The Lamb and the Shepherdess

"No. I'm just interested in..."

My attention is devoted to folding up the note again and sliding it back into my purse.

"Sex." Says Savage.

I don't look at her. My head is full of thought, empty thought, like a big gray cloud of potential contemplation that is so huge I can't think through it to separate the notions, questions or objections. I want to clean something. I want to pet my noonchie.

"Are you currently partnered with someone?"

I glower at her and wag my head for no.

"I imagine it's hard for you to meet someone new with Sean needing you for all of his needs all of the time. Charlotte, may I ask, how long had you not been with a partner or had even masturbated while you managed Sean's care and cultivated your relationship with him for those years you slept on the floor beside his bed?"

"Not since, Scott, Sean's father and, I just didn't."

"And, what changed? What caused you to finally let yourself sleep in your own bed again, find private, personal time again?"

"My alters. They came to help me not only organize, but rationalize, certain things anyway."

"I see. So they help you understand that Sean, as well as the entire planet, is still safe while you have time to yourself."

I shrug and nod.

"Well, that's positive, I suppose, but we still don't have an answer to my original question. Which among your behaviors is the most severe?"

Savage didn't speak for a time. I glanced at her, met her gaze, my head still thoughtless with the weight of the big bang still radiating out from the center of the universe in my head. Presently, I return my gaze to some middle distance to my left.

"I would venture to say" Savage says, "that your chaining activities do not necessarily make a great demand on you. Next, it is my impression that you do not get hung up on your extreme vasocongestion when it is only you are experiencing it. This brings me to your haphophobia and your dissociative identity."

My attention is on Savage again and she is watching me, waiting for me to respond, but I have nothing to say. She nods, and then continues.

"Can I ask, do you wear those plastic gloves when you masturbate?"

I look down at my hands. They are covered in a pair of Galls durathin police search gloves. Duh. I'm like WTF! Really?

"No. I- No." is my answer because it's the truth and that's all I want to say about it.

"And, do you wear them when you are caring for Sean?"

"No." which is also the truth, and I think that I should qualify it by mentioning that I wash my hands multiple times a day when I'm home with Sean, but I don't.

"Hmm. Is there anyone you are friendly with at work or around your neighborhood?"

Ha, I think. Finally, a stupid question from Dr. Smarty Pants.

"Uh, no." I tell her.

"Well then, your homework for next time is to make a friend."

The silence is so profound, I can hear my heart beating inside my throat.

"But, what if I can't?" I ask.

"Then you'll have to keep trying." Savage answers, "How about we meet again, next Thursday at three."

3

Yes, okay, so I rubbed off a good one once I got to my car in the parking garage. I had like five minutes I could use, and the world just needed it to happen! That done, I reflected on the session. Easy for Savage to say, make a friend. Really? What the hell kind of goal is that?

I can't make that happen! I mean, I know it would be a huge step toward getting better, but it's like telling me to go out there, wearing nothing but a piss soppy pair of Depends and a pair of shit muddy work boots and asking people if they'd like to change my diaper. I mean, I'm not into that, well, unless I'm making my own intergalactic fetish porn film. Seriously though. Imagine it. Hi there! My name is Charlotte and some things I like to do are taste pet food for a decent wage and benefits, binge watch episodes of My Strange Addiction or alien fetish porn, suck my toes while I lay in a baby pool and fuck myself with a big purple dildo I've suctioned cupped to the wall until I'm lying in an inch and a half of my vaginal sweat. I mean, I know there's more to me, but because I wear my Galls durathin police search gloves while I'm in public, it makes it sort of hard for people to realize the potential that I am more than just a whack job.

I get home in time to meet Sean's little white buss, which arrives anywhere from 4:10 to 4:20 every weekday. I smile big for him as the bus monitor wheels him down the ramp, and then I give him a big kiss. Sean is super super cute, almond shaped eyes with bright blue irides, a handsome little nose, a healthy pink complexion and this very fly little fade buzz cut black hair. He is the handsomest and bests little boy on Earth and I love him to pieces. I know he'll never get a hundred percent better, but I want him to live a good long life with me. I don't think I'm asking for a lot. I just, worry, that's all. I worry.

I roll Sean up to our apartment building's door, and then crossed into the common area. Just inside and on the right is C1, the apartment occupied by this family of Puerto Ricans. The music is very loud on weekends, but their cooking always smells phenomenal.

Down the hall, passed the stairs that lead to my apartment and to the left, C2, is the little blond Albanian woman. I say hi to her and to all the Puerto Rican folks that trouble themselves to be polite. I mean, you make eye contact, so you say hi. It's just, when I wave, because I wave when I say hi because I'm either coming or going, invariably they see my gloved hand and I guess that freaks them out. So no one hasn't looked at me any longer than they have to just to politely say hello because it's highly probable that they will eventually want to ask about the gloves and learn that they won't understand my explanation and will ultimately regret having pursued a conversation with me in the first place.

I pick Sean up out of his chair and collapse it. I swing his Transformer backpack over my shoulder, set my boy on my left hip, and then hike the steps to our place. At the top of the stairs, we arrive at C3. When I first came to see the apartment, I thought that the number was a good omen because it means three carbon atoms, as in photosynthesis.

Most plants and crop plants on the planet are C3 plants, which means that in averagely cooler climates, they are more photosyntheticly efficient and productive. However, plants in climates where sunlight and temperature are extremely high, plant's photorespiration cause them to evolve into C4 plants, which have an even higher growth efficiency and yield. C4, of course, is across the hall and, though the number is also the designation for a more impressive level of photosynthesis, C fits better with 3 any day of the week. Plus, someone was living there at the time I came to check the place out. Anyway, still reading.

In C4 there used to be a Russian couple, a man and a woman around their early thirties. They were two very large people. I don't mean fat. I mean very tall, big boned, dark blonde haird and ruddy complexioned. . They were the ones who used to call the cops on the Puerto Ricans, always around a half past ten on a Saturday night. I don't know why they never call the cops on them for their Friday night dance parties. Maybe it was a passive aggressive thing on the part of the Russians, I don't know. But, anyway, the C4 couple just up and left sometime like a month ago.

Now in the apartment across from us, having moved in like a thief in the night, is Guitar Hero. At least, that's my name for him because that's all I ever hear coming out of there. He's loud, but not Puerto Rican loud, and he's good, very good actually, like professional good. I'm no musician myself, but I used to listen to a whole lot of stuff and follow a lot of bands before Sean came into my life, so I can tell you that the stuff Hero plays is mostly original, very evocative of 1990s alternative progressive ethereal heavy metal relaxation type stuff.

I think about how, if I had the sheer audacity to knock on his door, I'd like to tell him how fantastic I think his playing is. A compliment, that could earn me a friend, couldn't it? I mean, once he got past the gloves, maybe. Glancing at C4, I unlock my door. I hear Sean cooing, but I don't hear anything coming from the apartment. I take a few steps closer, turn an ear toward C4, but I still don't hear anything. I think about knocking later on, and then I cross back to my side of the hall.

Once inside our apartment, there is this durable plastic matt I stand on to kick my shoes off, and then I monkey toe grip them so that I can drop them in the dirty shoe bucket by the door. Then I lock the deadbolt, set Sean in his chair at the kitchen table, strap him in, give him his Bop It, and then I continue going about my "back home again" rituals and protocol's.

1. Soiled gloves off and tossed

2. New gloves on

3. washing machine door of stacked washer and dryer open

4. keys set in keys cleaning bowl

5. head to bedroom, wave to all my beautiful plants and my tank of mantis nymph along the way

6. remove external clothing and socks in bathroom and deposit in laundry basket

7. look at my reflection so that I feel that it's definitely me and not one of my alters: Molly, Roberta, Dirty Little Slut, Calamity Jane or The Mystery Man

8. enter bedroom, take pile of home clothes I'd arranged for myself that morning and put them on

9. take soiled clothes from bathroom and dump into washing machine in corner of kitchen

10. change out gloves again

11. remove Sean's clothing and toss them into the washer

12. carry Sean to the changing table in his bedroom,

13. remove and discard gloves pair number three

14. wash my hands thoroughly for the three minutes and twelve seconds it takes me to sing the duck song

15. go back and change and dress Sean

16. head back to the kitchen and bleach spray his highchair and wipe it down

17. do the same to my keys and let them air dry on a paper towel

18. put Sean back in his chair

19. make myself a can of chickpeas with some ranch dressing and hook Sean up with some Ensure.

20. Enjoy dinner with my son and tell him what I feel is appropriate to tell him about my day

21. Clean up after dinner

22. Bring the mantis nymph's their dinner of maggots

23. Return the Chinese food take-out container of remaining maggots to their corner of the fridge

24. Wash my hands again for three minutes and twelve seconds, waddle waddle

25. Take Sean to the living room couch so that we can watch some cartoons for a couple hours

So Sean and I are chilling on the couch when we hear someone trudging up the stairs. Sean really wasn't paying any mind, but I could hear the jingling of keys, the unlocking of C4, and then the slamming of the door. Startled by the bang, Sean made a fitful little jump in my lap. I took his face and looked into his eyes. I thought to myself, please no seizure please no seizure please no seizure, but his eyes met mine and he smiled. I kissed him and I was all better.

Still, that was uncool and I want to tell Guitar Hero that he needs to be way more careful, but only after I introduce myself and let him meet Sean, the little boy with multiple disabilities for whom he might have caused a seizure. See? That ought to be a good start for a friendship, laying on some guilt. Yes? No. Bad Charlotte. I feel bad . I feel stupid. So I think for a while, and then I come up with a plan. Not the most ideal, but a plan none the less, so I prepare to execute it.

A couple minutes later I can hear music coming from across the hall as I'm locking the door behind me . Sean is in his stroller waving his hands and drooling a little. I wipe his mouth with this bandana I tied loosely around his neck, and then I see them on Guitar Hero's door mat, a pair of flip flops, a very dusty pair of flip flops. I'm suddenly very anxious. The idea of a man walking around inside his apartment with all kinds of outside ick all over his bare feet was a little distressing. I closed my eyes, took a few deep breaths and hoped he also happened to be the kind of flip flop waring guy who, like all self-respecting flip flop waring people, washed his feet, and then washed his hands before he touched anything else in his apartment.

It is common knowledge that people, generally speaking, you know, do people things like animals do animal things: touch all sorts of things out there in the world, touch themselves, urinate, void, pick their noses without tissues, you know what I mean. Now, I don't actually know what animals other than higher primates or us pick our noses without tissues, but those of us with the largest frontal cortex know we should wash our hands multiple times a day.

According to the American Society for Microbiology, forty-nine percent of Americans are not washing their hands regularly with warm water and soap. That's slightly less than half of the population spreading God knows what cooties from that toilet or that urinal to that countertop or personal cell phone, and then to who knows how many other people's body parts, ultimately to find their way to Guitar Guy's feet and potentially to me. Ah, but alas, I am gloved. This is good. So all I have to do is not allow him to step foot near Sean. This ought to be a very friendly situation.

I do ten sets of my knuckle tap and count thing, I take a last deep breath, and then I give the door four knocks. We wait. Then we wait some, more and It appears that Guitar Hero is oblivious to my entreaty for his attention because perhaps he is playing a bit too loudly. Suddenly, the playing stops and I quickly knock again, a little harder than before. I bring an ear closer to the door and I can hear the static snap of a pulled cord. I step back and in a second or two the door opens to reveal that Guitar Hero wasn't home, but apparrantly Guitar Heroine was. This threw me for a loop because I assumed that the only guitar heroes worth their salt were male. Well, shame on me.

The woman, who looked around my age, smiled broadly at me, said hi, looked down at Sean, and then smiled even bigger for him. I didn't say anything because I was trying to think of even a single bad ass female guitar hero, and I couldn't. I mean, Joan Jett? No. Lita Ford? Well, maybe- Oh, but then I noticed Guitar Heroine's pronounced nipples, which sort of extended my sudden case of speechlessness. I didn't expect to see them, you know, poking out of her t-shirt like that.

I mean, Guitar Gal was a very attractive person, for a gal, on the tallish side, her brown hair all piled up on the top of her head, appearing to be wearing nothing but her flip flops and a big t-shirt with Kurt Kobaine on the front of it flipping me his bird, a black guitar hanging in front of her and her fairly substantial breasts, tipped with these .22 calibre nipples pronounced on either side of Kurt's head. Oh my goodness. Finally, after I think of Nita Strauss, I remember her toru with Alice Cooper, I sputtered to life.

"Uh, hi. I'm Charlotte, Charlotte Louise Hazelgrove, your neighbor across the hall and this is my son Sean, Sean Hazelgrove. Say hi Sean."

Of course, Sean doesn't say hi. He just stares at the object on his lap. Guitar Gal briefly studies him and raises a quizzical eyebrow.

"Nice to meet you." She says to Sean.

Then she turns her gaze to me. She extends a hand, but my gloved hands are behind my back. So there's her hand just hanging in the wind and I scold myself for being so freaking OCD and all I can think to do is quickly reach for the handles of Sean's stroller and pull him back. Which is what I do. And, of course, Guitar Gal is weirded out and raises an eyebrow to tell me. But then, she shrugs dismissively, and I feel just a little better about being so OCD.

"It's nice to meet you too. " says Guitar Gal, "I'm sorry. Have I been playing my music too loudly? I can start wearing headphones if it's like too late. How late is too late, eight, nine?"

"Oh! No no no!" I say with enthusiasm, "We love it. We think you're great. In fact, we brought you an apartment warming gift."

"Oh, well, thank you." Guitar Gal says as she steps back and pulled the door in with her, "Come on in."

Apprehensively, I inch Sean forward as our new neighbor retreated to a guitar stand, where she carefully removed the instrument from herself and placed it against the stand, leaning forward to set the guitar down, her back to Sean and me, the hem of her t-shirt gradually rising until her naked ass is revealed. Again, I am caught off guard and cannot move. I averted my gaze though, just long enough to get a glimpse of my Dirty Little Slut alter reflected in the gleaming black mirror of Guitar Gal's guitar. Then I heard DLS whisper in her playful sexy voice:

"Charlotte honey, she has a really nice ass! I have an idea! Can we be gay? I mean, as long as she's gay, can we be gay? Ask her if she's gay or fluid at least. Oh, that's right! We don't have to be gay! We can be fluid! It'll be like being gay, except without the pressure of having to be gay the next morning, right?"

I told DLS to stop. She did. I turn to watch Guitar Gal stroll into the kitchen and washed her hands at the sink, with soap, dry them off, and then come back to us. Guitar Gal then puts her hand out again to me and I want to ask if the water was just shy of burning, but I remember my gloves. Somewhere in the back of my head, Dirty Little Slut is telling me that this new person obviously likes me enough to read my deal and that I should just get over the stupid OCD bitch I am and just shake her fucking hand. And, she's right, so I do.

"I'm Toby Lynn."" Says Toby Lynn, "Well, if we're being formal, Tobia Lynn Peckenham. But, Toby's fine."

Then, smiling, Toby Lynn stepped back, and then bent forward to greet Sean more personally. So I'm like "OH MY OD" inside my head. Then I tell myself that Tobia Lynn Peckingham washed her hands and I remembered Savage saying that my OCD behaviors are the least of my issues. So I try to relax because I realize that that Sean's teachers only wear gloves when they change him, but by the time all of this goes through my mind, the following transpires.

"Hi little buddy!" Toby says.

Sean turns to regard her. With his eyes narrowed suspiciously, he takes in her mouth. But, his little way of understanding leads his gaze jerkily upward, past the face's cheeks and its nose, until his expression softens and he seemed very pleased to see Toby's very green eyes.

"I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance Sean."

Toby takes Sean by his three fingered right hand and shakes it. The act caused me to feel a very odd mixture of anxiety and admiration. As much as I need to protect Sean from people's ick, I respect people who are genuinely kind and sensitive to Sean. But, even though the woman gave the impression that she somewhat cared about proper hygiene, it was extremely unsettling to not know for sure if the individual hadn't touched her soiled panties or scratched her naked ass and washed her hands before she washed her hands again just before she touched my boy.

"Oh my gosh, that's so cool!" says Toby as she gently strokes Sean's palm with her thumb, "You brought me, an apple!"

"Uh, yes, actually." I say, finding it very difficult not to sound nervous, "That's our, apartment warming, gift. I, we, don't have much and this was, spur of the moment you know. I mean, I would have gotten you a house plant that takes poisons from the air and produces higher levels of oxygen, significantly more than your more common house plants, but I didn't have the time. I, I can still get you

one, though."

"No, that's fine." Says Toby, taking the apple in its paper bowl from Sean's lap, and then bringing herself back up to her full height, "I'm terrible with plants. I'd just kill it. The apple's very nice. Thank you guys!"