16-MARCH-2008

WRONG NUMBER

I was awakened by an unfamiliar voice on my answering machine at nine-thirty this morning.  Gabby was looking for Adam; something about a pink slip.  I don't know an Adam and I don't know nuthin' 'bout no pink slip.  I rolled over, grabbed the remote, turned on the TV, and pulled up the covers.  The house was chilly.  We'd gotten a little snow during the night.  This Old House was just ending and nothing interesting was coming on TV.  Ah, I have a pot roast to cook today.  If I want to eat before ten o'clock tonight I'd better get up and get it started.

I turned off the TV, slid my feet into a pair of slippers, tossed on a coat, dressed Ruby in an extra sweater and clipped on her leash, then opened the back door so she could go pee outside.  The leash is long enough so I don't have to go out myself.  But I do have to keep my leg firmly anchored in the opened doorway to keep the cat from sneaking outside.

I exchanged the coat for a robe and got the package of meat out of the refrigerator.  The meat browned nicely, the onions and garlic had softened and were starting to brown, too.  It always smells so good right then.  I added a few more spices, a couple bullion cubes and a couple cups of water before going back into the bedroom to check email and search the want ads for a job.

I'd just sorted through the new and junk email and was about to delete old emails when the phone rang again.  This time it was Carol looking for Adam.  I could tell she didn't quite believe me when I said I didn't know anyone named Adam.  As she began to explain why she wanted to talk to him, I knew this was no ordinary wrong number.

Have you ever gotten a wrong number like this?  I suppose lots of folks have.  It's a much smaller world than we want to concede sometimes.  This is a rural area of nothing but small towns -- you're bound to meet someone who knows someone that knows you.  It was like that.

Carol lives in a one hundred-year old house in a remote area up in the hills a few miles north of, and behind, Stagecoach.  "It's off the grid," she said.  I learned that means living on a long, bumpy, not maintained dirt (mud in the winter) road, without electricity and having only a cell phone.  The pipes freeze in the winter and propane is so expensive that she usually needs several cords of wood to make it through a winter.  She and Adam usually cut the wood them themselves to save money.  There's also an old generator to maintain and keep fueled.  Not to mention all the 'normal' repairs Nevada weather foists upon you.

Carol has a house cleaning business that was doing very well until she developed a degenerative and painful malfunction in her back.  She still works as much as she can, but earns barely enough to get by on.  She also rescues horses when they're in situations she can't turn away from.  She and Adam have been living together and rescuing horses for the past eight years.  It had consisted of much hard work and several headaches, but was a very rewarding endeavor.

She'd known Adam and his ex-wife for a few years before they were divorced.  No one liked the cheating ex-wife much and everyone thought Adam was a good husband and father.  So, naturally, when Carol and Adam hooked up a couple years after the divorce, Carol thought she was getting a good man.

She described Adam as a dark blonde, blue-eyed, tall, charming, fun, very handsome man.  He has horses and likes trail riding and horse camping, same as Carol.  Sounded like the perfect package.  We all know how deceiving looks can be.  Somewhere along the way alcohol became a problem for Adam.  Carol only drinks a little, "socially."  There was a rehab involved and the recovery lasted for about four years, then, last year, Adam fell off the wagon again.  This time, Carol suspected drugs might be involved as well.  It happens.

Gabby was looking for him because he'd paid Adam $12,000 for a truck, and Adam had given Gabby a bill of sale, but signed the pink slip on the wrong line.  The DMV won't accept it without Adam's signature on the correct line.  Consequently, the nice, shiny truck just sits in Gabby's driveway raising his blood pressure.  Gabby calls Adam's boss with pleas to talk to Adam, but the boss can only take a message.  He can't make Adam call back.  And Adam does not call back.  The boss had, however, given Gabby my phone number as the number where Adam could be reached.  I suspect it's the most popular local error.  The Silver Springs prefix is 577.  The Fernley prefix is 575.  I've mis-dialed it myself.

Back in December of 2007, Carol's back had her practically bed-ridden, they were out of hay for their horses, almost out of propane, hadn't gotten the winter's firewood yet, and Carol's only vehicle, a truck, was broken down.  It was Carol's birthday the afternoon Adam drove out to go get some hay.  That's the last time she saw him.

Carol called all the local police stations to see if he'd been arrested.  She called the hospitals to see if he'd been in an accident.  No one had any record of him.  She even called his family in San Diego to let them know he was "missing."  She doesn't know what Adam may have told them, but they eventually started hanging up on her whenever she called. He still works for the same construction outfit, but she has been unable to track him down there either because he seems to be at a different job site every day and no one in the office will say where.

Adam just drove off, never to return.  He left Carol in dire straights for the winter.  He left her to care for a dog his kids had given him  for Christmas twelve years earlier.  He left his two horses for her to feed.  He left her without any hay for the horses, wood for heat, propane for cooking, or a running vehicle, in the winter — on her birthday.  He didn't say anything.  Not "go to hell" or "f*ck you," or anything.  Not even a grunt good-by.  He just drove off.  That's low.  That's really low.  That sets a new, even more despicable bar for "low."

It made me mad just to hear about it.  I told Carol that if I found him, I'd take great delight in hanging him from a strong, high branch on the big tree in my yard.  She asked me not to start without her.  I promised I wouldn't.  Hey, leave an adult, but don't leave defenseless, dependent animals in the dead cold of winter without food.  The dog got depressed and pined away, refusing to eat.  It eventually got pneumonia and died.  Without firewood, the best Carol could do was to keep one room of her old house at thirty degrees through the winter.

Fortunately, she has a friend with a truck that got hay to her for the horses. She still had to get her truck fixed with next to no money, and her back hurting so badly that she never knew from one day to the next if she'd be able to finish that day's work so she could get paid.  And, it was winter.  Winter in a one hundred-year old house with no electricity and really only enough propane to cook with.  Wow.  Some people are really tough.

It makes you wonder how the pioneers managed it.  They didn't have the miracle fabrics we enjoy to keep us warm.  They didn't have cell phones to call for help.  Heck, they didn't even have propane.  I've lived in a place with no electricity, but it didn't snow there.  I was also much younger then, I don't think I'd attempt it now.

I cheered and counseled Carol the best I could.  I pointed out that she's still standing and he's still an asshole.  I suggested she put up fliers to warn other unsuspecting women that Adam might prey on.  She's heard he's hooked up with a local schoolteacher, but nothing's certain.  He could be anywhere, doing anything to anyone.

Sounds like an easy guy to turn away from, doesn't he?  Yeah, but the heart is fickle and clouded.  There is no clear logic when it comes to emotions.  Carol has been married three times, but none of the men in her life shared an interest in horses, trail riding, and horse camping except Adam.  I know what that's like.  I have the same problem/issue/experience.

When there's something in your life that you're passionate about, something you'd rather do than anything else, something you can't get enough of -- finding someone who enjoys it and wants to share that interest and passion with you is a very rare thing.  It creates an extremely strong bond.  It's hard to find and even harder to let go of.  Remember the great summer vacations you had as a kid?  Remember much how fun they were and how you never wanted them to end?  It's very much like that.  You feel like it's the end of the last great summer vacation you'll ever have.

I suspect that, like most of us, Carol has her own set of issues for any prospective 'mate' to deal with, but Adam is in a class by himself.  He's a real piece of work.  He's exactly the sort of man you hear about on 20-20 or 60 Minutes.  You've seen it over and over again:  The nice little old lady neighbor who didn't have a clue that Jeffery Dalmer was a serial killer and cannibal because he was always so quiet, so nice and polite; always helping with her trash.  Or the guy with eighteen wives -- all of whom married him because he was "too good to be true" and "a real catch."  Of course, that was before he bilked them all out of thousands of dollars.  Yeah, they're out there.  If you're a single woman, you really have to do your homework and thoroughly check someone out before getting involved with them.

Carol has been in Nevada for about fifteen years. She lived in the Minden and Tahoe areas before landing in Stagecoach.  She's found the employment condition in Nevada to be just as deplorable as I have.  When she couldn't find a job, she started her own house cleaning business.  Not her first choice, but she had few options.  "They (employers) try to work you to death, barely pay more than minimum wage, and treat you like shit."  Hearing her say that was like listening in a mirror.  It's true.  Nevada sucks and I don't care who hears me say so.  It can be a fun place to visit, but I can't recommend living here.

I say that, but am actually looking forward to retiring here only because of all the BLM available land to ride on.  But, that may not last.  Something new is afoot and the State is trying to convert thousands of BLM acreage into something else that would either eliminate or greatly reduce public access.  Hey, you know my motto:  If I can get on, I'll be riding; and they have to catch me first.

I asked if she was on disability and heard a familiar, mocking chortle.  It's pretty much the same story with everyone I talk to.  When Carol was diagnosed with her back ailment, the doctor immediately told her to apply for disability because the condition was already somewhat advanced by the time it was discovered and it's degenerative.  It will continue to deteriorate and can never get better.

She did apply for disability.  All they did was give her the run around and drag her through the ringer.  She had all the paperwork and doctor data they requested, but every time she presented it, on their timetable, they told her that the information she presented was too old and that she needed "current" examination results from her doctor.  If it was more than two months old, they told her it was "too old." 

She finally got an attorney.  It took three years to get her case to court.  The judge didn't believe her, questioned the doctor's findings, and essentially told her attorney that he was an idiot and had done everything wrong.  The attorney quit.  Carol would have had to begin the entire process all over again if she pursued it farther.

You know how it goes; there have been reports of the abuses of the disability system and how its utter incompetence and formidable rules have been the ruin of many people.  Like most people who have no idea what they're getting into when they apply for disability, I'm sure Carol did several things wrong.  If not wrong, then there were most likely things she could have done differently that would've been more beneficial.  It's unlikely, however, that it would have changed the outcome of her case.

"Just get a more current  description of the condition from your doctor."  Sounds like a simple request, but try doing it over and over if you have no health insurance, or no job, or a very limited income.  It's impossible, and that's what the disability machine counts on.  People get worse, are able to work less, get evicted, and just plain run out of options and energy to deal with it.

Beyond that, I've heard that they'll ask, "If you can't walk, can you still use your hands?  If you can still use your hands, you can still be employed and don't need disability."  Never mind any constant pain or the painkillers necessary to function beyond the pain.  Never mind that the pain keeps you awake, or awakens you, thus forcing you into a chronic state of sleep deprivation….   Which leads to even poorer health.  It's a government agency and the whole system sucks.  If you don't require a new kidney, you probably aren't going to qualify for disability.

I'm seriously considering that option for myself.  The orthopedic surgeon who diagnosed both my deteriorating knees as requiring complete knee replacement, assured me that if I continued taking Ibuprofen and Aleve at the rate I found necessary to dull the pain enough to function, I would need a kidney transplant before my knees got fixed.  But, hey, if I can stay awake after not sleeping well for weeks at a time, I can still use my hands!

Back to Carol's wrong number call…..

Carol put up a big water tank for the wild mustangs a couple years ago.  She hasn't seen them much lately.  BLM rounded most of them up, but in comparing notes, we concluded that several others must have been illegally captured.  Most illegal captures end up in the meat processing plants in Canada.  We don't know for sure what happened to them, but if they're there for several years, then suddenly they aren't there, and the BLM guy knows nothing of their departure….  Well, draw your own conclusions.

I’m torn about protecting the mustangs.  It's a quite complicated issue.  When you try to preserve any animal because of its 'historical significance,' you first have to have collected a genetic database to verify the historical line.  BLM, being "just another government agency," did not take that into consideration when it began 'saving' and 'managing' the mustangs.  They still don't.  Makes it pretty difficult to save them in any meaningful way.

There are a few dedicated volunteer groups who have been trying to collect and preserve the mustangs through the use of genetics.  They've conclusively traced some of them back to their Spanish ancestors.  But, again, the BLM being "just another government agency" pays little, if any, attention to these important findings.  There's no money in it, so why would they?  But the mustangs are a whole 'nuther tale.  This story is supposed to be about a wrong number.

I hope Carol was feeling better by the time we got of the phone.  I think she was; she was looking forward to the warmer Spring weather.  We know a couple other horse people in common.  She's seen my horse, Jake, when driving by his field and thinks he's very striking, quite handsome, and huge.  Well, what can I say, he is.  She has my number and I have hers.  Maybe we'll both make it and be OK.  Maybe we'll even get a chance to go riding together some day.