The Joke of Us

A Story by Laz K.

Every man can see things far off but is blind to what is near.

~ Sophocles

“I ain’t mad,”

the scruffy, skinny man reiterated to his shadow on the wall in rapid monotony. The words burst out of him like a round of bullets from a machine gun. In between “rounds” he scratched his long beard, shook his matted hair, and looked at his companion, an equally scruffy, skinny dog, for confirmation. “Man’s best friend” did not disappoint; it wagged its tail quickly left to right, as if to say, “No, no, no, no, of course you ain’t.”

Passersby walked on, blindly, carrying briefcases, staring at their cellphones, staring at the pavement, looking busy, looking like they were oblivious to this inter-species dialogue. Why would they care? The man was cracked, and they did not need confirmation of their own sanity. Unbeknownst to them, they became a part of the man’s shadow theater every afternoon from about 3:50 to 5:30. A brick wall facing west provided the stage, or canvas, as it was lit beautifully by the slowly setting, burning, blazing, afternoon sun.

“May I have my order and my change?” a stern, hawk-faced, middle-aged lady asked impatiently, glaring at the teenage girl behind the counter of “The Purifier” �" a posh, health-food buffet.

“Sorry ma’am. Your salad, your decaf, and fifty-two cents change,” the girl behind the counter said apologetically. The frustrated customer looked at her name tag, and I was sure she was going to place a call or write a letter of complaint to headquarters.

“Service has become substandard here. People don’t know their place anymore; the whole world is going mad,” the woman mumbled on her way out.

“What was that all about?” the manager, who stepped on the floor just in time to witness the little incident, asked with a frown. He had dark bags under his eyes, was overweight and perspired heavily.

“Sorry, sir…it’s just that…” the girl behind the counter with the name “Cassandra” pinned on her uniform said with downcast eyes, blushing. The manager, whose name tag read Norman, waited for a confession.

Cassandra raised her head, hoping that a customer might walk in to get her off the hook, but no one was coming to the rescue, and so she had the manager’s full attention.

“There’s a man that comes in here every afternoon, and sits in the same seat by the same window,” she began. “I think he might be…”

The manager rolled his eyes.

“Teenagers are so distracted these days,” he thought and he stopped listening. All the crap I have to deal with all day, but does anyone notice?”

Behind the placid, unmoving face, he was fuming, and soon started going through his to do list for the rest of the day. In a few more hours, his day will be done, and he could go home to his empty, rented apartment where he’d fall asleep on the couch watching the news. After a few hours of dreamless, uneasy sleep, he’d be back on the same linoleum floor, in the same uniform, with the same helpless employees, and the same frustrated, demanding, entitled customers.

Cassandra finished talking; the manager waved her away, looked at his watch, sighed and went back to the kitchen.

I looked at Cassandra and wished I could tell her how much I liked her dreamy eyes, how much I felt connected to her, although we had never really spoken. I had been coming in “The Purifier” for two weeks now, ordered the same drink and sandwich, but she never seemed to recognize me.

I looked at the seat by the window, the one she had been talking about to the manager earlier. It had a great view of the street, and of the old brick building on the other side, in front of which there was a scruffy, skinny, homeless man staring into the store straight at me, mouthing the words,

“I ain’t mad,”