At first glance they seemed like all the rest. All the rest, that is, in a psychiatric emergency room. I make my meager living in one of Nashville's busiest mental health thoroughfares. The white collars who sign my bi-monthly checks call me an assessment specialist, a fancy name for a crisis counselor. They give me a badge with my mug shot, tell me to admit all paying customers, and pray that I stay in touch with reality along the way. Sometimes I wonder which side of the assessment desk I belong on.

On any given day, I have the twelve-hour pleasure of discussing the game of life...