Our urban centers – especially New York City – have a reputation for being Crazytown. One minute you’re giggling at an Italian comic opera, and the next you are being accosted by a toothless hobo screaming obscenities with his hoo-hah out. Then, glancing at the Playbill clutched in your white-knuckled hands, he bursts into an aria from The Barber Of Seville.
And they can strike anywhere. I was at Bergdorf’s buying socks, and a dowager in a green Chanel suit from 1962 grabbed my arm. She had clearly applied her lipstick without holding the tube, which is quite a feat. “Sweetiedear,” she rasped in a voice that evoked full ashtrays and scotch at noon, “Can you reach that tie for me? I have to bury my husband.” I complied, because I had reason to believe that the husband she was burying had been dead since Reagan’s first term, and she was just getting around to his interment now. “So-sorry-for-your-loss-kthxbai!”
But suburbia has its share. About 2 years ago, I had purchased glasses with heavy black frames. They were sort of Elvis-Costello-Goes-To-Paris-And-Drinks-Absinthe, or so I thought. Whatever – they were easy to find on my nightstand and since I felt a little moon-faced, I thought they added “structure.” So I’m running to the morning train and a woman who resembled The Sea Hag lurched in front of me by Starbucks. She squinted. “WHO do ya think ya ARE? JACKIE O?” I fled like the tardy coward I am. (If I ever open a bar, I shall call it The Tardy Coward and hire this lady to chase people in.) When I got to the office, I told my so-called friends, who proceeded to laugh and laugh and quote lines from Grey Gardens at me. (“So. Is it true Jack gave ya gonorrhea? I could have had him, you know.”) Shut up, Karin. Just shut up.
Don’t even get me started on the cavalcade of cray-cray that is People Of Walmart, churches where the name of our Lord and Savior is pronounced JUH-HEEEEEEEE-ZUS!!10!011!, and the basic premise behind The Hills Have Eyes, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and Deliverance.
Now that you’re all terrified, here’s what to do.
1. Do not leave the house without your phone, a book or e-reader (an i-Pod works too), and a pack of gum. The phone is to pretend you are on a call and cannot be disturbed. The book is for public transit or eating lunch or dinner alone – you can always say that you’re really into it, smile ruefully and carry on. The gum is for people who ask for money. I used to carry fruit, but it bruises and a black banana is not the essence of human kindness.
2. Be aware of your surroundings. The reason zombies scare the crap out of us is that they move exactly like crazy people do. If something or someone lurches at you – back up instantly, then go around. If you are alone in an isolated area, pay attention. The standard crazies like company, as a rule, but hardcore ones have been known to pop out of public restrooms like so many closeted gay Republicans. Alone in a subway with a lunatic? GTFO. Now.
3. Never let them touch you. Ever. As far as you are concerned they want to eat your entrails to get at the Blueberry Lemon smoothie you whipped up this morning. “Arrghh antioxidants Gwyneth Paltrow GOOP recipe good nom nom nom” will be the last thing you hear. You wouldn’t believe what a grip a crazy person has. No eye contact, either – they consider that an invitation to Put On A Show, and it’s one you don’t want to see.
4. Know what sort of situation you’re dealing with. A weeping mother with a toddler? For God’s sake, help her. The hippie at Columbus Circle with a tuxedo cat on his head who he feeds ice cream? Tell him his cat is awesome. The hippie’s name is Charlie and the cat is Nicholas.
Someone shivering on the street? Well, your cardigan was old anyway, and made you look frumpy, so hand it over.
And – this is rare, I admit… sometimes you see someone who is just plain desperate, possibly just lost a job or their home and don’t know what to do. The first time I saw this, a cop handed the guy a card and said that he should visit his friend who worked in Social Services, then gave the guy directions and a Metrocard to get there. The second time there was no cop to be seen, but there was a nice young couple trying to help the person figure things out.
But the pee-smelling guy with his hoo-hah out like a sad sausage link should be avoided. Crazy screaming rage ladies too. Street preachers and the Orthodox Jews who try to haul you into a Winnebago called The Mitzvah Tank are cause to flee. Unless you’re bored.
5. If you survive all this, and you will because you must, you will eventually return home. Then your spouse will say something like “I think I broke the garbage disposal with half a chicken, and the cat threw up but I didn’t clean it because I think it looks like Ted Nugent and we should put it on YouTube while playing ‘WangoTango” and get rich.” You should hug your spouse at this point. Because you OWN that crazy.