Ben Stack

Last year we had a craftsman (a guy recommended to me by Mr. Devonshire), an
engaging Irishman who spouted Thomas Hardy & a love of composing music, fall
on a wet metal stairs while coming down from a roof.

Though I have a rule to not hire poets and otherwise inspired artists, having
enough trouble keeping myself on track, I liked the guy's spunk and was
looking out for him. The morning he fell on the stairs I dropped everything
and went over to the job. The medics were there just putting him on the
stretcher, and I rode with him in the ambulance over to St. Vincent's
Hospital.

They guy was really out of it, and kept mumbling in French. Finally I leaned
over the gurney, looked him straight in the face and said, "Ben, if you want
me to understand what you are saying you have to speak in English." Later he
told me that when he saw my face he thought that we had taken him back to the
shop for repairs.

He had no idea where he was or what was going on. After admitting him into
the ER they sent me off with his work boots. At the end of the day he called
me to return his boots and to bring him a pair of pants. They had cut up his
pants and thrown them away and now they were booting him out of the ER. I was
not allowed in to see him and had a problem getting his clothes past the
security guard and it was hours later that he was released.

In the evening he was discharged out onto the street and went home on the
subway. The entire event left me feeling helpless. This was the beginning of
a long chapter in Ben's life and not one that he either anticipated or
understood the full implications of.

Turned out Ben incurred a serious mental debilitation wherein he is unable to
work, write, read, play music, or listen to music with any sense of
satisfaction. He has neck and back problems, walks with a cane, and though in
his early forties lookes in his sixties. His world has turned into a mush of
lawyers, doctors, and dealing with worker's comp.

He stopped by the shop yesterday and I talked with him for about a half hour.
We talked about the lousy movies produced by Hollywood. Never once did he
speak in bitterness, even when explaining the details of his loss.

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