11 FEB 05: SCOTT'S ISSUES

The gas tank was full, after stopping at Summit. How ironic -- for as I parked my car and got out at home Thursday afternoon, I met a man the size of a small mountain.

"Can you give me a ride across the bridge?" he asked walking across the avenue. Then he added: "I need to get to Hurtsboro." That's a town at the west edge of Russell County - and one long way across the bridge.

I was willing to give this stranger a ride - which I suppose was Mistake #1 on my part. Columbus Police warned several months ago against doing this, because a killer of several people was on the loose. I don't think that suspect's been arrested - but then the current 2005 homicide count stands at Phenix City 2, Columbus 1.

Before I allowed the man to enter my car, I required a weapon check for safety's sake. He wasn't carrying anything - and a check of his bulging waistline showed it wasn't simply an extra-large sweatshirt he was wearing. That was all really his stomach.

The stranger climbed into the passenger seat of my humble Honda, and truly filled it. Instead of a trip to Hurtsboro, this man could have used a ride to Albany -- since at least THAT city is going to have arena football come April.

My guest claimed other people down the street wanted two or three dollars to give him a ride to Hurtsboro. He seemed a bit surprised that I was willing to give him a ride for free. Then again, I let people read this blog all the time - and THEY all do it for free.

"I need to pick up my clothing," the man said as I backed out of the parking spot. Uh-oh. I quickly pulled back into the spot, and put on the brake. I've had roommates and their buddies pull this on me over the years - as the one place they need to go turns into enough stops for a late-night city bus line.

"Before we go any further, where else are we going?" I asked my passenger with admittedly a touch of annoyance. "We're getting your clothes, we're going to Hurtsboro - and what else?"

"That's it," the man assured me. I explained as we restarted the trip I don't like people "piling on" extra stops - which may explain why I haven't gone shopping with any women in a long time.

"My name's Scott," said my guest offering his left hand. I was driving, so I didn't offer a handshake. And as I normally do with beggars, I did NOT tell them my name. Gifts seem purer to me when they're anonymous - although I'd want Publishers Clearing House to identify itself if they come to my door with the $10 million check.

We stopped the car about three blocks from my home, so Scott could get his clothing. I remembered stopping at this Sixth Street house before - several years ago, after an older man barely able to speak knocked on my door at 9:30 one night with a five-foot-tall bag filled with clothes. How DO people lose their way walking from the laundromat?

After waiting a moment, Scott came out of the house with a letter-sized brown envelope. If his clothing was in here, the envelope might have held a T-shirt and a pair of briefs - and as big as Scott was, I didn't even want to envision that.

"That's your clothing?"

"Someone in there offered to do my laundry for me," Scott explained.

"But I'm driving you to Hurtsboro. How are you going to get back here?" I thought Scott's car might be in a downtown repair shop -- and the bicycle shop didn't have a bike large enough for him to rent.

"How did you wind up here?" I asked Scott further.

"I just got out of jail."

"For what?"

"A probation violation." How do these beggars wind up reaching me, while missing all the law offices in the historic district?

"So we're going to Hurtsboro now?" I said to Scott - since it's always good to reconfirm a trip before you leave.

"Yes, and it's 30 miles." Scott apparently had time to study road maps, while behind bars.

"You say what you mean and mean what you say?" I asked.

"Yes." This approach seems to work for Horton the elephant, in the children's books.

But as we rolled toward the Oglethorpe Bridge quietly, Scott suddenly had another idea. "You can let me off here," he said pointing ahead to a Spectrum station. "I can see I'm aggravating you."

"You're not doing that. I can take you to Hurtsboro." All I remember doing is turning up a radio talk show a little. Since it was a religious radio station, maybe Scott would hear something to prevent a return trip to jail - unless a preacher started offering miracle cures for money.

"What's frustrating for me about beggars," I said as we turned onto the Oglethorpe Bridge, "is how they so often change what they really want. For instance, they might say, 'I'm trying to get something to eat' -- and if you offer them something to eat, they don't want it. They really want something else." They must hear too many political promises....

Unbeknownst to me at the time, I think my explanation/vent was convicting Scott's conscience. "You can let me off at the truck stop," pointing ahead to the Citgo on U.S. 431 just south of the 280 Bypass. I dropped off another beggar there two years ago -- so when is Greyhound putting a bus station there?

"I have someone to see there," Scott explained about stopping at the truck stop.

"That's OK. I can take you to Hurtsboro." What part of "I can" didn't this man understand?

"Please let me out at the truck stop," Scott said as we turned onto U.S. 431 and headed south.

"Why won't you let me take you to Hurtsboro?"

"Will you please stop up here at the truck stop? I'll have to walk...."

"You won't have to walk, because I'm driving you to Hurtsboro." A 30-mile walk can take awhile, you know.

Scott again pleaded, but I drove on past the truck stop. "Will you please stop here?"

"Why don't you want me to take you to Hurtsboro?" I asked again.

"You're frightening me."

"How am I frightening you?"

"Will you please stop up here?" Scott pointed to a B.P. station down the highway.

"Please close the door," I said noting Scott had opened the car's passenger door a little. Imagine a 275-pound man jumping out of a car going about 50 miles per hour. Maybe Arnold Schwarzenegger could do it in a movie, but him?!

"How am I frightening you?" I asked again.

"You're talking loud to me. I'm not used to that." Mistake #2: other people have warned me about this. I tend to talk louder when I'm exasperated, thinking somehow that will drive home a point to somebody. But so many preachers seem to think it works....

I apologized to Scott for speaking loudly. I didn't realize the deputies at the Muscogee County Jail talked so quietly to the inmates. It probably prevents lawsuits.

In a softer voice, I again said I'd take Scott to Hurtsboro as he requested. But he asked me to go back to the truck stop -- and finally confessed he didn't really mean what he said back on Sixth Street. "I just got out of jail, and I didn't know how to react." Hopefully the jail will get a tape of Kari Tornabene's "Honesty Test" to fix that.

"So I guess you're using to people scamming you - just as you scam others?" Scott confirmed my hunch of fascination. "And when someone treats you honestly, you're scared by that?!" I figured this out, even without watching Dr. Phil McGraw every night.

With Scott confirming he didn't really want to go to Hurtsboro, I hit the turn signal and made a U-turn at the entrance to Chattahoochee Valley Community College. As we drove back north toward the truck stop, Scott started confessing: "I was treated badly in jail." Where IS there a "Camp Cupcake" in Columbus?

"Lesson one for you after leaving jail," I said after the U-turn, "is that not everybody is out to scam you. There ARE honest people out there, who are willing to help you if you're honest with them." I didn't say where they were - and wasn't thinking about any car dealer in particular.

"Was this your first trip to jail?"

"Yes."

"How'd you wind up there, if I might ask?"

"I was riding in a car with two friends. They pulled us over and found drugs in the trunk, and they arrested me with the others." Hopefully the NAACP is reading this - because Scott never said a word about police brutality.

"So who mistreated you in jail?"

"The other inmates."

"What did they do?"

"They jumped me," Scott said almost in tears. "I tried to make nice with them...." That's an interesting idea - but it's hard to think outside the box when you're stuck inside a cell.

We finally pulled into the Citgo truck stop parking lot, and Scott showed me practically all his possessions. He had less than 50 cents in change, and a Bible was inside his brown envelope. "I'm trying to live by this," Scott assured me. Hopefully he'll get to the verses about "bearing false witness" before long.

Scott asked if I could buy him a sandwich at Waffle King, or give him money for one. "But that's another change," I told him. Holding some beggars to their word can be like trying to hold a kitten inside an unsealed cardboard box.

I'd given Scott the "ride across the bridge" he requested less than 30 minutes earlier, and that would be all. He wrote down my phone number on the brown envelope before he left. "I'll be calling you," he promised. We'll see if he does - but I hope he realizes I'm not listed in the phone book under "Taxi."

(P.S. Yes, I really WAS prepared to drive Scott all the way to Hurtsboro. Remember, I had a full tank of gas - and I hadn't been to Hurtsboro since I sang at a funeral there about six years ago. But he seemed to be so heavy that I might have had to pull over to increase my tire pressure.)

Now a quick wrap-up of other notes from Thursday:

+ Winds in Columbus gusted as high as 30 miles per hour. You can always tell if it's windy in my neighborhood -- by the trash cans lying sideways on the ground.

+ Columbus city officials held a meeting on why the water flow from the Chattahoochee River seems to be slowing. We'd like to thank the managers of the Mockingbird Mobile Home Park for taking action to correct this....

(Take that, you skeptics! I promise at the top of this blog to talk about "the flow of the river," and sometimes I really deliver on it.)

+ Instant Message to whoever wrote the words "GOD IS ALL GOOD" on the floor of a Benning Park racquetball court: I agree with you, He IS all good - but is graffiti?

COMING THIS WEEKEND: Hey, who moved my stock car race?....

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