant experience to have a 6 foot 2 tall man who weighs two hundred pounds screaming expletives at your face.
In my experience, there are two things that can calm him down: video games and TV.
I think those two act as a sort of gear shift for his memory. After he switches gear, he will forget that he ever screamed body murder at me.
This kind of nonsense doesn't happen that often, but when it does, I run for cover. When I duck my head and hear shells explode over me, I think to myself:
Spazzin' out.
