The Man Who Ate Books (Well, One Book, Anyway)

The way things go, I guess it could have been worse. Wally could have died, and I could have gone to jail. But it could have been a whole lot better, too. I could have ended up rich, the website could have taken off and flooded my whole house with books and money and kind letters from sympathetic, lonely women, but none of that happened, either. Wally's brain could have recovered from his brain injury and gone back to his old life. Things just are what they are, and he is a man with a damaged brain, and I was crazy and dumb enough to believe him. But I'm getting way ahead of myself. I'm starting at the end. And I want you to know the end, but to understand it, you need to know the beginning, too.

In the beginning, there was Wally. He was at the county mental hospital in the Puff unit in the beginning, and Dave and I had to go and pick him up to take him to the PACE house, his new home. PACE house, the "Path to Attaining Choice Experiences" is not a bad place to work, but I wouldn't want to live there. Wally was a hard case. We got the hard cases when they had nowhere else that would take them, or when they had a place for them in the distant future. It wasn't really a place you lived, it was more of a place you moved through, like the small strip-mall town that it was in, Stockton. It wasn't really a place you were going, but you had to pass through it to get anywhere else. It was sort of like that, but more expensive. I can't tell you exactly what it cost, but If I could get the rate they give the place to house him, Wally could have stayed with me.

“I don't see why we have to get this freaky guy. Can't we just get one old dude that's normal? Just needs us to change a diaper and cook his food?"

That's Dave. Dave's a good guy, but you don't want to count on him to water your plants or feed your cat when you go on vacation.

"Sure.” I said, “we could get a guy like that, and then a few months later he would keel over and die, and we would have an empty bed, and there wouldn't be any hours to work, and we'd be selling our blood plasma downtown, and going around digging cans out of the recycling bins to make our rent.”

"Do they give you a good price for blood plasma? The rate for cans sucks”

“I don't know that I would call it a good price. It's better than donating blood, though. The last time I did that, all I got was an oatmeal cookie and the dizzies.

“This is it,” Dave said, and I pulled into the parking lot of the county mental health building. We were greeted by a big metal door with a sign that read, "Crisis." Every way into that place looked like some sort of secret passage, there was no front entrance, no motion sensitive doors that greeted your presence by parting. Just the window and a buzzer. Dave pressed the button.
“Crisis,” a man's voice came through the speaker box, “We are here to pick up Wally Carp.” The door buzzes, and a security guard, leads us around the corner.
There is a man in a white coat, presumably a doctor of some sort which prompts Dave to hassle me about my baldness. “Look, he's a doctor, see, he could afford treatment. If there was something that worked, he would have bought it.” Dave says. I made the mistake of telling him I was trying Rogaine because my hair was falling out. Not in clumps, or anything, just the normal, daily loss of follicles that aren't regenerated so that you eventually have the same flesh-colored hair as your father.
"These are his things, the security guard handed us a grocery sack with a change of clothes.

"These are his meds,” the doctor says, and hands us a grocery sack of medications in bubble packs, the size of the bundle larger than his bundle of clothes.

"Sign this form," the doctor said.
"Hey Wally,” Dave says. “We're here to take you home.”

“Okay, dick-face.”

"Gee, Wally, it's nice to meet you, too." Dave looks at me and raises an eyebrow.
"Follow us,” Dave says, and we head out back to the van. “You wear diapers, Wally?”

"Nice to meet you, too.” Wally said.

"I didn't know you wanted to have any pleasantries, seeing as how you called me a dick-face.”

"I call everyone dick-face, dick-face. You have any food, I'm starving.”

“We will make you lunch back at the house,” I said.

"Sounds, good, sir.” Wally says to me.

“Why didn't you call him a dick-face?” Dave asked.

"I only call dick-faces dick-face.”

Wally is in his fifties, full head of hair, but a scar on the back of his head, creating a weird sort of part. He has nice teeth, really straight and white, which is something you don't see much of from the people in these homes.
“Why are you staring at me?” Wally said.

"Cause you're so dang handsome.” Dave says, opening the van door. “You have to sit in the back. Otherside of the van, I can't have you behind me while I am driving.” Wally pauses, shrugs, and closes his eyes as he scoots to the rear passenger side of the vehicle.

“This is not where I live,” Wally says. “Where are we going? What town is this?”

“Stockton.” I said.

“Stockton? I don't live in Stockton.

“We're going home, Dave says.

“San Diego? Where are you taking me?” Wally asks.

“Your new home,” I said. “Did you live in San Diego?”

“Did you live in San Diego?” Wally parrots back to me and then closes his eyes.

---

Stay tuned for part 2--Wally Moves into the care-home. Like what you've read so far? Is it resteem worthy? It would make my day if so!

I welcome questions, comments, suggestions, and any other interactions with the post.

Image Source: By 3268zauber (Own work) via Wikimedia Commons