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Wayne sat naked on a rubber mattress, beneath him a puddle of urine and shreds of what used to be an adult diaper.  A mixture of Bacitracin and blood left behind an orange gloss that shined across his bald head.  Dean met a handful of interesting characters at the group home, but no one quite like Wayne Gumbel, a heavy metal junkie prone to violent temper tantrums, mentally retarded yet smarter than hell.  He never spoke, just grunted, bobbing his head to the music, and if the CD player ever skipped he'd let out a shriek that could pierce the ear drums.

Dean had a college degree and that's where it landed him, cleaning up piss and praying he wouldn't get his ass kicked.  He was from the new generation of college graduates, those searching for employment during a recession, finding jobs that paid less than the ones that put them through school.  He'd spent the last year at interview after interview.

"Degree?"

"Bachelor's."

"Field?"

"History."

"What the hell you plan on doing with that?"

"Work for you?"

They'd laugh and send him on  his way.

He gave up on a career and settled for a temporary job, which led him to an office on Redwood Lane, a sign above the door that read TREE HOUSE: Sky’s the Limit.  Inside the lobby bore a striking resemblance to a hospital waiting area, albeit a very cheap one.  A coffee table in the center of the room, surrounded by wicker furniture, couldn't conceal its chips and splinters despite its recent coat of varnish.  Paintings of farm and woodland scenery hung on the walls, encased in frames sporting the price stickers somebody had tried scratching off with a thumbnail.

He walked down the hall and found a woman in her mid-thirties sitting inside a cramped office.  She was reading a Cosmopolitan, her laptop closed next to the picture of a young boy with curly golden locks, front teeth missing and cradling a newborn baby.

"Hi." Dean knocked on the open door and stepped inside.  "I'm Dean Schroeder."

"Teresa," she said, grabbing the picture from the corner of the desk and tossing it into a drawer, slamming it shut.  "Nice to meet you.  Please have a seat."  She nodded towards the empty space of desk she'd just prepared.

"Oh, okay."  He sat down, twisting his body into an awkward position so he could both sit comfortably and face Teresa.  "Are you hiring at all right now?"

"Always."

"Cool.  Could I pick up an application?"

"Don't need one.  Just give me your ID and if you pass a background check, you've got the job."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Dean pulled out his wallet and handed over his driver's license.  "When do I start?"

"Wanna train in today?"

Before Dean knew it he was following Teresa in his beat-up Oldsmobile.  They pulled into a driveway outside a big white house with black shutters.  The thing looked like it came straight out of a 1950s sitcom, although the events that followed made late night on premium cable seem tame.  The entry consisted of two flights of stairs, one leading to the basement, the other upstairs.  A round woman with Down's Syndrome sat at the top of the steps, elbows on her knees and chin in her palms.

"Hey, Mindy!"  Teresa said in a chipper tone.  "Wanna meet Wayne's new staff?"

Mindy scowled and didn't say a word.

"Well, buck up, lil miss.  I'll come up and see you in a bit."  She turned to Dean.  "Wayne's apartment is downstairs.  He lives by himself because he requires—um—extra attention."  As they walked down the steps Mindy's eyes followed Dean until he was out of her sight.

A table full of drug paraphernalia welcomed them upon entering Wayne's kitchen, bongs made out of soda bottles and a vacuum hose.

"Goddammit, Jared."  Teresa bit her lip and clenched her fists.  She stormed into the nearby bedroom.  Dean followed like a puppy on a leash. The stench seized them, a rancid blend of bodily fluids.  Death metal blared from the boom box.  The few rooms Dean had seen up until that point mirrored the lobby at Tree House's office, but Wayne's bedroom didn't have any lame paintings, furniture or any kind of decoration at all, just the CD player and a mattress stacked on top of a box spring.  Even the carpet ended at the door, the tile from the adjacent bathroom flowing into his room. 

Wayne's staff was a Hispanic man around Dean's age with a faux hawk and tight clothing.  He wore vinyl gloves and buried his nose in his arm.  A look of panic consumed his face when he saw Teresa.

"Shit," he said.

"That's all you have to say?" Teresa folded her arms which pushed up her breasts and accented her freckled cleavage.  That's when Dean noticed that somewhere between the office and the home she'd unbuttoned the top few buttons of her blouse, applied lipstick and removed her wedding ring.  "You wanna tell me what that stuff is out there?"

"Give me a break, okay.  I got bored.  That hose was a piece of junk anyway.  Now you have an excuse to get a new one."

"That's beside the point, Jared.  What if state came today?  Are you retar--" She glanced at Wayne and then caught herself.  "Are you stupid?"  That whole time Wayne sat in his filth, rocking back and forth, making devil horn gestures with his fingers.

"Sure, I'm the stupid one, Miss G.E. fuckin' D."

"Don't speak to me like that."

"I'll speak to you however I want.  I hope state does come in.  They'd fire you before me.”

"On what grounds?"

"Oh, I don't know.  Incompetence?  Laziness?  Fuckin' like a dead fish?  Take your pick."

Dean burst into laughter.

"Um, Dean.  Could you excuse us for a moment?"

"Yeah," Jared said.  "I think that'd be for the best, newbie."

Dean stepped outside, closing the door behind him and taking a seat at the kitchen table.  He picked up one of the bongs and marveled at Jared's handiwork and then his eyes drifted over to the stack of binders.  One was marked Individual Service Plan.  He opened it to a photo of Wayne that looked like a mug shot, turned the page and stumbled upon every bit of documented info concerning Wayne Gumbel, another human being's identity at his fingertips.  He closed the binder and grabbed the one labeled Finances.  Wayne's checkbook was unorganized to say the least.  His bank statement didn't match his ledger whatsoever, check #1549 the last one written out, 1543 the last one accounted for.  A pouch in the back held more than fifty dollars in cash.  Dean swiped thirteen of it and put the money in his pocket.  When he looked up he saw Mindy standing in the entry, staring directly at him.

The bedroom door creaked open. Dean could hear metal and the shower running. Teresa and Jared came out, still bickering. He carried a bucket full of vinegar and water, wafting around a scent that stung the nostrils as he emptied it in the kitchen sink. A piss-stained rag fell out last and splattered against the drain.

“For God’s sake, Jared, we wash dishes in there.”

“Ugh! Would you just leave already? The new guy’s in good hands. You’re not needed no more, not like you ever were.”

“I think I’ll stay,” Teresa said as she pushed him aside with her hip and pulled out a garbage bag from the cupboard beneath the sink. She brought it to the table and began sweeping the bongs inside.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Jared said. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” She tied the bag shut and made her way over to the entry. Mindy was no longer there. Teresa climbed the stairs and Jared sprinted after her.

“Keep an eye on Wayne, dude.” And then he was gone.

Dean figured with his luck Wayne would probably fall on the bathroom floor and crack his head against the tile. But this was not the case. He sat content on his shower chair, hands beneath his butt cheeks, swaying to the music.

“So? You like metal, do ya?”

Wayne glared at him silently.

“I’m really more of a hip-hop guy myself.” Dean rolled his eyes at his own comment, but was soon distracted by the water’s change in color, a filmy dye swirling around Wayne’s feet. “Oh my God! Are you bleeding?” He stepped forward for a closer look. Wayne didn’t appear to have any open wounds and the water seemed much too dark to be blood. He leaned to his side, sliding out a cupped hand from underneath his bottom, a pile of brown mush between his fingers, which he brought up to his mouth.

“Oh God!” Dean felt the urge to vomit, yet couldn’t look away.

Wayne licked his fingers clean and chuckled an airy laugh that could’ve come from an asthmatic smoker. Both the heat and the smell overpowered the bathroom, mirrors fogged and Dean gagging every time he breathed through his nose. Wayne’s misbehavior escalated as the music in the other room began to skip, a repetitive riff that would not end, echoing distortion and chaos. He screamed and shook in his chair, punching air and even attempting to head-butt the wall.

“Chill, guy. Just relax. I’ll take care of it.” Dean rushed into Wayne’s room and pushed the SCAN button on the CD player. It didn’t respond. He tried to fast forward. Change the track. Pause the music. Anything. Anything at all.

Nothing worked.

Dean gave up and clicked RADIO. A commentator’s voice interrupted the electric moaning and instantly the apartment was invaded by an eerie stillness. All of the panic and confusion went missing in action.

“…broke his own records with his latest film only to get beaten by his ex-wife at the Oscars. Ouch! That’s gotta hurt. Well, one thing that worked for his former movie was the soundtrack. Yes, thirteen years ago we couldn’t escape this song. And guess what? We still can’t. Here’s Celine Dion with “My Heart Will Go On” closing off the Nineties at Nine…”

Dean heard the sound of bare wet feet slap against the tile behind him and turned around to see Wayne, still and silent, balling his fists, waiting. Flutes sounded and he concentrated on the radio, furrowing his eyebrows and exhaling deeply. They never had a chance to hear the opening vocals because Wayne opened his mouth and pushed out a deafening scream.

Then the violence began.

Wayne lunged forward and tackled Dean. The mattress broke his fall and a wet residue seeped through his shirt and pressed against his skin. He ignored this for the time being and assured himself it was simply the vinegar water. Quite frankly, he didn’t care. This naked beast of a man, out for blood and pinning him to the bed, became his top priority. He tried to hold Wayne’s forearms in place, afraid the remaining shit might drip from his fingers. The moist skin didn’t help matters at all, his palms sliding up and down Wayne’s arms.

“…Near…Far…Wherever you are…”

Wayne struggled to free himself from Dean’s grasp. The naked man must’ve weighed all his other options because when the opportunity presented itself he attacked with his most lethal weapon: his head. It came down with a clunk as if somebody had dropped a bowling ball on top of Dean’s head, a searing pain followed by a heightened sense of awareness which drifted away almost as soon as it came, sending Dean into a fog. He didn’t move. He just loitered in his daze and watched Wayne get up and run away.

He overheard the yelling upstairs, something about an “AWOL” and “van keys.”

Teresa appeared in the doorway and said, “No time to be loafing around. We’ve got a client to catch.” Her eyes were bloodshot and she reeked of marijuana. She led him outside and coaxed him towards a silver van, shouting back at the house. “Get your ass in gear, Jared! He’s probably halfway to Birch by now!”

The sun blinded Dean and his stumbling resembled a drunken swagger. He couldn’t see much, but he did manage to get a glimpse of the torn open garbage bag on the picnic table, the bongs no longer inside of it, that distinct aroma lingering into Teresa’s clothes. She eased him into the back seat of the van and sat beside him. Jared came running from the house, jingling a set of keys as he hopped into the front seat and screeched the tires as soon as he turned the ignition. Dean tried to get a sense of his surroundings. He looked out his window and saw the big white house fade in the distance, Mindy’s image getting smaller and smaller as she stood at the edge of the driveway and watched them speed off.

“You’re going the wrong way.” Teresa slapped Jared in the back of the head.

“Knock it off.” He reached behind him and swung at nothing, continuing to drive in the same direction.

“He didn’t go this way.”

“Would you shut up? I know his routes.”

Sure enough, he’d driven four blocks before he rolled down the passenger-side window and pulled alongside the large naked man marching down the sidewalk, blood on his forehead and shit running down as his leg. In a nearby lawn a mother shielded her daughter’s eyes and escorted her into the house.

“Grumpel,” Jared yelled out the window. “Hey, Grumpelstiltskin!”

Teresa slapped him across the head again. “Don’t provoke him.”

“Dammit!” Jared pulled the lever into PARK and actually scooted out of his seat so he could crane his body far enough to get a decent shot at Teresa. He wound up and punched her in the shoulder. “Don’t tell me how to do my job. You sit in your fuckin’ office all day and wonder why all hell breaks loose when you show up? Don’t pretend you know what you’re doin’, Teresa.”

“You’re just gonna piss him off,” she said as she grimaced and rubbed her shoulder.

“The hell if I will!”

“Ten bucks says you send him off running again.”

“Oh, you’re fuckin’ on,” Jared said as he pulled an iPod out of his pocket and waved it in her face. “Still wanna take that bet?” He jumped out of the van and approached Wayne. His tone changed to playful. “Why you always makin’ a fuss, Mr. Grumpy? I don’t gotta knock you around, do I?” He skipped around Wayne, putting up his dukes and pretending to box him. Wayne followed suit and started play-boxing too, his penis flopping up and down as he circled around Jared. “Look, buddy. I got a present for ya, but you’re not gonna get it if you keep actin’ like a dick.” He opened his palm and revealed the iPod. Wayne became hypnotized like a young kid staring at a bonfire.

Dean would’ve kept watching the spectacle, but he felt fingernails tickling his inner thigh. He turned his cheek and gazed into Teresa’s red eyes. He couldn’t explain what happened next. Perhaps he could blame his behavior on a concussion. Maybe Teresa could blame hers on the weed. But whatever sparked it, Dean didn’t care. He went in for a kiss, a kiss that embodied Tree House, a place where rules and inhibitions didn’t matter, where anarchy and primal instincts ruled above all, for both the clients and the staff.

The passenger-side door opened up and Wayne shuffled inside, the earphones loud enough for everybody to hear. Teresa and Dean pulled away from each other. Jared made his way around the front of the van, laughing and shaking his head.

“Christ, newbie,” he said as he got in the van. “Thought you were smarter than that.” Then he faced Teresa. “That’s gotta be a new record for you.”

Dean went home later that afternoon convinced he’d never step foot inside Tree House ever again. He slipped off his clothes and took a long shower. Afterward he washed his laundry and just before he threw in his jeans, he remembered the thirteen dollars in his front pocket.

“Holy shit, you’re back,” Jared told him the next morning when he walked through the door. “Thought we scarred you for life yesterday, dude.”

“It’ll take more than that to freak me out.”

When it was time for Wayne’s morning routine they plugged their noses and pushed open his bedroom door. As usual Wayne rested in his waste, waiting for his daily dose of metal, but Dean was prepared this time. He ejected the disc from the boom box and replaced it with a new one he’d purchased with Wayne’s money, a fresh CD with unfamiliar tunes, free from any scratches. The shredding of the guitar and the pound of the bass drum reverberated through the speakers. Wayne stood up and paid close attention to the CD player, listening intently to this unique new sound.

Dean anticipated the worst, but then Wayne smiled, reached out and gave him a hug.