Crazy

I am sitting in the coffeehouse with my old friend Alexis and I am telling her about it.

Here is what I tell her.

It is early on a slow Wednesday when they seat the crazy person in my section.  She doesn’t look crazy. She looks like the sort of person you might stop and say hello to in the street: petite, short brown hair, big brown eyes.  A bit of extra weight around the middle but who doesn’t have that, you know what I’m saying?

My shift’s just started, so I take my time before going over to her. I give her plenty of time to settle into her vinyl chair, to get her tray situated, to get comfortable.

Good evening, I say.  How may I help you?

More, she says. Elmo.

Alexis, it was strange.  She has a certain way of talking.  Sort of monosyllabic.  Like her brain and her mouth aren’t linked up like other people’s. Strange, you know?

I know for a fact that the chef’s been working hard on the meal for tonight, so I explain the options with a little flourish.

I say, Tonight we’ve got some really delicious stuff prepared for you.  We have some organic chicken hot dog, cut in half so no one chokes on it, and then sliced into little half moons.

Moona moona moona, she says.

It’s weird, you know? I mean, who says that? But I just ignore her and keep going.

We’ve also got some broccoli florets.  We’ve steamed them in the microwave until the whole house reeks of it, and cut them into bitesize pieces.  Do you want some broccoli?

More, she says, making an odd gesture with her hands where she taps her fingertips together.

I take this for a yes.  I spoon a dozen pieces of hot dog onto a plastic plate and add some broccoli.  I present the plate to her, and with one hand she swipes all the food off the plate and onto her tray.  Okay, I think.  Not everyone wants to eat food from a plate.  I’m not about to judge anyone–I mean, I’ve seen it all in this life.  You know what I’m saying?

She stares at the food for a while, the food she’s just said she wanted, and then she shakes her head.

No, she says.

That’s part of it.  That’s really a big part of it.

NO? I say.  What d’ya mean, no?

She shakes her head again, and then in the exact minute that I turn my back to her, she swipes all the food onto the floor.  Alexis, I gotta tell you, there was food everywhere.  There was broccoli on the wall, and hot dog scattered under the cabinets.  She wasn’t a big person but she had some strength.

But I keep my cool.  You don’t want hot dog? I say.  How about some whole wheat pasta, lovingly prepared with fake cheese sauce because of your dairy allergy?

No, she says.  MORE.

More? I ask.

I see her face turning red.  She is getting upset, but it’s not clear why.  Her little hands scrabble at her tray, and her mouth makes this weird grimace, like you would do before you burst into tears.

MOOOOOOOOOORE, she yells.  And then she is crying, pointing at the tray and looking at me like I’ve done something really terrible to her.

I know it then.  It’s not a normal night.  I’m all keyed up, so I get a little frantic.  I show her Fig Newtons.  I show her blueberries.

MOOOORE, she wails.

Do you want applesauce? I say.  Do you want an egg? Toast with jam?

It’s clear that I’m reaching here a little bit.

More! she yells.  Mommy! She points at the ground.

Hot dog? I say.  Seriously?

She immediately stops crying.  Alexis, don’t tell anyone, but I pick that hot dog up from the floor and I put it back on her tray. Like I work at a gas station or something.  But it’s that kind of night.  I don’t know what else to do.

She starts shoveling hot dog into her mouth with her small, plump hands.  I watch, fascinated.  I’ve never seen someone eat like this before.

Ryan walks in around now.  How’s Crazypants doing? he asks.  She sure is a crazy one.

She can’t help it, I say, suddenly taking her side.  I don’t know quite what’s gotten into me.

The hot dog is gone.  She frantically makes a sign for more, so I load up her tray.

Elmo, she says.

She eats a few bites of hot dog and then–BAM–she throws the rest on the floor again.  I wonder to myself what it would be like to be so crazy, to have your life controlled by crazy like that.

Later that night, I can’t think of much to say.  Ryan and I watch television and pretty soon I get up to go to bed.  He’s there before I am, already with his headphones in to listen to the radio show he likes.

She was crazy, I say.  And here’s the thing: when Ryan nods and agrees with me, I suddenly feel this weird feeling come over me.  I want to fling things.  I want to ask for them and then fling them away.  I see myself up in the sky, a huge thing, and below me piles of all the food I’ve dropped everywhere.

That’s a strange story, says Alexis.  I can see she doesn’t know what to make of it.

I feel depressed.  I’ve told her too much.  She can’t possibly understand.

She sits there waiting, watching me.

Waiting for what? I’d like to know.

My life will never be the same.

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