Thursday, October 04, 2007

My First Actual Crazy Guy

A few nights ago, I got visited by my first honest-to-God crazy guy. I say "honest-to-God crazy guy" because there are typically three types of crazy people I can think of offhand, who would wander in off the street at two in the morning.

There are the common type whose brains have been so far deteriorated by drug and alcohol consumption that they no longer know or care what they look or act like in public. No matter how ill-fitting or disgusting the clothing is, as long as it reasonably covers their nasty bits, they'll wear it. Here we have our crack whores whose bodies stopped developing around the time they picked up their habit at eight-years-old, but for some reason love to show off the nothing that they don't realize they got, or on the other end of the spectrum, we have the great American bovine woman who still insists she's a size 2 when she's really a size 42 and her clothes just want you to take a pair of scissors and put an end to their strain. The men are even worse. These are the guys whose Sunday Best clothes are the ones where the oil, grass, dirt, food, cum stains don't cover more than 95% of their entire outfits. Their lined faces betray the number of years spent scrunched up in confused expression, they have three days' worth of stubble, and their hair hasn't been washed in months. They buy a six pack of beer a night and put upwards of $1.49 in their gas tank when one gallon costs $3.90. The crack whores are often seen getting out of their trucks or conversion vans, having been picked up at the local strip clubs.

Then there are the perfectly normal, decent, respectable members of society who collapse under the weight of their own entitlement. These are the ones who dress well, hold lucrative, enviable jobs, raise families, yet can't figure out to take a couple napkins and wipe up their coffee spills, or throw away their trash in the trash can. These people are generally courteous and decent. They can hold it together as long as things are going well, but as soon as one minor inconvenience hits them, like their debit card being declined because the debit network goes down, they implode in a narcissistic meltdown. If you want to see a forty-year-old office manager mother of four start bouncing around a store screaming like a retard about the End Times, just tell them that they have to prepay for their gas like every single other human being on the planet who ambles into the store. These people most make me wish it was legal to shoot other people with horse tranquilizers.

Then there are the verifiable, textbook crazy people who have nowhere to go at two in the morning since the city closed down the mental institution and told the patients to strike out in the world and make their fortunes, so they decide to visit any open establishment and drop some of their crazy on some poor, unsuspecting retail clerk. These include, but are not limited to, the End Times prophets, the religious zealots, the alien abductees, the Illuminati conspiracists, and any level of psychopath from schizophrenics to mass murderers.

Anyway, the other night, a guy walks into the store telling me he's a "Man in Black" because he's wearing all black. What he's wearing is black Reeboks, black jeans, and a faded black thermal shirt with a white tee shirt underneath. The most notable thing about his ensemble is that his arms are not through his sleeves, but down the inside of his shirt with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. Then without preamble, he starts talking about the vast alien conspiracy described in rap and pop lyrics, dropping names from Will Smith to Jay-Z to Justin Timberlake.

It's two in the morning. No one else is around, so I decide to humor the guy for a little bit because as long as he wasn't hurting anything, maybe he'd just spew his rhetoric and leave and I wouldn't have to call the cops, however I did edge closer and closer to the phone with every new word he uttered. I'm listening to his diatribe, all the while thinking, "Okay, are you a violent crazy or a non-violent crazy?" I think when dealing with the certifiably insane, that's the most important question, because you never know when they're going to start throwing the Little Debbie snack cakes against the wall, believing they're ridding the world of flesh-eating mollusks or something.

He goes on to announce that Lil' Kim is having his baby, and I've had enough of pretending to be fascinated by this information and confide in him that he picked the absolute worst person to discuss these lyrics with because I honestly don't follow that kind of music. "You don't listen to rap?" I could probably out-psycho him with my hatred of the greater rap industry, but instead of setting him off like a bottle rocket, I just tell him it's not my thing. He asks me what I'm playing and at the time it was The Gathering, which he automatically assumed was a pagan band despite the fact that 98% of everbody in America has never heard of them. Yeah, because rap and Justin Timberlake pop is so much more Christian. If The Gathering is pagan, then I'd classify rap and Timberpop as heathen music because they glorify hedonism. That's neither here nor there, though. I just shrugged at his accusation.

Anyway, he confides in me that he went to sleep the previous night in his own bed and woke up in the middle of the city. He starts to search his pockets and realizes that — I am not making this up — the aliens took his wallet. He had several thousand dollars in his wallet, and the aliens kept it. Okay, now this guy is crazy for two reasons. Either he's making this all up, or he's telling the God-honest truth, which implies that he goes to sleep in his bed fully dressed with his shoes on and his wallet in his pocket. He reaches in his front pocket and pulls out a little, golden Buddha statue.

He badly wants a Coke, so he asks if he can trade the Buddha statue for a can of Coke. So I figure what the hell. Either he's had a very bad run of luck, what with extra-terrestrials stealing several thousand dollars from him, or maybe he'll be satisfied with the can of pop and will leave the store without threatening to kill some hapless customer with something random, like a trout. So I buy his can of pop for him. He leaves the Buddha statue anyway as his payment for his purchase and informs me that "It is blessed. I'm a monk" before leaving the store.

So I'm stuck with this little, golden, wooden Buddha stature smiling at me from the cash register. I begin to wonder if it has some sort of alien tracking device implanted inside it, but not very intently. That would be just my luck to be on my way home or sitting at my computer and be abducted myself by aliens trying to give me this guy's wallet back, apologizing for keeping it. Because, you know, all us Earthlings look alike to them.

I decided to take it home with me since, after all, I paid for the Coke he traded for it. For all I know, it might bring me some luck, or at least the hope that it'll bring me luck will be sufficient to make me believe it is. So far, I don't feel any more or less lucky than I did before I had the little Buddha statue sitting on the top of my computer monitor, but I told my coworkers that if they see the thing back in the store, it'll mean that it didn't bring me anything but bad luck. Anyway, it's residing now on top of my monitor, along with my three-inch "World's Smallest Transformers" Dinobots. Grimlock, Slag, Snarl, and Buddha: Four of the five most badass Autobots ever created.

np: Therion - "Seven Secrets Of The Sphinx"


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