Who’s posessed?

His gray hair exploded from his scalp, his face was red with anger, his movements were shaky but fast. He deliberately stepped in front of a biker who was casually riding down the sidewalk and directed him to the street, where he belonged. He took cardboard boxes lying in the gutter and viciously tore them into small pieces. He pulled a wheeled trash can from a corner hideaway and drew a red jacket from within it. He put it on and packed away the cardboard. He screamed at the patrons of a small coffee shop. They dared not pay attention to him, they merely kept on eating as if he didn’t exist. Inconsequential. Grabbing half full plates from empty tables he tossed the contents into the street. He waved the plates threateningly at the considerably uncomfortable clientele.

He went and picked up the food bits, put them in his trash can, and called the police from a cell phone.

Pacing frantically in the middle of the street he stopped traffic, then directed it around him. He pulled a silver gate from behind a wall and cordoned off an alleyway. A small car pulled up to be let in– and was abruptly directed in the opposite direction by waving hands, cussing lips, and a lot of jumping. The driver didn’t argue. He backed up and zoomed off.

I guess it was his alleyway, if he didn’t feel like having guests that was his prerogative. He slept on a palette in the doorway of an industrial building. It was his home. Late at night I would ride my bike past him, with my bike lights blazing, he snored away under dirty sheets and the moth speckled glow of a hanging light.

My friend and I played guitar from our second story perch and watched him storm about. I strummed, my companion plucked, both mildly entertained. We sat lazily wondering and watching.

Back across the street to the cafe he dashed with his trashcan. He pulled a dresser from behind the restaurant and rolled it out to the street. He reached deep into his trashcan and pulled out a tarp, placed the dresser on top of it, and proceeded to stomp the dresser to pieces. He pointed to the restaurant patrons, and yelled things that we couldn’t make out. He cussed at the cars zooming by as he threw shards of wood into traffic.

He marched back into the middle of the street and picked up everything he’d thrown. He put them into his trashcan. Blocking traffic the whole time.

While he made his way to the other side of the street the police arrived below our perch. He ran to them, and then to our bikes under the stairs, then back to the officers, then back to our bikes. “Hey! Those are our bikes!” we yelled.

To which he yelled back “J’ai trouvé la clé!” He had found our key.

We scrambled down the stairs, and he showed off a silver key. “Someone could have stolen your bike, you idiots.” we blinked at him, not fully understanding what he meant. “Here. Take it.” His dirty cracked hands thrust the key towards me. He turned to the police officer, “I found this on a bench.” he pulled out a cell phone from his pocket. “Faire quelque chose.” he paused “Do something with it!”

A truck zoomed by, the sun beat down hard on all of us, and we all just stared for a moment at the mad man. “Appreciate the things you have, because you’ll miss them when you don’t have them anymore” he said. He stormed off, and that was the end of it.