A rock and a hard place.

The elementary school down the road from our house was where I worked a few years back. This was before Columbine, 9/11 and Homeland Security. We actually thought we were pretty safe and sound in our own little corner of the world. In a small town like ours, everyone knew you and your kids, maybe even your parents and grandparents depending on how long you lived there.

Richard was a fixture in our town. He was a nice enough guy. We would usually see him on his bicycle or walking on the side of road. Sometimes he would be in the plowed fields picking up rocks, arrowheads, or other mementos he found in the overturned soil. He was right around my age, 40 or so. Friends said that when he was younger someone had slipped him a mickey, and he never was the same. Nonetheless, he was a happy sort who pretty much kept to himself. Everyone seemed ok with that, and he did, too.

One usual day at work, I sensed someone standing in front of my desk, looked up, and there he was. He wore a plaid flannel shirt, jeans, work boots, and an army jacket. His hands looked as though he had been in the fields collecting rocks. All in all, he had the appearance of a working man. He emptied his pockets onto the top of my desk. There were about a dozen rocks of various sizes, shapes and colors and the usual pocket fuzz, which he sorted out and put back in his pocket. He told me about the rocks with great amazement. I blinked my eyes, opened my mouth, and he was gone; in and out of the school in a matter of minutes. It was a singular conversation, no response was necessary, and exclusive of everyone else in the office.

This ritual was repeated every couple of weeks or so. We thought maybe he visited because this was where he went to school as a little boy. There was always a pile of rocks on my desk. Some of them were arrowheads which eventually made their way into the classrooms. Some were pebbles that ended up outside as a rock garden. My favorites were two rocks which he explained were used by the Indians to grind grain into meal. I always thought they were just two rocks which fit very nicely together, my proverbial "rock and hard place".

Toward the spring of the second year his behavior appeared a little different. In as long as it took his clean shaven face to become stubble and then bearded, his clothing followed suit. His speech faltered and within days he made no sense at all. Along with the rocks, came cigarette butts, tabs from pop cans, and many other things that found their way into his pockets.

It really was an easy decision. We had to call the police and have him picked up. It took a bit of doing to convince the chief that this was not a good situation. After all, everyone knew Richard and he was "ok". Finally he told me to call the next time he came, and as usual, he was in and out in minutes. By the time they caught up with him he was several blocks away. It took three officers to subdue him and boy, were they surprised. Shortly after, an alarm system was installed.

It turns out that Richard had been living with his father, who suffered a stroke. He was not being cared for and what we saw was the result of not having medication. He was hospitalized, they straightened out his medicine, and he came out of it in great shape.

This was one of those "damned if you do and damned if you don't" situations - couldn't take a chance with the kids, knew he wasn't taking care of himself, but sure hoped that he would be ok. I'm so glad it turned out well, but it sure felt like being caught...

between a rock and a hard place.