Engaging a Homeless Man called the King of Norway

"When I was born they named me the King of Norway."

On the way to the middle of the bridge. Notice the slope.

My granddaughter and I were crossing the Tacoma Narrows Bridge  on foot when we approached a homeless man. Em was nervous about stopping to offer help. But he wasn't muttering to himself. And his person and clothes were clean. 

The man looked to be in his 60's,  grey hair cut close to the scalp, shaved. He was lean and muscled, browned by the sun. Missing several teeth which had shifted to fill in the spaces, he reminded me of a popular childhood TV puppet, Ollie the dragon.  

 His belongings were neatly loaded onto three connected carts, fastened with duct tape and bungee cords. Strong as he appeared to be, it was a tough go uphill.  He was glad for the offer. He showed me where to grab the handle on the middle cart and my granddaughter pushed the last cart while he pulled the train backwards. 

It was hot, and even with our help we had to stop frequently. It gave him a chance to talk. I got pretty confused as he talked about various times when he served in multiple branches of the military. And when he pointed to an alder tree he launched into a little lecture about bio-organisms that he believed were being spread by the government from certain labeled transmitters. At that point I realized there was some mental disorder.

We walked, stopped again, chatted. He pointed out his well-maintained chain saw which he used to earn cash. He opened the case with pride and showed us  the tools, and the sharp chain, ready for work.

We pushed on, stopped, and he pointed out two clear indentions in his head "from bullets in the war." He didn't specify which war. 

By the time we reached the crosswalk my husband caught up with us. He heard the tail end of the conversation and asked "Do you mind if I ask how old you are?"

 "98. I'm one of Howard Hughes' sons." And then he added he had been named the King of Norway at birth.

I was so sad to think of this man, apparently able to take care of himself, so disconnected from reality. I glimpsed the terrible damage done by PTSD, or traumatic brain injury, or some other set of factors. 

I haven't talked to a homeless person in years. When I drive I ignore panhandlers at the corners with their signs. When I walk I cross the street to create a lot of space between us. 

This man carried himself with dignity.  I'm glad my stereotypes were challenged, and we got to meet the King of Norway. 

the view from the Tacoma Narrows Bridge