I was called the Hermit. Well, actually, I was called a lot of things by the kids who threw rocks and pinecones at me, but the Hermit seems to be the one that at least polite people called me. Plus, when my traps failed to catch me dinner and I couldn't scavenge any food from any other sources, I'd dig through the dumpsters behind the Country Store. Sometime in my third year here, I began to find wrapped packages in the dumpster addressed with simply "The Hermit". I'd find the food they were throwing out nicely wrapped up, so I wasn't pulling scraps out of the garbage. I assumed it was for me, so I must be the Hermit. I began checking daily and began putting on weight.
I live in a cave in the San Gabriel Mountains, adjacent to the Angeles National Forest. In fact, the Rangers have tried to chase me out several times, but my cave is on private land, so they can't evict me. I know that the owners won't either -- the land is owned by a trust and the trustees never bother to come up here. I've been here now for over twelve years. I found this cave when I was 37 years old and moved in three years later.
It's nice here in the spring and summer, and most of the fall. When it rains it can make it difficult to find food, but when my larder is full, I just stay snug in my cave. I had a catch system to trap water from rain and snow and had a cistern large enough to see me through the dry spells. And there is a natural crevice at the back of my cave where the smoke from a fire there gets naturally pulled out. I'm warm in the cave and the forest outside supplies an unending supply of firewood.
When I moved in, I brought a spit and grill to cook food on, a skillet and some pots, a hatchet, an axe, and a pair of good knives. I had a trunk filled with clothes and a metal cooler in which I could keep food secure from scavenging animals. Twelve years later the clothes were worn threadbare, the grill was warped from years on roaring fires, and the edges on my implements were pitted and uneven. I'd forgotten a whetstone and had been sharpening my tools on a granite slab.
I hacked off my hair and beard when they had grown too long. I knew that in my ragged clothes and wild hair I was a scary sight to the campers and hikers that came across me. I did my best to avoid contact, staying on private land as much as possible, but had to venture out for the food packets at the Country Store.
That's what lead to my downfall. I headed down to the store as soon as the moonrise gave me enough light to navigate the trail. It was when I was crossing the highway that a car whipped around the curve and slammed me down the road.
I woke in the hospital, where I saw the white coated doctor looking at my old wallet, which I still carried. She stared at the wallet before turning her blue eyes to me. "Daddy? DADDY?" I passed out again.
I used to be J. Walsh Pickford, Walsh to my friends, Mr. Pickford to everyone else. I owned 65% of Pickford Enterprises, a multi-billion-dollar holding company. I controlled a score of business in various industries and had real estate holdings in 37 states. I had been on Forbes List, way down the list, around 1650, way down past where most people stop looking. I was self-made. With just the twenty million my father gave me I built an empire before I was 25.
After I met and married Priscilla Maycomb, I thought I had it all. A business empire, fawning employees, and a gorgeous wife. I thought that was everything, until Sylvia was born. From the first time I held her in my arms, Silly was my life. I spent every moment I could with my little beauty. I never missed a dance recital, a soccer game, or a father-daughter dance. On weekends we'd go hiking or biking, or take her friends to Magic Mountain, Disneyland or out to the beach. I'd thought we had a happy family. Silly, Priscilla and me.
But of course, I wouldn't be the Hermit if that were true. Between work and my little Silly, I failed to notice that my wife had an increasing number of commitments that took her away from our weekend outings. I probably would have stayed blissfully ignorant except for Silly's bike accident. It's an old story, a sordid story I'm sure you're all familiar with. Coming home early, unexpectedly, to find clothes strewn around the house, a wife with her legs in the air.
Of course, it was all a mistake, a one-time event, never to happen again, blah, blah, blah. I tried to make it work for Silly's sake, but trust was gone and so many things now made me suspicious. I don't know what I had in mind, but that's when I had the company engineers set up the catch basin and cistern in the cave. It was on land I owned but had now moved to a new trust that only my lawyers knew about.
Of course, it wasn't one-time, hadn't ceased and the next time she was entertaining two gentlemen. I immediately fired them from my gardening staff and informed my wife that I'd be filing for divorce forthwith.
The bitch smirked at me. "I'll be keeping your precious Sylvia." She gloated. "She's not even yours and I have the DNA results to prove it."
I left. I left everything. I hung around town just long enough to move most of my assets into a trust for Silly. I didn't care if she wasn't my kid, but I knew my wife would never let me see her if she had her way. But I could give her everything. Which I did. I set it up in a trust managed by the board of directors of Pickford Enterprises. The lawyers and I had set up the framework after I first discovered Priscilla's infidelity, and there was little to do beyond signing the paperwork to set it in motion. Then I walked away.
I threw away my tie and used my car as I purchased the things I'd need. I transported them to the cave, then returned the car that night to my lawyer's parking lot. I signed the pink slip over to the lawyer, put it and the keys in an envelope, and slipped it through the mail slot in his door. Then I walked away.
Now twelve years later I was back, sort of. I awoke in a bed with guardrails, in a room, a pleasant if unremarkable room, with a cast on my left leg. I hurt and wasn't surprised when a nurse led a doctor into my room. I rubbed my face and realized that someone had trimmed my beard. A quick feel revealed that my hair had also been trimmed. Someone had cleaned me up.
"Mr. Pickford?" the doctor queried. "Do you know who you are?"
I sighed. "Yes, I am J. Walsh Pickford."
"I'm Dr. Medford, Dr. Oscar Medford." The doctor exchanged a glance with the nurse. "Do you know where you are?"
"No, not specifically. I'd say a medical facility, but this bed isn't a hospital bed." I ventured.
The doctor leaned closer. "Mr. Pickford, this is the Wellingham Medical Center."
I flopped back onto the pillow and looked at the ceiling. "The place we used to call the Well I'm Mental Center? The looney-bin?"
"Yes, but we don't use those terms here, Mr. Pickford. We are a therapeutic hospital. Your family is concerned. You disappeared over a decade ago and have apparently been living in the wild since then."
