The writer meets Boo Radley, but can't tell the tale

As a nonfiction writer, you sometimes stumble upon a story you just want to tell, need to tell, sometimes achingly so, because it features such rich characters, or it says something important about the way people treat one another.

But you can’t tell them all.

Nope.

Sometimes, those yarns, if written, would invade someone’s private life, tromp atop their well-guarded personal space. Alas, the story is right there for the telling, but you have resist, — like a child told no, or a recovering alcoholic who wants a drink — no matter how painful that might be.

And the anecdote I’m about to tell you is one of those missed opportunities.

It involves a man named Owen.

He had multiple personalities.

And one of those was female.

I met Owen, or he found me, a few years ago when I was reporting a story in rural Nevada. I’d already spent a few days on the road and was finally heading home, readying for the long drive south to Las Vegas.

I was working with a newspaper photographer and we stopped at a bar/restaurant/motel outpost that sat at the intersection of two major roads.

The place had character. The bartendress treated us like regulars. Bras and hunting caps hung from the rafters. The place was known for its good, greasy bar food and even featured an infamous special: 

You could eat for free if you could consume some five-pound meat monstrosity on a bun. Too many cowboys got themselves sick trying to save a few bucks, or impress their friends. 

A jukebox played a Merle Haggard oldie. 

It was just 9 a.m.

My colleague and I sat at a booth. We ordered breakfast and coffee and waited for the proprietress to roll in. I’d heard a lot about her — she’d run the place for years — and I wanted to meet her.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I locked eyes with a stubble-bearded middle-aged man bussing a nearby table. He wore a hat, I think. And he held my gaze without smiling. I looked away and then back again. 

He was still staring.

It made me uncomfortable, exposed, like I had ketchup on my forehead.

I looked again.

He was still staring.

Not in any threatening way, but his eyes consumed me.

I turned to my colleague.

“Strange dude over there.”

Just then the bartendress called out.

“How you doing today Owen?”

He mumbled a response and then left through a back door.

When she came over to refill our coffee cups, I couldn’t help myself.

“So, who is that guy?”

“Oh, that’s just Owen,” she said. “He’s harmless. He’s been here for years.”

“But, like, what’s his deal?”

Just then, the proprietress arrived. She’d been told that a couple of journalists were waiting to meet her and she plopped down into our booth, all chatty and friendly.

I liked her right off.

“These guys are curious about Owen,” the server said before hurrying off.

So, why to journalists have this need to tell?

I’ve always said that feature writers, at least this one, are like one-celled organisms with incredibly simple metabolisms.

All they need to thrive is a good story. It puts a spring in their step, offers them a renewed reason for being. A much-needed jolt to the system.

And when you find your tale, you jump into action. Because they could be here one moment, and gone the next.

Something told me Owen was a story. So I got nosey and pushed for details.

And the proprietress on only too willing to comply.

Years ago, she said, on a sweltering summer day, one of her sons saw a man riding his bike along the highway out front. He looked exhausted, like he might keel over from dehydration at any moment.

The son invited the man in for some water and rest.

The man never left.

He took up residence in a trailer out back and began doing odd jobs around the business. Otherwise, he kept to himself.

But slowly, as he became more comfortable with his surroundings, he began to open up.

For years, Owen had been a patient at a California psychiatric  hospital. One day, he got released. There was no family anyone knew of, so the orderlies just walked Owen outside, gave him a bicycle and closed the door.

He rode east, perhaps toward the East Coast, to some semblance of a past.

The he peddled by the bar.

Everyone felt protective of Owen. He was a in a world where predators are prowl. They wanted to shield him from harm.

They also learned something else about Owen.

Some days, he seemed to be like a different person. His voice carried a different inflection. On rare days, that voice was actually a falsetto.

Owen, people came to realize, had multiple personalities.

“That’s just Owen,” the proprietress said with a wave of her hand. “Once you find out who he is that day, the rest is easy.”

Those personalities all came with their own names.

At some point, a nearby bar owner came to resent Owen and how he’d become the talk of the area. Rumors spread that Owen was dangerous, some sort of escaped psychopath who could wield an ax at any moment.

Well, the proprietress and her sons put a stop that right quick. They rolled down there in their pickup truck. Threats might have been made.

But the rumors vanished.

I listened like a kid hearing a campfire ghost tale. I loved this story.

For me, the allure wasn’t just that Owen was such a fragile oddity, there was also the fact that these total strangers had rallied around to defend this vulnerable man, nurture him, allow him to be himself.

It was all about finding compassion in the most unlikely places.

“Do you think I could write about Owen,” I asked.

“Sure,” the proprietress said.

Then she turned in her seat.

“Owen? Could you come over here for a moment?”

Suddenly, he was at our table, a quiet looming Boo Radley presence.

She explained what I wanted. He didn’t say anything, nothing at all.

“Do you think you could do that?’ the woman asked.

He nodded, slowly, like a kid might do before he climbed into a stranger’s car.

“Then it’s settled,” I said. “I’ll call you down the road to arrange a time.”

Weeks passed. Finally, I called the bar.

The proprietress was frank.

No story, she said.

Why not?

“Well, the day after you were here, Owen vanished,” she said. “He was gone for weeks. Then one day, he just showed up again.”

Somehow, I must have spooked Owen. Maybe there was something, or someone, from his past that he just wanted to stay hidden from.

And these dedicated people, who wanted to protect Owen from any harm, suddenly wanted to protect Owen from me.

I was stunned, disappointed. 

I felt like a predator.

“Of course,” I said. “No story. Owen deserves his privacy.”

“I’m sorry,” the proprietress said.

Then she uttered a journalistic truism.

“Some stories just don’t need to get told.”