The Road to Amistad

by Ken Dickson

  “Which means no AMA. Screw it. I’ll figure out a way.” I gathered up the papers, folded them and stuffed them into my pocket.

  “Are you sure you want to do this? Why does this guy mean so much to you?”

  “I just have a gut feeling, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s to trust that feeling.”

  ***

  I met with Merry right away and explained the situation to him. On July 15, 2013, we met again, this time joined by John Miller from Legal, at the impressive BRI offices in Tempe. When I entered the conference room, an unexpected guest took me aback.

  “Jessie, what on earth are you doing here?”

  “I made that call to Merry that you suggested. Have you ever noticed how persuasive he is?”

  “Jessie works for HR. Our previous doctor/patient relationship precludes her working for me. However, we do cross paths on occasion,” he admitted.

  “I can’t imagine a better team than you two, whether you’re in different departments or not.”

  A short time later, Security delivered a harsh-looking blonde, a Hispanic woman, and a tall, heavyset, bespectacled man that I never expected to see again in my life: Dr. Davis, my former psychiatrist from Gracewood. Merry stood to greet them. “I’d like to introduce Carlos’s sister, Maria Sanchez, Julia Sangster, the crisis counselor who admitted him and Dr. Davis, his psychiatrist. Dr. Davis, I’m glad you could join us on such short notice.” Merry shook his hand firmly and then directed everyone to sit.

  The meeting began. Julia expressed concern that Carlos had made little progress in years. Dr. Davis cautioned that he could not function without a plethora of prescribed medications, or he suffered visions, voices and violent outbursts. It troubled him that I, a former patient, would care for him. His anxiety worsened when he learned that I was no longer taking the medication he prescribed and then lessened somewhat when he heard that I helped found BRI. I couldn’t tell from minute to minute which way things would go. Merry proposed that he and his associate, Jessie, should care for him. Fortunately, Dr. Davis was unaware of her stint at Gracewood, or he would once again be squirming in his chair. Merry’s plan called for Carlos’s constant supervision and included a clause that transferred him back to Gracewood if he could not rehabilitate him or show progress in a reasonable time.

  The meeting lasted for two hours. In the end, Dr. Davis agreed as long as I was not involved. In his eyes, I was bipolar, and while not medicated, was at risk of mania or depression at any time. After the meeting adjourned, I approached Dr. Davis. “Before you leave, I have a special request. Since I can’t be involved with Carlos, can I at least deliver him to his new facility?” Dr. Davis peered deeply into my eyes, probing for any indication of continued mental illness. Confident of my sanity, I mustered my most pleasant look.

  “I’m glad to see that you’re recovering. If you ever have any problems, feel free to call me.” I nodded but said nothing. He was the last person I’d call. “As far as Carlos is concerned, you folks have bitten off more than you can chew. I’ll be seeing him again, but I don’t see any harm in you delivering him. I’ll allow it as long as you go straight to the new facility.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Davis. You can count on me. This is going to change Carlos’s life.”

  “Humph,” he scoffed.

  Although everything in my being screamed for me not to, for Carlos’s sake, I shook Dr. Davis’s hand.

  ***

  On July 17, 2013, I returned once more to the security desk at Gracewood. “My name is Ken Dickson. I’m going to break out one of your inmates today,” I joked to the security guard.

  “So I hear. I hope that you know what you’re doing. These aren’t normal psych patients. They’ve got serious issues. That’s why they’re in a high security facility as opposed to an outpatient one—to protect the public.”

  “Yeah, I know all about being a danger to self and others.” I stopped short of informing him that I had also been a patient there. “Carlos and I have some history. He’ll be okay. He just needs some fresh air and space, neither of which is in high supply here.”

  “You got that right. More power to you. I wish we could do more for these poor bastards. Breaks my heart seeing some of them. Hold on while I see if they’re ready.” He picked up his phone and dialed. “It’s security. Is Carlos ready to go? Uh, huh. All right. I’ve got a Mr. Dickson here to pick him up. I’ll bring him back.”

  The guard escorted me once more through the two sets of blue steel doors. As he opened the second set, there stood Carlos, clean-shaven and freshly dressed in clothes that looked like they’d been sitting at the bottom of a hamper. Then, I remembered that’s how they did laundry here: they washed it, dried it and then threw it unfolded into the same brown paper grocery sack in which you gave them the dirty laundry to begin with. It was Gracewood, not a fashion show. Nick towered beside him.

  “Thanks, man. You made a hell of a difference in Carlos’s life.”

  “No, buddy, this is all you. I just cleaned him up and did a half-assed job of that. Just look at those clothes—pathetic.”

  “Carlos knows what you did for him. Right, Carlos?” I held up my hand, and he immediately high-fived it. “That’s what I’m talking about. Hey, I gotta get you out of this place before they change their minds. You got everything?” He nodded. “That’s it then. I’ll see you, Nick. Take care of yourself, and call me when they spring you.”

  Carlos and I headed through the two sets of doors to freedom. Once outside, I shouted for joy. I hadn’t felt so happy in a long time. If I’d known the path that lay ahead for Carlos, perhaps I’d have been less cheerful. Getting out of Gracewood was but a single step on a long road.

  Chapter 30

  CHANGED MEN

  Jessie found her calling working with changed people. She was everywhere at once and gained the reputation as a mother hen tending to her chicks. The chick she devoted the most time to was none other than Carlos. Before she did anything with him, Merry reduced his meds in stages, monitoring his behavior for a time after each reduction. Eventually, Carlos came out of his fog, but it wasn’t pretty. His behavior was unpredictable. Sometimes he screamed incessantly; other times he was catatonic; and rarely, his temper flared, and he threw any object he could lay his hands on. Jessie and he walked and practiced yoga whenever his moods cooperated. Merry placed him on vitamin supplements and a gluten-free, low-glycemic diet high in vegetables and omega-3 oils. In a few weeks, his behavior stabilized, and he began to communicate. After that, Jessie coaxed him to run and exercise with her. Next, Merry introduced heart coherence, talk therapy, EMDR, light therapy and even acupuncture. Each day, Carlos made progress and hope prevailed. Meanwhile, Primera blossomed, gaining cable, telephone and audio wiring, insulation, sheetrock, stucco, trim and stonework.

  Late on September 25, 2013, I heard a familiar rumble and stepped from my trailer to greet the driver of the only car I knew that sounded like that. The Challenger came to a halt, and Jessie and a man I didn’t recognize stepped from it. The thin Hispanic man sprinted toward me, his eyes gleaming with joy, and hugged me like he’d never let go. “Thank you for saving my life,” he cried. I looked questioningly at Jessie standing with her hands crossed over her heart and tears streaming down her face. She nodded her head, and it was then that I knew. The man was Carlos. I hugged him back tightly, and my eyes likewise filled with tears.

  ***

  The three of us sat and talked about Carlos’s wild ride. In the end, it didn’t take one thing to bring him back—it took everything. What mattered most was the one-on-one time given by Jessie. Nothing beats the nurturing of someone who genuinely cares. In any human situation from preemie to nursing home, love is the most powerful healer. We are social animals after all. Carlos spent years in a cold, emotionless machine fueled by psychotropic medicines. No magic pill could bring him back like the acceptance of another human being.

  “I’ve been wondering something for
a long time,” said Carlos. “When you spoke to me about getting me out of Gracewood, you mentioned that you had a place for me.”

  “You’re looking at it.”

  “Really? This place?”

  “The offer still stands. Other than a few occasional visitors,” I winked at Jessie, “I’m the only one living here. Want to check it out?”

  “You bet!”

  It was strange having a normal conversation with someone who’d previously spoken few words. Incredibly, he appeared perfectly normal. In addition to his no longer shuffling and extreme animation, he reminded me of a child experiencing the world for the first time. A former college roommate, who’d spent weeks in a coma after a car accident, acted similarly once he regained consciousness.

  There was something pure and authentic about the new Carlos. It dawned on me what it was—he was like Jessie and me, and not because of a twist of fate; he did it himself by sheer willpower, and I suppose, by design. Merry and Jessie were onto something spectacular if they could cure someone like Carlos.

  I opened the door to the trailer and invited him in. “It’s no five-star luxury hotel, but it beats Gracewood. You can sleep in a bunk, or the dining area collapses into a large bed, but you can’t have the queen. I need it to entertain Gringas.” He laughed.

  “I’ll take the middle bunk. It’s about the size and height of the beds I’m accustomed to.”

  “You can stay here as long as you like. If you wish to move out at some point, I understand. I just want you to know that you’re welcome here, and that there are no strings attached. It’s on me.” Carlos began to cry. You’d think he’d won the lottery. Sniffling, he hugged me again, and I patted him on the back.

  Three days later, I received a phone call from an unfamiliar number. My first inclination was that it was Nick with more bad news. I hadn’t heard from him in months even though he’d been released only days after Carlos. I’d yet to see him in a good situation, but I genuinely missed him and had been wondering what was going on in his life. Was his ex-wife, with whom he still maintained a good relationship, clean and sober, or was she hitting the bottle again? Was his son back playing high school football once more, or had he OD’d on heroin? And what about Nick himself? I never did learn what led to his latest stint at Gracewood. His life was certainly complicated. Reluctantly, I answered.

  “Hey, Ken. How are you? It’s Nick.”

  “I knew it. I must have some crazy-ass backwards ESP or something that only works with basket cases.”

  “Well, screw you, too, buddy! What kind of way is that to greet a dear old friend?”

  “I would say how much of a crock that is, but you are, in fact, my dearest and oldest mentally ill friend. What’s up, or should I ask?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have good news. For some reason, my life’s completely turned around, and so has my family’s. It’s like I caught a ‘good’ bug and infected them. Everybody is clean, sober and happy as cake. It’s like a frikin’ Little House on the Prairie.”

  “Frikin’? That’s not a word I’ve heard from you before.”

  “Trying to clean up my act. Let me finish—it’s the weirdest damn, err, darn thing. So, you know how the drugs, booze and everything else tore my family apart, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I’ll be darned if the ex didn’t start talking about getting back together. All of a sudden, we’re as lovey-dovey as teenagers again. I never realized how crazy I was about that broad and how much I missed her. Anyway, I moved back home with her and the kids, and if you can believe it, I asked her to marry me again. And do you know what she said?”

  “What?”

  “‘Hell yes!’ To top it off, my son will be the best man, and my daughter, the bridesmaid. Don’t that beat all?”

  “Holy crap! You could sell that story to Hollywood!”

  I had a feeling what was going on. Nick and his family had all changed. If I was right, it was going to be smooth sailing for them from here on out. I was thrilled. Hearing all the hard luck stories about them had really saddened me in the past. It’s unbelievable the distance people fall because of addictions.

  “Don’t forget to invite me to the wedding, and in the meantime, I’d love to meet your family. By the way, what are you doing for work these days? You still telemarketing?”

  “Yeah, I’m thinking of finding something more on the level, though. Scamming hapless old folks is rubbing me wrong more every day. But I gotta do something to bring home the bacon. Speaking of which, I’ll have enough money to buy that car you said you’d sell me. Do you still have it?”

  “I couldn’t get my daughter to drive a stick shift. I sold the five-speed Kia, and she’s still driving the old Pontiac Sunfire I’d hoped to sell to you.”

  “Shoot. I was looking forward to driving again. Riding a bike and the city bus is for the birds.”

  “Just swear for crying out loud. I miss the old you.”

  “Just between you and me—fuck you.”

  “Ha-ha, much better. Hey, I’ve got the perfect job for you. Are you free today?”

  “Yeah, I’m done with work for a couple days. What have you got?”

  “I’ll come get you. I want to show you personally.”

  I wrote down his address and then drove to pick him up. I really did have the perfect job for him. I wanted him to help with Security. He’d once been a firefighter. He showed me a photo of himself from back then. He looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger in “bunker gear.” In addition to that, his years of cage fighting and many other shady life experiences would make him a brilliant addition. Of course, I’d have him take Merry’s test to ensure we weren’t going down the wrong path, but no matter what, he’d be a valuable asset.

  After I returned to Primera with Nick, the first thing I did was show him my new digs.

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s not palatial. You certainly can’t beat the view,” he said, gazing out the window by the table.

  As we exited the trailer, I nearly hit Carlos with the door.

  “Sorry, Carlos, I wasn’t expecting you. You remember Nick, don’t you?”

  “How could I forget? Thanks for being so patient with me at Gracewood.”

  Nick scrutinized Carlos for several seconds before recognizing him.

  “I’ll be darned. You don’t look anything like I remember, and I’ve certainly never heard you speak before.” He shook Carlos’s hand enthusiastically.

  “Nick and I were just about to tour Primera. Care to join us?”

  “Sure. Let me get my tool belt. I left it under the bunk beds.”

  “You guys are roomies?” Nick asked in disbelief.

  “Yep. He just moved in a few days ago. He’s almost as fun as you were.”

  “Ha! I doubt that.”

  After Carlos retrieved his tool belt, the three of us began the tour. As we walked, I explained to Nick that people worked on what they were most passionate about, not most experienced with. Even Carlos was doing what he loved.

  “You’d have the same opportunity. I could use your help with security, but you’re welcome to do anything that strikes your fancy. We offer a competitive salary and benefits. I don’t think you’ll find better employment.”

  “Sounds like a dream come true, but I’ll have to talk to my fiancée before I make any decisions. I’d need a car, too. This place is a long bus ride from where I live.”

  “Let me know what you decide. I’d be happy as cake if you joined us.”

  “Me, too,” seconded Carlos.

  As we walked through framed homes, down the freshly paved bike trail, and by the cavernous pit that would soon be the swimming pool, I couldn’t help but think what a great team the three of us would make.

  Chapter 31

  EMBRACING PRIMERA

  During the construction of Primera, I had my hands in everything. When they poured foundations, I helped level them. When they frame
d walls, I wielded a hammer and nails, and when plywood or lumber needed cut, I operated the saw. I lived and breathed Primera. At one time or another, I worked with everyone involved, and they all knew me. When the day ended and everyone dispersed, I walked the street like a police officer on a beat. Instead of twirling a baton, I wrote detailed notes regarding the day’s progress in a blue spiral notebook.

  The younger crew jokingly called me “Chief.” When I first heard that, it made my heart soar. It was the first time that I really felt like a leader—my biggest concern after my Road to Amistad speech long ago. I liked Chief. It wasn’t over the top like “Governor” or “Mr. President.” Whenever I heard “Hi, Chief,” “How’s it going, Chief?” or “Have a good day, Chief,” I’d wave or tip my sweat-stained and tattered Eastern Washington University baseball cap that I always wore unless, of course, a hard hat was necessary.

  Carlos busied himself with every aspect of home building imaginable. His forte was stone and tile, but until it arrived, he eagerly took up a shovel, nail gun or skill saw and chipped in wherever help was needed. Everyone loved his cheerful, “can do” attitude, boundless energy and enthusiasm. I was a little nervous when he first hefted a nail gun, but his skills were either innate, or he had prior experience.

  As Primera progressed, it occasionally mutated. One day, there’d be cinder block walls around a back yard, and the next, there’d be a pile of demolished block in the street. Stakes defining lots moved from day to day, eventually vanishing almost completely as the lots blended together and then spread farther up the hill or into the desert. Primera was a moving target and fascinating to watch.

  I couldn’t wait until Emma arrived to landscape. It seemed months since I’d seen her. When she finally appeared, I hugged her, lifting her off her feet, and thanked her profusely for the beautiful trailer pad. I spent the rest of that day walking through the construction with her, catching up and making plans.