The Human Chameleon

In the early 90's a man entered the Health Center whose appearance reminded me of a black Don Quixote. Thin, scraggy-bearded, unkempt hair standing on end and looking as if the wind was battling to see which direction would win, every movement was quixotic. His name was Ben Collins and was truly a unique man.

After working at Sugar Loaf for over forty years I can say with confidence that I've met nearly every type of Western Man. It's like what a teacher-friend I knew said: if you've been in the classroom for seven years, you've probably seen every physical type there is --- that's why students begin to resemble each other the longer you teach. I would modify that to fit Sugar Loaf by saying that you also meet every psychological type. And Ben fit the Yes-Man to a T.

A Yes-Man is one with a weak self-image, one who wants to play it safe and never be threatened. By agreeing with and repeating everything you say, he's on solid ground because the words aren't his but yours. Ben took this one step further: he learned a few things about everyone at the facility, then whenever he met you he repeated the contents of his mental data base. In this way, the only thing one heard was a short biography of himself. It was like the student who had learned his teacher's speech patterns, favorite stories, and even mannerisms, so when he spoke with the teacher he acted like the mentor's mirror. Safe ground, one might think, until the teacher/Staff caught onto the technique, realizing that the student/Resident was never saying an original word or thought, only

protecting himself. So every day I met Ben I was reminded of my background. Which, while flattering the first few times, became a bore after a dozen, and downright irritating after the hundredth.

Ben was, then, like so many of the Residents, an opportunity for me to hone different aspects of myself after seeing an image of myself through this Yes-Man. What I needed to work on was patience and tolerance. I needed to witness my acts and keep my ego from squeaking through. Thanks to Ben Collins, I gained far more than a pay check from Sugar Loaf; I gained a free education about myself.

I feel I must wave my already-mentioned caution-flag here: never think that I poke fun at the handicapped. I'm convinced that the people who tell Helen Keller jokes aren't maligning the blind, they are innocently passing on jokes to make us laugh. Like that, though the reader may disagree, by retelling the stories of Sugar Loaf Residents, I am not belittling them nor making fun of them, I'm simply passing on profiles of interesting people, people who often gave me pleasure and I hope will please you as well. In the case of Ben Collins, there was a great deal of interest and entertainment once I detached myself from my reactions to seeing myself through his mimicry.

The most interesting aspect of Ben was when he interacted with Jenny Folsum. Remember that Jenny was 300-pounds-plus whose Santa Claus laugh could shatter glass at a hundred yards, she had more energy than two NFL Linebackers combined, and a sense of humor that would make the Three Stooges look like one. Aside from these outstanding qualities, it's also true that her perception was phenomenal. She had her debilitating, extreme self-indulgence, her reason for being at Sugar Loaf, but her ability to diagnose and turn around the likes of Ben Collins was enough to warrant an Academy Award. Here's how Jenny handled the

often irritating Mr. Collins.

When she sensed Ben's game, she would put on her own show. At one time she would act as if she were suicidal, dropping all sorts of clues that she was going to do herself in that very night. At the next encounter she'd pretend she was going to run so far from Sugar Loaf they'd NEVER find her. Another time she would act like Ms Promiscuity and ready to go to bed with every man at Sugar Loaf. She had other acts in her bag of tricks, all aimed to confuse Mr. Chameleon, the Yes-Man Collins. What confused Ben was which act to mimic. Should he project self-destruction, a big come-on, or a clown act? Poor Ben didn't know what to do. Imagine this scenario which I dutifully copied in my Sugar Loaf Journal.

Jenny, gloomily, going for Suicidal, "You know, man. Eeore had it right. Dark. Depressed. What's the use?"

Ben, copying. "Yes, sister-woman, all's bad that starts bad. Republicans in office, the economy's down, there's no hope."

Jenny, changing to Escapist. "You got it, man. I can't stand this place. I have to get out and the sooner the better."

Ben, switching roles. "Yeah, I know what you mean. This place is NO WHERE-Ville. Time to hit the road. Make tracks. Don't let grass grow under your feet."

Jenny, Seductive. "Before I go, you want a little sugar, Benny Boy?"

Ben, still unaware he's been lead on. "Yeah, baby. Any hour of the day or night. See you in 103 after Juice Break."

I tried every technique I know from laughing out loud when I witnessed these charades. I tried everything from holding my breath to tightening my leg muscles to biting my lip. More often than not I had to turn by back and feign laughing at something I was pretending to read. Because jolly Jenny would lead him from one scenario to another so fast he didn't have

time to realize what was happening. He resembled a chameleon running a hundred-yard dash through a plaid-making factory.

With everyone else, Ben Collins was still the Yes-Man par excellence. At light-speed he could mimic you and make you think you were looking straight in a mirror. How many times I wondered what the real Ben sounded like, because he never spoke a word of his own. Who was that man hiding under the quixotic skin?