“EIGHT YEARS AND SEVEN FUCKING MONTHS!”

I had been yelling for a while now. I don’t really remember what all I said, I’m pretty sure I had dipped into the Unabomber’s Manifesto at some point. I was at the top of my game, laying down an irrefutable piecemeal argument, the thesis of which was that my caseworker was a cunt.

“I have another meeting at two so you’ll need to be gone by then…” My caseworker tapped at her phone. She was playing some game on it. I think it was Balatro.

“How the fuck can I be in last place?!”

“As I said, the system associates a rank based on your relevant qualifications. Obviously, you don’t have any.”

“How can you say I’m not qualified?! Look at me! I love kids! I fucking love them!”

She gave me a look. “Being a pedophile isn’t a qualification.”

“Hey, it’s Minor Attracted Person!”

“Sorry…” But she didn’t sound sorry. She cursed under her breath as she started a new game. “If you have concerns that I acted in an unprofessional manner you can submit an anonymous complaint to [email protected]…”

“How can you be so casual about sabotaging me like this?!”

“It’s not sabotage, Tom, you were never going to match with any child in this program–”

“Fuck you, I–”

“No, Tom–”, she lowered the phone. “–you were never going to match any child in this program.”

There was a certain look in her eyes–not anger or malice–just a particular kind of sadness. The look of a grownup about to explain to a child that Santa Claus didn’t exist. I knew that look–I hated it–the look of mental health professionals who saw me as a problem that just couldn’t be solved.

“W-Why would you even say that…?” My eyes had started to burn.

My caseworker sighed as she ran a paw across her face. “Tom, I am obliged to investigate potential matches for minors under my care. I was obliged to interview you to determine your eligibility for the program. Which I have. You’re not a good candidate. I’m sorry.”

“On what grounds do you make that assertion?!”

“Well you’re very clearly tweaking for one…” she pointed. “And I’m pretty sure that’s a meth pipe hanging out of your pants…”

I cursed as I noticed the glass stem dangling half visible from my jeans pocket. “You’re wrong!” I said, confidently pulling out the piece. “I haven’t had meth in years! And for your information, this apparatus is used exclusively in the consumption of freebase cocaine!”

“…is that supposed to make it better?”

I hesitated. “D-Doesn’t it?”

“No.”

“Look, I know for a fact that you’re not allowed to drug test me! Nonviolent criminal activity isn’t supposed to be considered as part of my eligibility!”

“No, but your mental state is. And it’s clear to me that you’re a deeply disturbed individual desperately in need of psychiatric services.”

“You know nothing about my mental state! This is absurd, not to mention discriminatory!” I jutted a clawed thumb to my chest. “I am an upstanding member of this community and you are profiling me for having a crack pipe!”

“Well, there is also what appears to be semen leaking from the corpse of your dead dog…”

I clutched Rusty defensively. “He’s allowed to be here! Rusty is my emotional support animal!”

“Service animals are typically alive at the time of their service…”

“Again, discriminatory!”

“Tom, this program isn’t about pimping out kids to be your personal sexual objects. I’m responsible for each and every child I work with here. I have an ethical obligation not to pair them with crack addicts.” She stood up, turning to face the window.

“I don’t see children as sexual…things…”

My caseworker threw her window open and the room was instantly flooded with shouts from the angry crowd below. “You see that?!” she yelled back to me, pointing down at the withering mass. “That’s who we answer to! That’s our adoring public!”

I ducked as someone threw a Molotov cocktail through the open window, which thankfully clattered across the desk without exploding. My caseworker picked it up and casually chucked it out again, slamming the window shut as a plume of smoke and screams echoed from below.

“As you can see, Tom…” she said, taking her seat. “Cub Club is not a popular organization. People have been trying to shut us down for years, and we’ve always just barely managed to scrape by legislature approval. Our enemies will leverage any mistake, any lapse of judgment–no matter how small–and turn it into a national issue: proof that adult-minor sexual relationships are inherently destructive. The only way we can keep our doors open is if we continue to demonstrate to the public–scientifically, not anecdotally–that we are actively improving children’s lives. Now do you really think I would risk a child’s future, this program’s future, just for one demented MAPs sexual gratification?”

“Am I the MAP in question?”

“…you are.”

“Then yes!”

“…Tom, I’m going to need you to leave my office now.”

“Look, there has to be something I can do to prove that I’m qualified!”

She sighed, rubbing her temples this time. “Okay, listen…are you listening?”

I scooted in, lowering my ears. “Uh-huh…”

“If you get yourself sober, enroll in rehab, vastly improve your personal hygiene, get into therapy, work on your social skills, your mental health issues–”

“…yeah?”

“–go back to school, finish up your degree, get a real job–”

“…yeah?”

“–spend a few years doing volunteer work with children, demonstrate that you’ve turned your life around, come back to my office to have this conversation again–”

“…yeah?” I asked hopefully.

“Then there’s still absolutely no way I would let you anywhere near one of my cubs.”

I stood up, slamming my paws on the desk. “Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do then?!”

She was back at her phone. “I dunno, find a way to be happy that doesn’t involve having sex with children I guess…”

“OH LIKE THAT’S POSSIBLE!”

I started pacing back and forth, glaring at her angrily. She didn’t seem to notice. Just who the fuck was this bitch to judge me? My eyes were drawn once again to the framed certificate behind her. “Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW)”. What kind of broken person do you have to be to want to get into social work for a living? What, you get to spend all day listening to people even more fucked up than you are? Can you imagine it? Sharing all that intimacy with total strangers? Like a prostitute…

“What about the retarded kid?” I demanded. “Waffles!”

“Intellectually disabled, Tom. And as we just established I was never going to approve your match in the first place.”

“Do it! Match me with him! Give me a chance to stay in the program! I’ll prove to you that I’m just as qualified as any of your other candidates! You’ll see! He’ll give me a stellar review!”

“There’s no way you’ll convince him to do that…”

“Why the hell not?!”

“Because Waffles rejects all of his matches anyway.”

“W-What…?”

She frowned, jabbing at her phone. “Waffles unilaterally terminates every match he makes within a few weeks. As I said, he has a troubled history in our program, social and behavioral difficulties, mood swings, tantrums, sometimes violent outbursts. I had high hopes for his previous long-term match…” She tossed the phone aside, glaring at me. “…unfortunately I was mistaken. Now, if Waffles rejects every other qualified candidate that comes his way, what makes you think you will fare any better?”

“…you never mentioned any of that,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed. “You never gave me a chance to.”

I hesitated. There was a flicker of understanding. “You said you were turning to the waitlist to find other candidates. Me and who else?”

She looked away. “It doesn’t matter…”

“You don’t want to say!”

“Do I need to have you escorted out?”

“You said I was only authorized to review profiles of kids who approved me first. So that means he must have approved me, right? He wants this match to happen!”

“That’s irrelevant–”

“How is it irrelevant? If it’s so difficult to find him a match then why are you rejecting this one? I thought you were supposed to be his advocate!”

“I am!” She looked flustered. “And part of that duty is acting in Waffles’ best interests! You’re not a good match, Tom. End of story.”

“Clearly he doesn’t agree!”

“He doesn’t know you!”

“Neither do you!”

She didn’t have a response to that. Seizing my chance, I knelt down in front of her.

“Ugh, Tom…” she put her fingers to her face as I took hold of one of her paws.

“Let me try this…please? Please? Just let me match with Waffles long enough to boost my rating. Come on…it’s my birthday! And besides–I mean, let’s face it–he’s retarded… Even if I do a horrible job, how much more could I possibly fuck him up?”

She grabbed the receiver on her desk. “Security?”

“Thirty seconds!” I begged. “Thirty more seconds and I’ll leave!”

She put the phone back down, regarding me with pity.

“Look…” My ears flattened against my head. “This isn’t just some fetish I want to explore, okay? I need this. I…I really, really need this…” I realized I was trembling again. “It’s important to me, it…it might be the most important thing in the whole world!”

“Tom–” she began.

“Maybe it’s important to him too! I mean, you said Waffles rejects all of his other matches, right? All the qualified participants? Well, maybe he needs a–I don’t know–unqualified one!”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand what’s going on, Tom. This isn’t going to help you. Even if I did approve an introductory meeting, he’s going to un-match with you after a few days anyway…”

“So what’s the harm? Give us a fighting chance! If you won’t do it for me, do it for him!”

She fell quiet, looking down at her claws, as if considering.

“I’m not dangerous!” I blurted out. “I don’t molest kids! I don’t look at child pornography! I don’t wanna hurt anyone! Kids most of all!” I bit my lip, wondering where the hell I was going with this. “I know you don’t believe me…I know I can’t convince anyone to believe me. And maybe you’re right! Maybe I am completely unqualified! Maybe I’m a total fucking mess, but…” I faltered, struggling to find the right words. “I’m not dangerous.” I repeatedly lamely. “I may be a lot of things, but I know I’m not dangerous…”

We stayed like that for a moment, her face hardening as she weighed my pleading expression. Finally, she gestured for me to move. “Your thirty seconds are up, Tom.”

As soon as I stood up she swiveled around to the window, claws picking at the armrests as she contemplated the crowd below. I waited for her to say something, anything. After a while, I picked up Rusty and turned to leave when she spoke.

“Keep your phone’s notifications on.”

“What? Why?”

She cast a sideways glance my way, returning to the view.

“Because I’ve made a decision.”