In the years that I’ve known Mickey and photographed him, I’ve come to know Mickey’s World well, and I guess I am a part of it now. I know Mickey’s route, from his brother George’s art gallery to the bench in front of the library down Main street to Stewart’s and then back to the Round House cafe.
Mickey is well cared for, he lives with George Forss and people in town are always bringing him clothes. He walks up and down Main street in all kinds of weather.
Mickey seems to have a sense of me that is almost psychic. I always stop and take a picture of him, and I always ask for permission and pay him something, usually between $3 and $5.
I am not the only person in town who takes care of Mickey, or who keeps an eye on him. High school kids ride by and toss him cigarettes, several men I know make sure he has money for food and warm clothes.
The town keeps an eye on Mickey, something small towns do.
In the winter, Mickey will sometimes go into the Round House to buy some hot chili, most of the time, he goes to the convenience store to buy cigarettes.
I once asked him if it was healthy, and he nodded yes, and then I realized it was none of my business, Mickey can buy whatever he wants, no strings attached.
I look for him on cold days – he loves hot coffee – and the strange thing is that he always seems to know when I am coming into town, he always comes up to me or peers in the car window and asks me how I am, and how “Mrs. Katz” is. He always asks me to say hello to her.
I come into town irregularly, and not every day (in awful weather, I do sometimes go looking for him, the rain and snow does not seem to bother him, but I see that he sometimes is cold.)
I have no idea how he seems to know when I am coming or where I might be. It is a very rare trip into town that I don’t see him, or that he doesn’t find me.
I guess this means I am a part of Mickey’s World, a long way from this brilliant young student in Brooklyn who took the wrong drugs and became a schizophrenic. Mickey disappeared for awhile, and after a few years, George ran into him in a midtown New York coffee shop.
George has been caring for Mickey ever since, and brought him to Cambridge when he moved. George takes good care of him.
I am grateful to be able to photograph Mickey, he has a remarkable face. Somehow, it seems natural that I am a part of his world.
I too live in a small town. I too support an old man who seems to be at the grocery store on a bench whenever I shop. No questions asked. I give him 10 bucks every time and we have a very nice chat. Also, a young man. No questions asked and I’m sure my money is going down a rabbit hole but he looks like he needs a good meal and somewhere warm. A few bucks every week does not make a difference to me but perhaps….just perhaps I am helping an angel in disguise.
This blog speaks so well of the best of “small town.”
Substance abuse does not cause schizophrenia—please don’t imply that Mickey is at fault for his ental illness. Educate yourself before expounding.
Righteously arrogant and obnoxious people annoy me, they swarm over the Internet. I’ve spoken to Mickey’s family and to Mickey and and also had reason to learn about his medical condition. I am quite comfortable with what I write. You seem to have no idea what you are taking about so please go and be obnoxious somewhere else. Educate yourself before bloviating.