I’m crazy, I often tell people. Not Son Of Sam crazy, just regular crazy. It’s a joke I stole from Chevy Chase over 40 years ago. I do get to see Son Of Sam crazy though, almost daily.
Every few days or so, when I walk along the Pico Promenade, a nature trail which runs through town and parallels Main Street, my dog and I pass by a young man for whom crazy is the most appropriate term, despite that the term isn’t a politically correct.
He’s maybe in his mid-20s – Hispanic, with extremely short hair, and razor stubble which is always in equal proportion to the hair on his head. Always shabbily dressed, and always standing in one spot, looking slightly up, and talking aloud in Spanish. Occasionally he laughs, and gestures with his hands. He seldom acknowledges us when we pass by, as though he’s in another dimension of time and doesn’t even know we’re there.
I confess, he scares me a little.
I’m not a rocket psychiatrist, but I’ll go out on a limb and suggest he’s had a hit or 10 too many of something that may have contained drain cleaner or radiator coolant as a major ingredient. The brain cells which seem to have once been there, probably developed some gaps. I could be wrong, but knowing this town and those who gather behind Main Street, I doubt it.
Occasionally, my dog will slow down to sniff the man’s pant leg or shoes. At this, I usually cringe a bit, and hope that he doesn’t sniff too long. Yesterday, Stroodle must have latched on to a scent, because he stayed at the man’s feet smelling his sock for a moment.
Not sure what to do, I simply said good morning to him. At that, he stopped his Spanish chatter, looked me in the eye, and asked in perfect English, and with an absolute presence of being, if I had money for some cigarettes. I told him no, and apologized that I did not. He looked to the ground slightly disappointed, then turned his eyes back to the sky and continued his Spanish chatter.
My dog and I continued on… Jhciacb
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