Social Work......

When I was a much, much younger man, and trying to break into social work, the county prosecutor came to my work-release office at the county jail one morning.

“Come with me. I have a challenge for you, “ he said.

We walked together to a large common holding cell called the “Drunk Tank,” where sat a thin, solitary old man with untied shoes. He glared at us with blood-red eyes, his thin straight hair springing up from his flaking pink scalp like prairie grass.

“Let me out! Lemme outa here, you two. No cause for keeping me.....”

The Prosecutor grinned at him. “They found him late last night sleeping in Pioneer Park, wrapped in an old piece of canvas. Got him a rusty old bicycle, a can of pumpkin pie filling, and 38 cents.....no identification and he won’t tell us his name.”

I looked at the old man, who plucked at the sleeve of an old wool coat slick with dirt and grime, his skeletal fingers never still. I tried my social work smile: “Can you tell us your name, sir? The quicker you do, the quicker we can maybe get you out of here.”

The old man glared. “Tom. Dick. Harry,” he snarled. “You pick one. I ain’t drunk...I ain’t no drunk. Turn me loose!”

I turned and looked at the prosecutor. “Can’t we just do that? Just cut him loose?”

He grimaced, and replied, “no... they’ll just pick him up sleeping in the park again. If he gets jailed again for vagrancy, he might do thirty days in the county.... and would that do anyone any good? Hear that?”

I nodded, hearing the mute hubbub of the awakening county cell block on the other side of the wall. Inmates shouted and screamed, steel doors clanged.

The prosecutor leaned against the bars. “Judge Rabideau thinks this would be a good challenge for you and your new department. Find the man a job, any old job, find him a place to stay, any old place, and we’ll cut him loose.... since he won’t give us a name, a family, a place of residence, I think I can hold him in here for some while.”

“Don’t need a job, “ the old man muttered. “Had one of them. I ain’t done nuthin,’ I ain’t no drug fiend... take me n’ my bicycle to Highway 14. Cut me loose.”

“Highway 14,” muttered the prosecutor. “He keeps goin’ on about Highway 14. What’s with Highway 14?”

“Highway 14,” I said, looking again at the wild hair on the old man’s scalp. “Scenic drive... Washington side of the Columbia River gorge... .ride it all the time on my motorcycle. Helluva road... he’s got good taste in roads!”

I leaned forward, social work smile pasted on. “Do you live along the river, sir? Lyle, Bingen, White Salmon, Hood River....any of those towns? Have you got family on the river?”

“I ain’t done nuthin’ to nobody....no call to hold me.... Highway 14.... turn me loose!”

We turned to go.

“Was he drunk when he was arrested,” I asked the prosecutor.

“No... he wasn’t.”

“Well,” I muttered. “Guess I'll see what I can do......”

On the way back to my office I stopped to talk to Old Tuffy, our booking deputy.

“Anything turn up on the old man in the tank, “ I asked.

“Nope. Nothing. We damned near had to break his fingers last night when we printed him..... wouldn’t straighten them out... Took three of us! He went to bite me, the goddamn old nut case, and I told him if he bit me I’d break his head open...... didn’t bite me none, then, nossir.”

I stifled a grin, entertained by a picture of the skeletal old man sinking his few fangs into the fat deputy, and Tuffy moving fast enough to break open anyone’s head.

“Well, no criminal record, then, at least?”

“No,” Tuffy sighed regretfully. “Nothing yet... prints might not be any good, though.... had to mash his fingers down on the print card.”

Three days later we still had no information on our strange old man, but I thought I had the problem solved. I had finally begged him a job from an old friend who ran a potato storage shed, a job sweeping the cutting floor for minimum wage, and a shared room at a recovering alcoholic facility. When I explained my solution to the prosecutor, he readily assented. “Yeah, get the old bastard out of there... he’s even driving the drunks nuts!”

I had Tuffy unlock the drunk tank door and waved the old fellow to his feet. “Let’s go, sir! I got you a job and a place to stay and we are outa here!”

“Don’t need a job, “ muttered the hard old man. “Give me my bike back.....”

“Well, you have to have the job.... where’s his bike, Tuffy?”

“Maintenance shed..... dissolving into rust.......”

We booked him out, and tried to have him sign for his possessions -- a piece of dirty canvas, a can of pumpkin pie filling, and 38 cents -- but he wouldn’t sign. I shrugged and gave him the stuff anyway. I opened the maintenance shed and wheeled out his machine, an old Raleigh three speed crusted with rust....... “Nice wheels, “ I said in my social work voice.

“You never had no cause to hold me.... none a’tall,” the old man said, spitting on the county floor. “No cause a’tall.”

I signed out a county van, put the old man and his bike in it and drove him to the alcohol center. I introduced him as best I could to the staff, who rolled their eyes at each other. I gave the old man written instructions to the potato shed, and held out my hand. He didn’t take it, of course, much to the great delight of the alcohol people.

“Well,” I said to him. “I got one favor to ask of you.... will you tell me your name, now?”

“Tom. Dick. Harry,” snarled the old man. “Pick one!” The staff of the alcohol center dissolved in laughter.

The next morning my phone rang; it was my friend at the potato shed.

“It’s probably a big surprise, but your ol’ No Name didn’t show up for work.”

“Yeah, that is a surprise.”

He laughed over the wire. “Just for fun, I called the alcohol center..... he missed bedcheck and breakfast this morning, too.”

After thanking him and hanging up, I sat there for a moment, a wide grin splitting my face. I got up and went to my supervisor, the undersheriff. “Gotta have some time, okay?” He looked up, uninterested, “ yeah... just sign out, make it up when you can.”

Picking up my helmet from the coat rack, I borrowed a pair of binoculars from a line deputy and then went out and started up my Honda 305 Scrambler. I left the town and crossed the Columbia River over the old Kennewick bridge, the waters swift and cold far below. Across the river, the road over the Horse Heaven Hills curved away to the Oregon border forty miles south. I ran the old familiar curves easily and smoothly, the bike purring beneath me like the well-tuned, smooth twin it was. As the sun broke through high, thin clouds, my joy steadily rose and I soundlessly sang a Credence Clearwater Song behind my helmet shield. “Proud Mary keep on turning.....!”

At the crest of the Horse Heavens, the Columbia River Gorge opened up below me, the river now a silver thread far below, Highway 14 another thinner silver thread running alongside....and the purple and gold fields of eastern Oregon spread like a huge blanket beyond the far bank of the river, and to the west, the soaring volcanoes – Mt Adams, Mt. St. Helens, and Mt. Hood, the great peaks that had mesmerized Lewis and Clark and so many of the early pioneers – sat in timeless and regal splendor in the morning sunshine.

I swung the bike into a turnout, and pulled from my coat the field glasses I had borrowed. It took a few minutes of slow sweeping, but then ... there he was, an almost unrecognizable dot, an old man on a bicycle, slowly pedaling west, slowly making his way along one of the most beautiful highways in the world. I was suffused with joy. “I’ll be damned,” I said softly. “You old bastard! You must have ridden all night to get down there!” I slapped the tank of the Honda lightly with both hands. “He’s loose,” I laughed softly. “The man is loose and gone! Damn .. I wonder what his name was! I’m gonna wonder that forever!”

I laughed some more, and sat savoring the lovely scene before me. And then I put away the glasses, started the bike, and turned around. It was time to go back and do some more social work.