Getting Mike: Part Two–
A.V. Walters–
It was the Christmas storm, in New Mexico, that triggered our actions. That, and the fact we finally got Mike to give us an address.
Squalor is such an ugly word. So is elder-abuse. I try not to be judgmental. I know that every person has their own reasons for what they do, and that it doesn’t help if I overlay my own perspective. I think the facts should speak for themselves. You’re free to draw your own conclusions.
I had coordinated with Adult Protective Services before my arrival in New Mexico. I wanted to document conditions—and I wanted company out to the site—just in case. APS was concerned, too—they wanted me to coordinate with local law enforcement for “civil standby,” which would cover police presence, not only for the initial status check, but for the time it took to pack Mike’s belongings, and go. The county sheriff’s department had jurisdiction, but they reached out for additional back-up from the local police department that had previously been to the location. We were quite the parade. Mike was living in a remote trailer out in the high desert. We, (me and my entourage of law enforcement, totaling four vehicles), met down the road, and then pulled up to the trailer, together. To my shock, the police flanked the entry, hands on holsters, while the deputy pounded on the door. She, Mike’s “friend,” answered—of course, Mike was home.
She presented as a good-looking, if overly made-up, middle-aged woman. She wore one of those “stylish” track suits. You wouldn’t look twice if you passed her on the street. She called Mike to the door. He peered out at the collected entourage—slack-jawed and stunned. His clothing hung on him, his pants held up by a belt with a long tail that spoke to the enormous weight loss since I’d last seen him. He sported a Hard Rock Café t-shirt, several sizes too large, and stained with the kind of deep grime that screams poverty. His hair was clean, but long, and matted. His feet were wrapped in pressure bandages. Even that prelude didn’t prepare me for the inside of the trailer.
Mike’s eyes found me in the crowd and he relaxed, but just a little. I handed him the kitty carrier and told him these people had to come inside to see where he lived. I instructed him to put the kitty in the carrier, so that we wouldn’t scare her off. Unfortunately, the cat was already outside—Mike went out to try to find her, but we never saw her.
We took advantage of his search for Penny, to go into the trailer where Mike had been living for ten months. I knew that he mostly lived there alone. We knew from conversations with Mike that She “lived” there, in address only—mostly she spent the nights at her boyfriend’s apartment. Mike was proud that he “held down the fort” at the trailer. Every couple of weeks, he’d be taken to the boyfriend’s house, to clean up—and to do laundry. Sometimes, if weather was really severe, he’d spend the night at the boyfriend’s.
Getting a good look, inside the trailer, brought tears to my eyes. There was NO water, NO sanitation, NO power, and NO heat. An outdoor, propane, “patio heater” stood in the center of the main room, an empty propane tank, on its side, next to it. No matter, at least today was a warm day. Plastic gallon-jugs of water circled the heater—so they wouldn’t freeze at night. I knew, from Mike, that there was a generator outside that gave light, and access to a microwave oven, when there was fuel. Too often, there wasn’t any. The only significant furnishings were two “easy” chairs, one heavily worn and shabby, and the other in reasonable condition. It was no challenge to guess where Mike had been sleeping for the last 10 months.
The trailer was filthy, covered in the reddish grit that comes from the wind-blown desert of New Mexico. It was strewn with rags, or so I thought, until She told me they were Mike’s clothes. There was a plastic trash bag with his clean laundry—he had no dresser, not even boxes for his clothing. There was a short, folding shelf unit for his personal effects—his razor, miscellaneous papers and junk he’d collected. I had to step outside for a moment, overwhelmed. We’d clearly waited too long, and though he denied it, Mike had paid the price. I went and found Mike, wandering in the field, looking for the cat. “Mike, you have to come with me, now. You cannot stay here, any longer. It’s not safe or healthy.” He dropped his head. I hated to do it—Mike believed I was dashing his dreams.
You see, Mike saw this as his opportunity for homesteading. Apparently, She owned the property. She relieved him of his Social Security money each month, and fed him the fantasy that soon, they’d own the trailer, together, outright. Then, they could see about real “improvements.” Mike had spent the previous summer clearing the mesquite and tumbleweeds from the “yard.” He showed me the tree he’d planted, that he watered diligently from those plastic jugs. He was nothing if not patient, and proud.
By law, most livestock is treated better.
I’d brought plastic trash bags, to pack. I was concerned about the possibility of gathering up pests, and bringing them to my mother’s, where Mike would be living. I was optimistic on that front—even insects couldn’t thrive in these conditions. As I headed back in, to pack, one of the officers offered me gloves—those blue, nitrile gloves they wear at crime scenes to avoid contamination. I gratefully accepted them. Mostly, I just wanted to pack Mike into the car, and escape with just him. After all, anticipating the worst, I’d brought him new clothing. But, I know that there’s a danger in that kind of uprooting; you dismiss and abandon the person’s past—good and bad. Though the officers were quietly conversing amongst themselves—appalled at the conditions, I had to be mindful that this had been Mike’s home, and that he was proud of it. I packed what I could—sorting out the clothing that was too grimy, or threadbare, deciding what was worth hauling across the country.
The officers and APS admitted that this was a clear-cut case of abuse. But, they didn’t seem in favor of prosecution. Mike certainly would be unable, or unwilling, to cooperate—he believed this woman was his friend and, in any event, he was safely leaving the state. At the time, I had no interest in going down that road—I just wanted Mike healthy, safe, and away. One of the officers mentioned that this was not her first time doing this. She was outraged at any suggestion of abuse—after all, how could it be abusive if Mike agreed to it. And, she told the officers, She lived there, too! (Yeah, right. We all knew better.) Mike and I stopped in Roswell, on our way out of town, for a haircut and to close his bank account—he had almost nothing to show for his 44 years in New Mexico.
At last, we headed home. It’s a long trip, over 1,600 miles, to the UP. Mike was quiet at first, but finally, he began to chat—about the problems with his feet, about his cat, about the burritos she’d brought him to eat, from the convenience store where her current “boyfriend” works. Other than a feral cat, lost to him now, nothing he said about his life in the desert made me feel any better. It will take some time for Mike to adjust.
My niece, Jessica, who is a saint, arranged a medical appointment for the day after we arrived home. On the trip, Mike wouldn’t undo the bandages on his feet—he said the doctor (whom he hadn’t seen in a month, because She didn’t get him to his appointments) told him that only a doctor should wrap or re-wrap them. My mother and I were in the exam room when they removed the wrappings. We didn’t know what to say. His feet were grossly swollen and crusted—skin split from the swelling. There was evidence of frost-bite—a testament to his living conditions. His feet did not look human. The doctor took one look, and sent us to Emergency.
No thanks to his “friend” in New Mexico, Mike will be okay. His feet and legs will recover, if slowly. He now has loving caretakers who will see to it he eats properly, exercises, and gets needed medical care. They tell us he came very close to losing his feet—and maybe his life. We’ll deal with the blood clots for several months, yet—with blood thinners and proper pressure wraps. I arrived, apparently, just in time.
I’m still fuming. In front of Mike, I’m careful not to criticize his “friend.” I understand Stockholm Syndrome, and how a victim can attach to his oppressor, or worse, when the victim believes it’s his friend. I take a deep breath, and think of what he’s been through. Given what we now know about his physical condition, I wonder if I made the right decision not to prosecute.
Stanley has decided to help write the novel.
He’s no help, though, with the working title. Sometimes I wonder about his priorities.
Last week we had to buy honey. Next week, we will run out of potatoes. Last summer’s onion harvest was non-existent. And, in the late fall, I didn’t realize that our new raised beds would freeze earlier than if things had been traditionally planted, in the ground. Fully half of the carrots and beets were solidly frozen in place. We are too new at this to know whether they can be salvaged when the bed thaws. Were we really homesteading, any one of these errors could have spelled a hungry winter.
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