Ridin' the Batshit Bus: Conversations With Crazy People

Crazy people love me. This is a fact. There must be something in the innate assemblage of my cellular structure that beacons the crazies of the world. It flashes like a blinking hot-pink fluorescent sign promising "All You Can Eat Methadone!" or "2 for 1 Lobotomies". Either that, or they sense my own well-concealed craziness and are convinced they've found a kindred soul.

Whatever the reason, crazy people have loved me my entire life, and they typically have no problem singling me out in a crowd and regaling me with stories of their nutjob lives. Sometimes this is infuriating, like when it happens at work and I get stuck on the phone with one of the worst kinds of crazies: The Chatty Cathy Crazy. At other times, though, conversing with crazy people can be a form of lowbrow entertainment. And since my life has been a freefall of melancholy lately, engaging a crazy or two in conversation seemed a decent idea to cheer myself up. If for no other reason than to tell myself, "Well at least I'm not THAT crazy."

I believe there are two main types of Crazy in the world, both of which have numerous subtypes (The Chatty Cathy Crazy, for example, would fall into the second type). I am an expert at spotting crazies. You're talking to someone who's been though rehab, psych wards, AA meetings, 15 years of Sunday School, 4 years of Hollywood, and every single film version of all Tennessee Williams' major plays. I know crazy.

First, there are the Everyday Crazies, like me. I can brush my teeth without eating the delicious toothbrush; I can dress myself without even considering putting on black socks and flip-flops; I can even eat at a restaurant without believing that my food has been poisoned, spit/vomited on, or made from chinchilla testicles.

But then there is another type of Crazy entirely, who simply cannot do things like I've just mentioned. These people fall into the category of Kah-ray-zees (that's spelled with a capital "K" and a backwards "Z"). And these are the ones that love me.

Take today, for instance. I had an appointment to see my psychiatrist, and in order to get to his office, I have to take a shuttle bus between the main hospital to the mental health building across town. I've affectionately christened this big white Chevy Suburban "The Batshit Bus". In all fairness, its passengers are typically (at least whenever I've been onboard) hospital employees being carted between buildings. However, the bus is also intended for patient use, hence my own presence on it, as well as the presence of other patients, each of us in varying degrees of crazy.

On the ride back to the main hospital after my session, I sat next to a gaunt, wild-eyed old fellow that faintly resembled Father Time -- if Father Time had done a lot of smack and just had electroshock treatment. I could feel him sizing me up before he spoke, trying to deduce my own degree of crazy and whether or not I would be a good candidate to engage in a little crazy talk. I must've passed whatever sizing-up he gave me, because he soon started his monologue. Oh, and incidentally, most "conversations" with Kah-ray-zee people are not the average give-and-take discussion. They're more one-sided monologues where the Kah-ray-zee goes on and on, and the other party can only agree, disagree, or maybe throw in a question here or there.

The guy on the Batshit Bus today got started with a question.

"Are you headed to Harvard Square?" he asked.

"No, Kendall Square," I replied, hoping against hope that he didn't want to tag along with me. Both types of Crazies can be needy, so one must speak carefully so as not to acquire a new houseguest.

"Kendall Square, Kendall Squ---OH! YES! That's by MIT, right?"

"Yes," I said, inwardly sighing and bitch-slapping myself for opening the possibility of a tagalong.

Luckily, this man didn't want to come with me. Now, it's always fun to see how a Kah-ray-zee will open his/her monologue. Sometimes it's quite normal and innocent; other times it's from left-field and totally random. This guy falls into the latter style.

"I applied to MIT once," he went on, staring straight ahead. "I wanted to go to their film school."

I thought it unwise to tell him that MIT does not have a film school, so I let him continue. I was depressed and stuck on the Batshit Bus for at least another ten minutes, so I figured a little entertainment was in order.

"I met with some guy and showed him my resumè. He told me how impressed he was with me, and then he said to come back next year. Next year! So I enrolled in Orson Welles's film school instead."

"Are you a director or an actor?" I asked, shamelessly baiting the crazy hook.

"Oh, I'm a director. I used to direct 8mm films. I don't know anything about video. I even taught an Adult Education class on filmmaking. But I did take a class where they gave us each a digital camera and told us to take pictures. I took a lot of pictures of my girlfriend, an Oriental named Geo."

At this point, it took all my willpower not to interrupt and tell him that I used to drive a Geo. The car, not the lady.

It was also at this point that I noticed the in-patient hospital band around his wrist. Did they know that he was riding the shuttle? Was he supposed to be in a rubber room somewhere? Was I aiding and abetting an escaped mental patient?

"Then one day I took the camera to one of my favorite places, the methadone clinic. I took a few pictures, and some 250-lb. black guy got mad. He grabbed my camera and ran off with it. Bastard."

He shook his head in one of those what-is-the-world-coming-to movements.

"I live in Roslindale. I live with my friend and her boyfriend, and we all have to leave the apartment at six a.m. because she's a librarian."

I wasn't really following his logic, but I continued to be a good listener.

"I'm getting my own place in Hyde Park, though. I can't wait."

I turned away for a brief second then, and when I looked back, Father Time was dead asleep and drooling, which is the way he remained for the rest of the trip. I suppose I should have been considerate and woke him up once the Batshit Bus reached its destination, but I really didn't want to risk him following me home.

So I jumped out and ran down the street: just another crazy on his way home.