Paxety Pages

A Periodical - Internet Edition


Daily News and Commentary
Mahone Speaks
Lehamic's World
Cuba Libre
Bluenotes and Three Heads
Feature Articles
Tales and Humor
Our Animal Companions
9/11 Memorial
Guest Appearances

Another semi-true tale of 21st Century Society seen through the astonished eyes of Br'er Juan


Site Meter

How Do I Tell If You're Crazy?
Friday, May 10, 2002   By: Br'er Juan

The man is standing alone, flapping his arms. His face is flushed, and he's perspiring. He's also talking loudly to no one visible. Is he crazy - or simply practicing a 21st Century ritual?

Br'er Juan safely parked his antique Mercedes in the far regions of the lot and strolled towards Target. He spotted the trouble while still many yards away.

The red haired man was near the store's front door, flapping his arms and speaking loudly. His conversation mate was invisible. The man's face was flushed as red as his hair - he's perspiring. His belly rolled over his trousers, and his flapping arms pulled out his shirt-tail.

Br'er Juan slowed and watched. He expected people to either avoid the man or taunt him. Br'er Juan remembered the SpyMaster.

Way back in the dark ages of high school, there were still a few retail stores downtown. Br'er Juan and his buddies would detour through town on their way home from school They'd park somewhere near the intersection of Cherry Street and Third Street and begin to look for the SpyMaster. They'd usually find him tucked into the entranceway of an old hotel.

Br'er Juan and his buddies thought the SpyMaster was ancient - he was probably about 40. He was short and gray headed with the gaunt frame, bulbous nose and reddened complexion of an alcoholic reduced to drinking Vitalis. But he must have taken a cure - Br'er Juan never saw him take a drink - besides, the SpyMaster was too busy protecting downtown.

When the high school kids spotted the SpyMaster, they would walk past ignoring him. As they passed, The SpyMaster would pull a small AM radio from his pocket and talk into it.

"Headquarters, I'm waiting for my orders. Yes,  yes. They're walking past me now. They don't see me. I'll keep them under surveillance. Over and out."

The mean kiddies would walk to the end of the block, turn, and walk back towards the SpyMaster. This time, they would stop and stare at him and sing the guitar parts to the James Bond theme.

"Uh, oh. I think they've spotted me, " he'd whisper into his radio. Then he would jump out onto the sidewalk and yell, "Initiating escape sequence 8-4 Bravo." He'd walk quickly down the sidewalk, flapping his arms and talking gibberish. Anyone seeing him gave him a wide berth.

The red-haired, florid-faced man in front of Target had his back to Br'er Juan as he waved his arms and shouted, "Tell headquarters I'm waiting for the order. It was supposed to arrive here before me." Still no sign of a conversation partner.

As Br'er Juan began his approach, he hummed the James Bond theme.

The man whirled to face Br'er Juan. "Tell them so send it by courier. How the hell am I supposed to sell with no product."

Br'er Juan spotted it. A small earpiece, a cord running towards the man's belt, a small black bump on the cord just below his jaw. The man was talking on a cell phone.

Just how are we supposed to tell who's yacking on the phone and who's crazy?

Tales and Humor  

(c)1968- today j.e. simmons or michael warren