My Crazy Sign

I have never thought of myself as a particularly approachable person. It's not that I'm not friendly, it's just that to my knowledge, I don't necessarily look friendly. Some trick of genetics has given me a face that does not read "happy, friendly guy." I blame this on my father, who in repose appears either slightly angry or about to be slightly angry. This is the reason why people have greeted me with "Hey, is something wrong?" No, that's just my face. Apparently, however, somewhere on my person is a sign that says "Hey crazies! Come talk to me!"

There are lots of crazies in Portland, and many of them make frequent use of public transportation. After all, a crazy person doesn't just magically appear screaming on the street corner. They take the bus just like everyone else, thank you. And for some reason, no matter how many people are on the bus, 4 times out of 5, they always want to talk to me. Even when I put my headphones  in (which I have found is normally a universal deterrent to conversation) I get to hear about how this lady has almost singlehandedly energized certain areas of Portland using her personal finances (doubtful, considering the way she was dressed and smelled) or how this other person had a twenty year lease on their knees and ankles and it was about to expire. Then there was the guy that smelled strongly of nicotine and butterscotch. What was that about?! How does one manage to smell equally of cigarettes and candy? 

There are the people who like to tell you about their problems, like the woman who was worried that the bus would make her late getting back to her half-way home, and how she hoped they wouldn't kick her out if she was late, because after all, she just got there. 

Then there was the guy who sat in the seat in front of mine and stared at me the entire ride, muttering in a throaty, guttural way. You couldn't make out any words but there was a clear rise and fall as he approached a yell and then simmered back down to a murmur before starting up again. Similarly unsettling are the people who sit behind me and then peer over my shoulder to see what I'm reading. And then comment on it. As if I'd asked for outside opinions?

And it's not just nutjob crazies who feel safe approaching me. If five people are walking down a street towards someone wanting signatures on a petition or monthly donations, you can be sure that I am the person they zero in on. For some reason I look like someone who supports things. I also look someone who has the discretionary income to spend supporting said things. Neither of these is particularly true. I am apathetic and poor. And yet, I have been harassed to save trees, the seas, bees, children, seals, more children, more trees, to stop abortion, to save abortion, to vote this, to vote that and to vote the other so many times that I have developed a twitch anytime I see someone near a street corner holding a three ring notebook. 

I don't know why I look like a safe target to approach. I may grow a beard and hope it makes me look older and maybe meaner. Maybe a beard will deactivate my crazy magnet.

Or maybe only the crazies can see past my outside and into my soft gooey center, where I would love to be able to save the trees and the children and the seas, and where I really do feel sympathy for your expired knees and your halfway-house blues.