Did you ever wonder what happened to people you knew for a short time in your life?  There were three guys I met one time long ago.  A curious looking bunch, they were seated together at a bar down in south Mississippi.  One fellow was huge, another medium build and the third a frail little guy with long hair.  For one reason or another I struck up a conversation with them and it became obvious that there was something very different about them.  As it grew later, they invited me over to Rick’s (not his real name) place for a few more drinks.  Rick was the big guy, standing about 6’-4” and weighing 300 lbs at the very least.  Doyle (not his real name, either) was pretty wasted, but still carried on friendly conversation.  He was the medium sized fellow and had a Moe haircut.  Barry (not his real name, either, too) was the small fellow that was very lively.  He carried on his conversation with a quick twisting motion of his body.  His long hair would fling away from his head as he would spin and leap out of his seat to help animate the stories that he was telling.  This was, undoubtedly, a type of behavior well away from “normal”, but I couldn’t help but be drawn to them.

    They told me how to get to Rick’s apartment, but honestly I didn’t have intentions of going over there.  It was close by, but these guys were strangers by all definitions of the word.  They left on the way to Rick’s place and I headed home.  It was a really frosty night and when I got a block or so from the bar, there they were walking down the road.  It was too cold to be out walking, so I pulled over and offered them a ride.  They happily accepted and climbed into my car giving me directions to Rick’s.

    When we got there, they insisted I come in and have a drink with them, so I decided it probably wouldn’t hurt.  I wasn’t worried about trouble with them because, to put it bluntly, these guys had obvious mental problems.  Not your Jeffrey Dahmer type problems, but social interaction issues.  I’m sure under the right circumstances they could be unpredictable, but I felt I had a pretty good handle on how things were going.  They just seemed to be in need of a friend... like every one of us now and then.

    Rick’s apartment was sparsely furnished.  A couch, a couple of chairs, a card table with some folding chairs was the extent of the living room and kitchen furniture.  Barry and Doyle were eager to share Rick’s story with me.  Rick sat back and smoked a cigarette while smiling in approval.  (I’ll just give you some background on them now and go into detail in a future post.)  Rick, like most of us, had an issue with authority.  He carried it a little further than normal.  Rick was, to say the least, paranoid.  He felt that the FBI was watching him. To the extent they were sending radio waves through the doorknob of his apartment’s front door.  Several years earlier he had received messages through the television instructing him to leave town, which he did.  He also collected cigarette butts.  I don’t mean he was slow emptying an ashtray, he literally collected cigarette butts.  He would empty the remaining tobacco out and roll his own cigarettes.  And for all his oddity and mental problems, Rick was amazingly intelligent.  For instance, he easily could beat a computer chess game that he had, yet when frustrated or challenged by someone he would start reciting the preamble to the constitution.

    Doyle had been in radio.  Unfortunately, his drinking problem had ended his career as well as his life as a human being.  He was the first true alcoholic that I had ever met.  I discovered in subsequent visits that once Doyle started drinking, he was completely unable to stop.  Shy and withdrawn while sober, he was a happy drunk, laughing and telling stories until he eventually fell asleep.  Not only did the process of getting drunk change his personality, his appearance would change as well.  In the beginning of the evening he would have his black hair combed back, neatly parted in the middle.  By the time he was drunk his hair had fallen toward his face and it became the proverbial Moe haircut.

    Barry was always smiling.  He wasn’t much of a drinker because he said it interfered with his medication.  He openly acknowledged that he was schizophrenic.  I surmised that he had problems most of his life, but he told me of an incident that he felt caused all of his problems.  He had gone to a concert with a couple of friends in college and they had secretly put two hits of acid in his drink as a joke.  He said that he didn’t make it to the concert that night, but stayed in the backseat of the car laughing, crying and finally wetting his pants.  He said he was unable to do much of anything for several days.  After that, his life was pretty much downhill.  Some friends, huh?

    After a couple of hours I figured I needed to head on home.  I offered Doyle and Barry a ride home since it was so cold.  Doyle had sobered up enough to give directions, but Barry was a little clearer.  During the ride to Doyle’s, Barry tried repeatedly to talk him out of going home and to stay over at his apartment.  He kept telling him that it would be cold in his old house and he was welcome to come over and stay with him.  When we got to Doyle’s it was, indeed, a dark and cold looking old house.  There was no light on at all and Barry tried one more time, but Doyle was set on going in.  He climbed out of the car, while we waited until he got to the front door before leaving.

    “Doesn’t he have electricity?”  I asked.

    “Yeah, but not very much,” was Barry’s reply.