He called himself the crazy man.
I didn’t believe him.
He wore an old suitcoat,
and had a briefcase.
I was a reporter
and had a camera.
I was conducting “man-on-
the-street interviews.”
What do you think of this election??
The humdrum answers.
It’s frustrating.
It’s tiring.
I hate it.
It disgusts me.
I saw the crazy man from afar.
He was be-bopping along.
I thought most people don’t talk
to him because he looks stapled together.
My act of kindness was to hear him
where others had not.
And defend him as any good
newspaper writer would.
I stopped him to ask
what he thought about the election.
I’m the crazy man from Hastings, he said.
I laughed.
He did not.
That’s what they call me, he said.
and he looked slyly at me.
Know what’s in my briefcase?
My mind conjured a gun.
No fun.
He opened the briefcase,
and it was empty.
Save for a lone beer,
rolling back and forth.
I think the election is bull-spit, he said.
I took his picture,
careful to crop out the alcohol,
and wrote his answer down.
As he strolled away,
I thought him normal,
considering the folks
I grew up with.
____
I saw him one year later,
riding an adult-sized tricycle,
and towing a wagon with an umbrella.
It was filled with ice and snacks
and beer.
He didn’t say hello, but he
stopped the wagon nearby.
He said my newspaper was full of shit,
but I didn’t disagree.
He pedaled farther, and halted
in front of a bar, and then he
got up and walked inside.
He really was the crazy man from Hastings.
