Friday, October 16, 2009

Je suis désolée, mais Je ne parle pas CRAZY

"It's not like I'm thirsty for the pony. I'm not looking at a refrigerator full of haircuts and thinking THAT'S the one I want."

This from James the Giant Peach, an intern at Beth's office who was helping us paint her house the other day. Giant, because he's the tallest human being I've ever seen. Peach, because I could just take a bite right out of him he's so cute. And James because that's his name. He also is one of the few people from whom I can walk away after a conversation thinking, "What the hell just happened there?" Did I just accidentally stumble onto the set of Twin Peaks? Was there a backwards-talking midget in the room? In this particular case he was talking about how he wanted to grow his hair long enough to put it in a pony tail as a goof. For little more reason than just to see if he could do it. At least that was what I think he was trying to tell us because everything he says, he says in this strange amalgammation of riddle and obscure poetry which would actually be quite beautiful, in an oddly compelling sort of way, if it didn't come at you so relentlessly. You're barely able to process "refrigerator full of haircuts" before he's talking about "middle droops" and how middle droops are okay, but "end droops. well, end droops are like you’ve just stopped caring." (I think this little gem had something to do with Beth’s window treatments.) After painting all day, we're standing in her living room drinking a beer and he comes down from the rafters to perch on the arm of her couch. Some exotic bird squawking away. He’s definitely talking because he IS forming words and sentences and in his mind it must make some sense. But I sort of get the feeling halfway through when I realize he isn't really going to stop to let anyone else get a word in, that he is more talking NEAR us than he is TO us. Take away the cozy living room, stylish garb, skin-melting good looks and you’ve got yourself any number of characters that populate my bus stop after 10 pm on a given night. Dreadfully sorry Peachy, but I don’t speak crazy. Oh, that I did. Or do I?

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