The Greek Bassoon

Nicholas Mikos was as unique as any Resident at Sugar Loaf. He was the Greek of Greeks, in spite of what politically correct moderns say about categorizing or stereotyping. Five-foot seven, he weight two hundred pounds, and from a distance half that weight seemed like a ball of black, curly hair. He had penetrating ebony eyes that were overshadowed by a hedge of swarthy brows. He had a full beard the instant after he shaved as his whiskers were supremely black and thick. His stance was that of a two-footed Bulldog, his legs even bowed. Sometimes he resembled a Russian tank. He strutted with arrogance. His appearance was the single most menacing, threatening that I've ever met, whether at Sugar Loaf Health Center or on the football field or in a boxing ring. But Nickels, as he insisted on being called, not Nick or Mik, was as unique in his behavior as his looks.

Through the years the population of Sugar Loaf wobbled so-so between those more with mental deficiency and those burdened later in life. The half that couldn't read or write, couldn't distinguish an A from an H, or know what number followed eleven, were easy to deal with because their behavior was invariably as predictable and simple as their unknowledge and inability to learn. The other half ranged from semi-literate to fully literate, whether they were epileptics or made dysfunctional by other conditions. So fifty year-old Fourth Grade dropouts who couldn't keep a job had free range of the facility along with their more mentally advanced

brothers. Nicholas Mikos was the advanced brother.

Mr. Mikos had spent one year at college. Had circumstances been more favorable, he could easily have spent eleven or twenty one and been awarded any number of Ph.D.'s. The degrees would, of course, have been in some form of applied art such as architecture or carpentry. Nickels had the master-artist's ability to see holistically. Like Mendeleov who is reputed to have seen the Periodic Chart of the Atoms instantly. A perfect analogy describing Nicholas is the scene in the movie, Amadeus, about the giant Mozart. The composer is asked if he as a commissioned piece of music finished. Mozart replies in the affirmative. So where is it? Mozart points to his head. It's all in here. All I have to do is write it out. Like that, Nicholas Mikos could be told the design for a house and in an instant know every detail of how to put it together. I thank God daily for such beautiful people. I also thank Him for sending Nickels to Sugar Creek so I could see such an artist in the flesh.

One day I saw a TV infomercial about a revolutionary reading technique, Photoreading. The procedure was described as the natural way the mind works: holistically. Imagine walking downtown and you see a structure. Instantly you say BUILDING, because your mind sees it in its entirety. The infomercial made a strong point that this is the normal functioning of the mind. But somehow man had flattened, squashed, and narrowed his mind into functioning not whole-brain or even right-brain, but tightly left-hemisphere: linearly. The message was that old-fashioned reading was like a person coming up to one brick (the lower left-hand one, of course), followed by another to its right, then another, until the line stopped. The onlooker would then go back to the first brick, see one sitting on top of it, one to its right, and so on down the line. He would do this until he spied the very last brick high in the air, and only then say, "Why,

that's a building." The narrator concluded that this was the way most people read. Even speed-reading, he claimed, is only a variation of this.

When I related this to Nicholas he burst out laughing, his ebony eyes changing instantly from penetrating to playful.

"Of course!" he burst, and produced a shorthand notebook. "Look," and as if I were watching time-lapse photography, I watched his swarthy, deft hands produce a most intricate pattern.

"There. Now imagine that in hardwood on your ceiling." He pointed to his sketch as he spoke. "These in dark Walnut, those in light Birch, these diagonals in Red Oak. See the splendor?" He swept the air with his swarthy paw. "This is holistic, this is Photoreading, this is the way the brainreallysees things. It's the way the artist sees everything."

At that moment I swore that If I ever had enough money to build a house, Nicholas would be the mastermind, even if I had to fake reports and say the activity was part of his rehabilitation program. Unfortunately I never had the opportunity because this talented young man followed the call of his inner demon and committed suicide only two months after I met him.

Nickels' father was an alcoholic father and his mother demented, yet he still achieved a high degree of proficiency in a trade too many people don't recognize as requiring more than using a yardstick and hammer properly. The man had a mind and dexterity to visualize and produce what his inner vision showed him. He was a wood-working Mendeleev.

Naturally I asked him why he was at Sugar Loaf. He said he experienced Depression. In my innocent way, I remember responding by saying what's the big deal? Whenever I feel in the dumps I simply focus more on the work in front of me. Quickly I added that my remark proved I knew nothing of true mental depression, but, still, why doesn't focusing

solve everyone's downers?

He responded by telling another analogy. To him, Depression was like a bassoon in an orchestra: most people seldom hear the instrument though it's always playing. Once in a while the woodwind does play a solo. That is, in daily life we function with a clear mind, normal behavior, unburdened selves. But once in a while Depression, which is always been just beneath the surface like the bassoon, takes over. And when it does, it dominates everything we do.

It turns out that Nickels was too smart for his trade. He was SO good that he could design anything with ease no matter how intricate and complex. The result was that even the job he loved became boring. And once that happened, his inner demon, Depression, took over.

In my simplicity I wanted to ask him why he didn't take to architecture, to designing things in keeping with his genius. I thought of helping him enroll in the closest university but I never had the chance. One weekend, during a lull, his inner bassoon took over and played such a powerful solo that when I came to work Monday morning his body had lain in the morgue for a full day.

Nicholas Mikos, Greek of Greeks, eyes penetrating, mind brilliant, body threatening, Depression hell-bent, was truly a unique Resident at Sugar Loaf Health Center. Damn Depression, anyway.