The Bouncing Buns Gentleman's Club

Chapter 1

Beverly didn't know what the day had in store as she sat sweating, waiting for the next client in her small office on the third floor of the large community mental health clinic in League City, Texas. All she knew was that it was hot, she was uncomfortable, and the day had hardly started.

How much more miserable can this be? She thought.

Although relatively new, the building in which the clinic and several other human service offices resided was built with the municipal budget in mind and the cooling system didn't fully counter the heat of a sweltering Texas summer. This was especially true in the upper floor where Beverly's office and most of the clinic was located, and where she sat waiting with her short blond hair starting to stick together at the point where sweat was beginning to bead around her neck. She'd been able to evaporate most of the accumulated moisture with a table fan aimed at her from a few feet away, but it could only be expected to do so much in the absence of a fully functioning air conditioning system.

The office was small by anyone's standard, even for those provided in the public sector. League City was an affluent community by virtue of the yachting centers on nearby Clear Lake and other local attractions but, as in other small communities, money for capital improvements was hard to come by. The bid winner for the building's air conditioning was long gone, having taken the money that should have gone into a more reliable system with him.

Beverly's office contained only a small desk, credenza, a book case and just enough room to squeeze in two or three small chairs for clients and family members. She often worried about the prospect of being trapped in it with an irate client, but there was nothing she could do to improve the situation.

Her walls were still bare by professional standards. She didn't have her "paper" displayed as she hadn't put a priority on investing limited funds to have her diplomas and licenses framed. Clients had confronted her about this several times and she knew she would eventually have to hang proof of being a qualified psychiatrist on the wall, but she would do it in her own time. These paper symbols didn't matter much. She wouldn't be where she was and be introduced as doctor if she didn't have credentials to back her up.

She did have two oil paintings displayed proudly, but in isolation on her otherwise bare white walls. Beverly had come across a rising artist and was able to purchase the paintings at a time when this painter's works were still reasonably affordable, even for someone on a psychiatry resident's salary.

The paintings, one of a sailboat at night and the other of a palm tree grove at sunset, had become two of her most prized possessions and symbolized her love of the sea. The rest of the office was essentially devoid of mementos, collectibles and other things that tend to accumulate over the years. Just out of residency, Beverly hadn't been there but a few months.

Hundreds of miles south of her family home and medical education in Minnesota, Beverly still hadn't gotten used to the Texas heat, even after four years of residency training in Galveston and some work experience at a county jail moonlighting to supplement her income while in training. It had been her love of the ocean and interest in forensic and correctional psychiatry that drew her so far from the cooler summers and snow-clad winters of home.

She had grown up reading about the Charlie Mansons, Jeffery Dahlmers and Ted Bundys of the world and had developed an intense interest in the psychological motivations behind their aberrant behaviors. The University of Texas' Galveston Medical Branch provided a perfect match between her interests and a psychiatric residency program providing services to most of the Texas prison system and county jails.

As the most recent addition to the community health center's medical staff of five, Beverly quickly realized how lucky she was to have such a nice job just out of residency. There were times when she almost felt like she was on vacation compared to life as a resident, thought by many of her peers to be much like that of a paid slave.

"Doctor Anderson," Beverly was startled by Susan Barton's loud voice.

"Here's the discharge summary on that sixteen year old being referred to us from observation at Hillcrest up in Houston. She has an appointment with you today at four. It's the one hour slot in your schedule," Sue announced.

Sue had already proven to be a great help as the clinic's receptionist, but Beverly had noticed she was apt to get overly involved with male clientele. Although it was necessary to empathize and treat them with respect, she hadn't learned that one needed to maintain a professional distance and avoid being overly familiar around patients with emotional problems. Good intentions could be misinterpreted.

Beverly didn't realize the full extent of the problem by that point in their acquaintance, she hadn't been in her position that long. Her concern primarily related to Sue's inappropriate relationship with one patient she suspected had sociopathic tendencies; a potentially dangerous situation. One misstep could be enough.

Beverly felt fortunate not to be in Sue's shoes, though. At forty-two, she'd been less than lucky in love and could never have been considered a beautiful woman. Now, life in a receptionist's chair without adequate exercise and with access to too many clinic candy dishes was taking its toll. In spite of this, what Sue lacked in looks, she made up for in personality, and then some. Beverly was quick to notice her colleagues didn't seem to see Sue in any sort of negative light.

Maybe I'm being too critical of her, she hoped.

Beverly found the discharge summary generated by the Parkside 23 hour unit typical of the scanty information she'd received on patients from there in the past. She was grateful to at least have a copy of it before she saw her patient this time.

There were times since Beverly joined the clinic staff that she had nothing to review on a patient coming in after a hospital stay. In those cases, she would have to do the evaluation anyway; she just didn't have the corroborating information she had reason to hope would be reliable. Oftentimes, patients couldn't remember their medications, doses or scheduling, and could be reluctant to fully share the history behind why they had to go to the unit in the first place, so other sources of information could be crucial.

Not only were there patients that didn't know what medications they were on, there were also those unintentionally or intentionally non-compliant. That, and inconsistent followup, made successful psychiatric treatment often impossible. Some patients never fully bought into the necessity of taking medications to start with and stopped as soon as they were unsupervised.

She had seen many paranoid patients going in and out of the hospital, primarily schizophrenics, being stabilized on court-ordered medications only to miss doses after release and eventually decompensate enough to stop taking them altogether. They would soon become paranoid again and require yet another stay. The hospital had become a revolving door for these patients; many would then end up wandering the streets until something happened to cause them to meet criteria for forced treatment yet again.

In spite of the many frustrations of their work, she and the others were there to serve a mostly unemployed population having to survive with very little support from the community, or their families in many cases. They rarely received adequate primary health care, and would certainly not get routine psychiatric care were it not for Beverly and her colleagues. This was the driving force enabling her to see four patients per hour, five days a week.

It was only the occasional "no show" and psychiatric evaluation that broke up the routine. At four pm this afternoon her routine would indeed be broken up, in fact, it would change her life forever.