Crazy Bus Part Deux

I have a slight problem when it comes to crazy people. There must be something about me, some expression on my face, that compels them to speak with me. I'm not sure if I should be flattered or insulted.

One day last week, my problem was not slight at all. In fact, it was a large, sweaty, loud crazy man who somehow found his way to the seat next to me on the bus. I pegged him immediately for someone heading to the methadone clinic near my house....just like Crazy Bus Part One.

This guy was evidently upset that the bus was running 4 minutes behind schedule. He proceeded to tell me about the bus driver he nicknamed "Mario Andretti."

"After the race car driver, you know."

Before I could say, "Yes, I know," he continued with his monologue.

"I've never seen anyone drive like him. He didn't never press the brake. Mario Andretti doesn't brake, you know, but just goes through all the red lights. HIS bus (this directed toward the current bus driver) would never be 4 minutes late. If anything, it'd be 4 minutes EARLY."

I could have taken advantage of the lull in his speech to point out that, if he wanted a non-stop ride from point A to point methadone, maybe he should hitch a ride. Or take a cab. Or walk.

I didn't point it out. I'm not the type of person to say something like that....maybe, if I were, crazy people wouldn't talk to me. Instead, I continued to listen and nod my head when appropriate. Or widen my eyes and say "Oh No" at particularly heinous parts like,

"One time, I got on the bus, and Mario Andretti was the driver. But THEN, after a block or so, Mario Andretti pulled over and they switched drivers! I couldn't believe it. I called Tri-Met and left a message saying I always wanted Mario Andretti to be my bus driver but they never called me back. Tri-Met facists."

In their defense they probably weren't aware that he meant his Mario Andretti-nicknamed-bus driver...not the race car driver. I didn't say this either.

Oh but I wish I had. Because then he just got crazier. Waving his sweaty arms about, spitting profusely as he spoke, his eyes darting wildly back and forth. I started counting the stops until we reached the methadone clinic while he continued,

"Ever since then, I know Tri-Met has been spying on me. When I come to a bus stop, there is almost always a bus JUST LEAVING. Tell me that is not on purpose! I know they follow me to my apartment. They watch me until I leave again and then they tell the buses to change their schedules to I'll be late. Mario Andretti would never do that but THIS GUY (directed toward the current bus driver again) is in on it. Mario Andretti hasn't been my driver since I called Tri-Met. They are trying to keep him from me. But I'll figure a way around them..."

We finally reach the methadone clinic stop and Big Sweaty Crazy Man steps off followed immediately by my sigh of relief. He is still telling his story out on the sidewalk but this time no one is listening.

In some ways I wish I could be the type of person to abruptly get up and move to a different seat. Or say something incredibly clever and scathing to shut crazy person up. Or just stare them down so that they know not to sit next to me in the first place.

But then, I might not meet some of the people I've met through the years.

Like the homeless man I danced with in a park in Memphis when I was eight.

Or the man in San Juan, Puerto Rico who brought me fresh cherries (steeped in brandy, unfortunately) whenever he saw me walking in town with my family.

Or the elderly man on a subway in NYC who, after my friends rolled their eyes because I actually admitted to being a tourist, helped us find our way to the appropriate subway stop. As we walked through Times Square he took my arm in his, waved his cane over his head and said, "This is my hometown."

When it comes down to it, I guess I'll take the crazy with the good.