Note to readers: to protect confidentiality, I’ve used a fictitious name for the young man described in the article below.
From the looks of him, the husky young man with the short-cropped dark hair and clean-shaven square jaw could have played defensive guard for the Univ. of Minn. Gophers.
But I knew Joel in another setting, a local adult residential mental health facility where I worked part-time evenings as the front lobby receptionist. With two kids in college, I’d taken the job to contribute to the family income while trying my hand at freelance writing.
Answering the phone and such gave me plenty of time to get to know the residents as they came and went each day, and Joel was one of those who stopped by my desk often.
On one occasion, he shared a dream he’d had the night before. “It was like this big aquarium,” he said, “and all kinds of fish were swimming around in the water. They were all pretty sick, but one was a lot sicker than the others; it mostly just flopped around at the bottom of the tank.”
My qualifications for interpreting Joel’s dream were limited: I had a BA in English, concentration in writing, with only a minor in psychology. I knew I was more Jungian than Freudian, though – I felt a spiritual connection with Jung - and I loathed the behaviorist theories of B.F. Skinner that I’d studied briefly in undergraduate school.
In any case, Joel’s dream didn’t need much interpretation; the expression in his eyes as he related it to me said it all. This big healthy-looking guy saw himself as the sickest fish in the aquarium.
It was summer, and I often took my 15-minute break at a picnic table out back. One afternoon, wild-eyed and flushed of face, Joel found me there. Looming over me, he waved his arms around as words tumbled out of his mouth so fast I could barely follow him, but I gathered that someone had offended him.
Every so often, speaking softly to force him to stop yelling and listen, I said, “I understand, Joel.”
His rage finally spent, he sat down at the table across from me and started to sob, great heaving sobs. By the time my break was over, he’d calmed down, and we re-entered the building together.
My interactions with Joel continued. My hours during the week were from 5-9 p.m. One evening as I walked through the front entrance into the lobby, I saw Joel and a slightly built male staff member circling each other with fists drawn.
Helpless to intervene, the administrator of the place stood a few feet away anxiously watching the drama unfold.
I recognized Joel’s antagonist as a mental health worker who was in the process of completing his Ph.D. in psych. Had he really wanted to, Joel could’ve knocked the nerdy fellow out with one punch, but such violent behavior might have jeopardized his stay at the residence.
I walked over to the main desk and told the receptionist on duty to stay there. Grabbing an empty coffee cup, I moved to a spot where Joel could see me. I held up the cup and shouted his name.
When he glanced toward me, I said, “Let’s go for coffee.” Trust held. Relief swept over his face, and he dropped his arms. He gave his opponent a look that said I don’t have time for you, and the two of us walked arm in arm through the double doors into the cafeteria.
As I passed the administrator, she whispered “Thanks.”
At coffee that evening, Joel glowed as he confided what his therapist, revealing a hint of Jungian influence, had told him that day.
She said deep down in his heart there was a tightly closed rosebud that in time would unfold, and he would be healed and whole.
In the days that followed, the mental health team devised a behavior modification plan for Joel using his visits at my desk as positive reinforcement. Joel was smart enough to recognize manipulation for what it was, and the bond we’d established soon dissolved.
Eventually, I found work as an editor and proofreader for a small graphic arts firm and lost touch with Joel and others I’d gotten to know in the big aquarium, but some 20 years later, I’ve not forgotten them.
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