Roll On

I remember reading a chapter in an old anatomy book concerning body types. The terms ectomorph, mesomorph, and endomorph stand out: the skinny, the square, and the heavy. While we may or may not all fall into one of these categories, Floyd Dinkle was in a group all his own.

We've all heard the saying that dynamite comes in small packages: this more closely describes Floyd's make-up than his body type. At one point, part of my job at Sugar Loaf was to orient all newcomers to the facility. I gave them the Cook's tour showing them the buildings, ran them through the Resident's Manual, and had them sign a ream of forms. It turned out to be a good screening devise, for in this near-hour process I learned if they had hearing problems, could read or write, and the general nature of their awareness. In the case of Floyd D., I learned that while his physical faculties functioned well, he was illiterate, not being able to read or write, was as strong as an ox, and was irked by any reference to the fact that he weighed close to three-hundred pounds while standing only five feet.

But before the Residents knew how he would react, the short and heavy was tagged a human bowling ball. Since they said it more descriptively than despairingly, Floyd was not bent out of shape.

Brunswick and I created a two-man Cribbage tournament where we pegged our ways around the horsie-track going 15-2, -5-4, a pair's six, and don't-forget-it's-your-crib. I don't know how many games we played that Winter, but I do know that we went through two decks of cards and a box

of matches for peggers since Brian the Clepto kept stealing them. We played so much Cribbage that more than one Resident thought Brunswick and I were off our rockers.

I've kept my Journal for years. Several times I've used it to solve disputes. A colleague or Resident would didacticly state a date when something was to have happened but didn't sound right, and I'd look it up. In Floyd's case, I realized the other reason I kept my Journal all those years: to authenticate how much money I loaned him and if/when he paid me back.

It's a peculiar and sometimes irritating fact that there are people at facilities who, though they may work outside every day, never seem to have any pocket change. And aren't these the very people who drink the most soda, eat more candy, and crunch potato chips more than anyone else? Not surprisingly, Floyd was one of these, for he was always broke and knocking at my office for a loan.

It is also true that the wise Staff and Resident stays clear of Borrowers. Experience has shown us that money borrowers are usually moochers and never intend to you back. So I, like most Staff, did not lend Residents money. But with Floyd Dinkle I made an exception. My notes do not tell me why nor do I remember clearly. I suspect it was because of the man's simple honesty. Brunswick was a hard worker, maintained his integrity by demanding his rights, was too simple to try to outsmart or con others, and, admittedly, his height-weight ratio simply stood out too noticeably to try to be inconspicuous on payday. There may have been a deeper reason I trusted him, perhaps something psychological or karmic that I couldn't detect, but whatever the reason, I loaned Floyd dollar after dollar, all marked down neatly in my Journal, and all paid back as I sensed it would be.

While Brunswick was honorable in paying off his small-change loans, it turned out that he was not always so honorable in his dealings with other people. In fact, he, like Brian the Clepto, was an inveterate thief. That's why the short man was at Sugar Loaf. He was a Court Case, committed by the judge, and was also on probation. Had I told Staff that I loaned Brunswick pocket change they would have laughed. But it turns out there's a difference between borrowing and stealing even in the mind of the kleptomaniac. It's similar to the saying that there's honor among thieves. So while I always got my money back, even promptly, others noticed that wherever this man went, a swath of missing items was reported. It got so bad that even after our monthly inspection/clean-out of T. Talbot's closet, the biggest pack rat of the facility, and we still came up wanting, we made an extensive search for our missing staplers, tooth pick holders, monthly forms, bottle caps, and myriad of miscellany, and invariably ended between the springs and mattresses of Mr. Brunswick himself.

Lifting items at Sugar Loaf was not the reason Floyd was committed here, of course. Long before he knew our name, his fetish was automobile items. He compulsively collected gas caps, hub caps, and auto antennae. His compulsive habit came to the attention of the police when they found part after part of their own patrol cars missing. I was happy to see that Floyd never entered the Sugar Loaf Circuit. He fulfilled his probation and returned to society. I doubt if he was ever completely cured of his kleptomania in spite of the months of counseling and rehabilitation with the psychologists and shrinks. I say this because his compulsiveness seems to have been related to how he felt about his self image. And I won't begin to conjecture on how a five-foot, three hundred-pound man sees himself.