megfowler.com

There was a crazy man at the drugstore the other day. He had crazy hair and crazy eyes and a crazy voice and he was shaking a crazy piece of paper while asking for a crazy price on tissue.

Everyone nearby was transfixed by his craziness.

Granted, Vancouver is full of crazy people. I’m one of them. We bring crazy like spinach dip to a party.

But truly vocal craziness from someone in a (normally orderly and eerily silent) drugstore tends to stand out a little more. You take notice. Especially when you can tell the crazy person in question doesn’t have an actual mental concern — just a vendetta against bad prices and a lack of tissue (and whatever else is nearby.)

My favourite crazy moment from the crazy man was when he started chasing one of the managers around the store demanding a rain check for a price that a) had not been advertised anywhere; and b) was totally unreasonable. His hair rose up like flames from his head, giving him the appearance a mythological figure destined to rain vengeance down on mankind and all those foolish enough not to give him the 24-pack for the price of 12.

I think I would have forgotten about the crazy man, had I not seen him on the bus today.

He was still crazy — you just knew he was waiting to take exception to the weather or what he had to pay to get on the bus or having to stand up in the crowded aisle or the standard exchange of molecules through breathing or the modern practice of Marxism — but he was low-key for now.

I watched him watch the world go by through the steamy, drippy bus windows, and I thought, “Crazy man, what do you see? Are you thinking about tissue right now? Does anyone know your heart? Will you ever be happy?”

Then he looked at me and said, “Damn rain.”

And I figured he might not be that crazy after all.