Yesterday I began telling you about three guys that I met some years back.  I’ve often wondered whatever happened to them...how they made out in life.  Don’t think that I’m making fun of them or having a laugh at their expense.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  I’m telling you what I remember.  If you happen to find some of it amusing, that’s fine.  Believe me; these guys would laugh at you.

    Rick had worked as a night clerk at a local motel.  One night, according to him, “the lady on the TV started talking to me.”  She gave him a warning that people were watching and advised him to leave town.  This message seemed to be tied to the belief that some of his writing had been stolen.  He stated to me that he had authored “the Human Rights Amendment” and it had subsequently been stolen by former President Jimmy Carter.  Of course I found this preposterous, but I certainly didn’t want him to think that I doubted what he was saying.

    In the following days he grew more and more agitated with the “fact” that he was under surveillance.  At this point he was living with his parents and being taken to work by his father each night.  One afternoon, in a fit of self-defense he proceeded to chop down the utility pole in front of his parents’ home.  It was an attempt to stop the wire tapping he felt was taking place.  He didn’t finish cutting the pole before the Sheriff’s deputies arrived, subdued him and removed him to jail.

    I don’t remember how long he remained incarcerated but upon his release he walked out the front door of the jailhouse and straight to the highway.  The lady on television had advised him to go to Canada.  Rick had no idea where he was going and had no money whatsoever.  His paranoia continued to push him along as he hitch-hiked northward up the interstate.  He said that during the entire trip, he was under the constant surveillance of the FBI.  As a matter of fact, he said, “I always got a ride.  Everytime somebody let me out, they would stop up on the overpass and wait until another car picked me up.   I never went ten minutes without a ride.”

    I have no idea where he went in Canada, but within days he headed back home.  He got as far as Tennessee and decided to stop at “The Farm”.  The Farm is a self-sufficient community in Summertown, Tennessee.  Known as a hippie commune, Rick figured this was the place for him.  Rick never turned down a joint when it passed by and he figured these folks were right up his alley.  But his stay at the Farm was short-lived.  Within days they discovered that Rick wasn’t interested in pulling his own weight, so they “cut him loose.”  After being rejected by the hippies, Rick headed back home.

    I believe it was about this time that Rick managed to get some professional help.  He met Barry and Doyle at a local mental health facility and they became friends.  During their coincidental visit, they discovered that they all lived within a mile or two from each other.  Rick’s father helped set him up with a government subsidized apartment, food stamps and a small check from some government source.  He would take him to the grocery once a month.  Rick’s purchases were always the same; cigarettes, a 25-lb bag of rice, a 50-lb bag of potatoes and a very large bottle of ketchup.  Any money that might be left over went for beer.  By the end of the month he was back collecting cigarette butts and trying to talk people into buying him a 6-pack.  His life revolved around playing his chess game, visiting with his friends and drinking beer or smoking pot when he was lucky enough to find someone willing to share.

    There was a definite camaraderie between the three.  I often tried to get them together and take them out somewhere like a movie or to the park or maybe just for a ride.  They would never go.  They always didn’t feel like it, had some other plans or some similar excuse.  I didn’t push them.  I realized that it was the fear of changing their routine.  They had found comfort in an uncomfortable situation.