The Crazy Man

He’s a San Francisco institution, known simply as “the crazy man.” He sits at the California Street cable car turnaround, right in front of the Hyatt Embarcadero, shouting meaningless quibble. Same bench, same squatting position, everyday. I noticed him when I moved to San Francisco in 1992; he’s been there every time I’ve been there since, rain or shine, weekday or weekend. And he was there today. I’ve listened to him occasionally, just to see if any of his ramblings make sense. Never have. Random words, never complete sentences, rarely even the least bit coherent. As I walked by today, rushing to the BART station, he waited until I was right in front of him. A brief silence, then, “NORTH CAROLINA!” then his usual utterances, louder then softer, a harsh crescendo fading to a whisper. I stopped in my tracks, turned around and stared. He paid me no notice. Maybe I’m the crazy one.