The Legend of Ray Johnson - Part 3

Part 3 of 4:

In the first two parts of this story, I've introduced you to Ray Johnson, the inspiration for the fictional character, Ray Folsom, who plays a pivotal role in my two novels, The Blue Team and Wardrobe Of The Wolf.

Three years after meeting Ray at a prison in the Rocky Mountains, I moved out to Colorado. That was May of 1991. In December of that year Ray came to live with me and spent the first two weeks sleeping on the couch.

When my two housemates moved out after Christmas, 1991, it was just me and

Ray. Even though we had corresponded for three years, we still didn’t know each

other that well. He was a recovering alcoholic, twice my age, used to the clean and

regimented life of prison, with no discernible plan for his future other than

surviving each day. I was, in many ways, still living the life of a college kid—

focused on me and my goals and not so focused on discipline and maturity.

Things went well for about two months. I got Ray a pass to the local YMCA and he

went there every day to exercise. I also got him tickets to all the home Colorado

basketball games and he came to everyone. At times he was just as invested in the

Buffs as I was. Most nights we would eat dinner together or watch TV or Ray

would tell more stories from his past. He seemed to have an inexhaustible supply

of stories and loved telling them.

Me and Ray on Boulder porch

But one night, bored and probably irritated from avoiding alcohol, Ray snapped.

I’d made a mess in our already messy kitchen, and he exploded. He was shouting

and cussing and making thinly veiled threats of violence—against me or the messy

kitchen, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t stick around to find out. It was a snowy evening

when I grabbed a coat and walked down the street to a pay phone and called

friends. They came and picked me up and took me to their home.

I called the house and Ray answered. I told him I left because he seemed out of

control and I didn’t want a violent confrontation. My heart sank when he calmly

told me he had walked to the nearby gas station and bought a six pack of beer.

After spending the night at my friend’s house, I returned home the next day and

told Ray he needed to sign a contract and abide by its rules in order to remain

living with me. I didn’t contact his parole officer (one of his conditions for parole

was to not drink alcohol) and Ray showed true remorse for what he’d done. He

signed the contract (which included no drinking) and things got back to normal.

I reached out to a local restaurant owner who was also a huge CU Buffs supporter,

and he gave Ray a job as a dishwasher. He seemed to be turning the corner and life

was fun again.

A few weeks later I came home one afternoon and found Ray on the front porch

casually drinking a beer. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I went inside and found the

rest of the six-pack he had just bought in the fridge. I went outside and told him he

had to leave. At first, he thought I was bluffing, but quickly realized I was serious.

He left without gathering any of his things. I gathered them for him and put them

on the front porch.

Ray on porch in Boulder house

He came back later that night, but I had the house locked up. He shouted at me

from the sidewalk and I spoke to him from my open bedroom window. I was not

changing my mind. He’d broken our contract, and I was not going to enable him to

casually drink, knowing it would quickly escalate to too much drinking.

I was stunned by how quickly it became too much drinking. Over the next few

nights he would come to the house drunk, and shout at me while pacing the

sidewalk in the dark. He’d eventually leave and spend the night somewhere. He

had no family or friends that I knew of, so I figured he was sleeping outside. I

discovered he was spending at least some nights in a nearby cluster of

cottonwoods, some of my blankets and clothing hidden in the brush.

Then I didn’t see or hear from him for several days. I felt like I was betraying Ray,

but I finally decided to tell his parole officer. I’m pretty sure they put out an arrest

warrant.

About a week after I kicked him out, he showed up again, so drunk he could barely

walk. It was nighttime and I was unsure what to do. But Ray knew. There was a

nearby detox facility he was familiar with. Anyone could show up and get help, no

questions asked. I’ll never forget the funny yet tragic sight of Ray, too drunk to

open the door that led to the front porch, punching the doorknob like a boxer

hitting the heavy bag.

Once we arrived at the detox facility Ray was attended to by a nurse and I left. The

last thing I saw as I turned to leave was the big smile on his face. I was devastated.

To be continued...