But even the successful, normal son knows freaks, and in DC they stand out even more, without the jealousy of the other "weird" kids vying for attention.
I've met many strange characters in the city...
The bouncer at The House...
The House is a African American strip club down the street from my house in Petworth. I've been there several times because the inaugural event there with a friend from Missouri, Josh--equally intrigued by oddities--I met this man.
The bouncer was quite friendly and after standing outside smoking and talking to him decided to show us his woman, all of his woman. As he flipped through the nude photos of his girlfriend--a 20-something with this 50-something--Josh and I were laughing hysterically. But my insides were saying, "Awww, how sweet."
He loved her. At least the love that I know, that won't last forever but for the time being is, to take inspiration from "The Perks of Being a Wallflower," infinite.
And then you see his buddy, riding shotgun in the white police-looking car, wearing his seat belt and holding what looks like grape drink. We didn't find out exactly why the bouncer kept the dummy in his car, but again there was an "awww" moment. I wonder if the bouncer wasn't a little mentally slow, and in that case this brings me back to childhood, when I used to drag stuffed animals around with me wherever I went. I used to teach them and mentor them, and in a family where my brother was 8 years older and my parents were always working, they were my only friends to confide in. I believed they had life, and it hurt me to love one more than the other.
Dr. Shine, the rapper on U Street...
Margaret and I had been dancing upstairs at the Black Cat, to sexy 80s industrial pop, when we went outside for a smoke. I'm not really sure why this man came up to us, but he started rapping the story of his wife cheating on him with a midget. Dr. Shine walked in on 4-foot man and his wife fucking, the midget jumped out the window, and then punched the doctor in the nuts.
Never once did the good doctor ask for money, although Kamal, an African American man we met and then proceeded to grind on downstairs at rap battle/gangster jams night, gave him $5.
Candyman...
Outside Callahan & Associates stands a well-spoken, well-dressed African American man. He was picked up before I got to DC and taken I suppose to jail or some kind of rehab facility. After several months the facility said something like this, 'Well, there ya go, a couple new polos and a pair of jeans. Back out on the street for you.'
And there he was again.
In the morning, Candyman is standing by the entrance of the 11-story building, where Callahan is busy on the 10th, and is quick to say hello and give you nice words.
"Hey cutie. How ya doing today?"
By the end of the day though, he is completely unaware of what's happening around him. Instead he's making a passionate speech, about rights, judgement, sex, presidents to no one. He's looking above everyone's heads, like you're told to if you get nervous while giving a speech. He's moving his hands and shifting from one foot to the other.
It's a dramatic switch, from the morning to the evening and it pulls me to figure out.
One afternoon he was talking to Mark, Michael, Melissa, and I--brought to you by the letter M--about applying for law school at Georgetown. He's extremely literate and when he's not drunk or high or mentally unstable could be a lawyer.
The M-group and I have decided to take him to see The Avengers soon. And soon I might start filming him. I'd like to get his real name, but the last time he was asked, Mark said he skirted around the question and finally changed the subject.
The Russian hit man at Metro Center...
As Arun and I sat at Metro Center smoking and digesting our food, we noticed a tall man in all black with the light blue eyes that could entrance you from miles away. He was squatting and rotating his arms like the characters from movies that have super powers--turning someone into ice there, calling upon the lightening here, karate-chopping there.
In between bouts of Dragon Ball-Z type rampages, the man would sit on the sidewalk and chat with people that passed by, not coherently I'm sure. When people weren't passing by he would look around with longing, or hold his head in his hands. I'm sure because his face orifices were about to pour brain blood from the amount of hallucinogens he had ingested. But to me it was as if he was hurting, depressed with his aloneness.
I watched him for about an hour sitting on Arun's lap.
"I love him," I said.
He looked up at me and said, "I'm not yours. I can't be, because you're in love with everyone."
"I hope you can understand," I said.
Before heading back to Petworth, we went to toss a bottle of Naked juice in the trash can beside the hit man. He had gotten up to speak with someone and was walking back to his stoop, so I was dragging my feet to time running into him. We made eye contact and he started rambling.
"I have my eye on you," he said to Arun. "Take care of Sophie and [some male name]."
And then, "Hold on a minute, I've got to fly," as he closed his eyes and tensed his muscles.
He was beautiful. And wasn't at all unhappy. Just in another world.
I wonder what they're thinking, what they're hearing, what they're seeing. I want to be in that world with them, to relate with them and tell them that's it's all going to be alright.
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