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I hate to keep butting in like this, but when writing about truly crazy people - it sometimes gets difficult to get across how truly crazy they are. The truth is, this was a truly crazy man. Smelly, shaky, poor and smelly. On top of this, crazy.

In the “poor old man’s” speedy parade he failed to notice slightly bumping into a younger man - one walking at a much slower pace.

When Rafe Michael Dunn was knocked swiftly on his right shoulder, an elderly man – the same described above – hustled past with no apologies or acknowledgment.

The bit of coffee spilled didn’t bother Rafe. The man’s refusal to make eye contact or even offer a gesture of admittance managed to pinch a nerve or two. Or three.

But he is just a poor old man, thought Rafe, brushing off the man’s brush off.

Rafe watched the old bum bump into several others with the same unapologetic drive. A madman, suddenly thought Rafe. A real loon.

I do apologize - it’s me the narrator again. It’s just that I agree with you. Rafe may be judging the old fart too soon. None of us are perfect, right? For that’s as true as this old man is crazy. Now back to that story!

Several feet turned quickly into several blocks.

Rafe - like the observant accountant that he was - noticed the man’s tendency to walk very closely to the buildings, leaving only one side open to the city. Rafe noticed that even with his position, the man looked constantly around, cautious of all his fellow residents. Rafe noticed that he even looked distrustfully into the building windows.

Crazy, both Rafe and the narrator thought. A real loon.

Rafe then noticed the letter.

Before long, several blocks or so, the young Rafe Dunn, wearing his yellow polo shirt, pressed khaki shorts, white tube socks and sneakers, found himself following this strange man through this increasingly strange city.

Rafe followed. Intrigued. Curious. As one would scout a neighborhood car accident, Rafe calculated all of the man’s characteristics yet kept his distance.

Before long, the old bag of bones approached a postal deposit box. The box stood alone in federal blue on a nondescript street corner. Quickly, the disheveled man opened the hinged face and released the letter that had been held so tightly.

Twenty yards away, the Average-Joe-turned-sleuth watched the man shuffle off, as if freed of some extraordinary load.

Out of pure marvel, Rafe approached the mailbox, still glancing frequently at the bizarre man getting smaller in the distance.

Driven by something unexplainable, Rafe slowly placed his hand on the handle of the mailbox and pulled. The letter, held so fiercely it was twisted and bent, was caught near the top of the bin.

As stated earlier, the old sack was walked with some new sense of freedom. This does not mean, however, that his walk was slower, his eyes roamed less, or that his attire was more composed. As he crossed a local delicatessen, he was still quite tense.

And still very crazy.

Twenty seconds passed when Rafe Dunn crossed that same delicatessen. A quirk in his step mirrored that of a certain crazy old loon. He now held something of that man, and for for some reason found himself carrying more than just a letter. He was carrying the geezer’s mannerisms. He was carrying some burden.

The show continued for pedestrians passing by. They were fortunate enough to see two of the oddest men in a city of incredibly odd men. One spotty, wrinkly, jittery old man. One jittery, frightened, wide-eyed young man.

Should I elaborate on the meaning of spotty? Old people get spotty. It’s what they do. No one knows what the spots mean, just that the older you get they cover everything. This man was no exception to that rule of life. The rule that old people get spotty.

Right as the old man’s nervous habits seemed to double, he climbed a five-step entry into a modest two-story home.

Cautiously, Rafe approached the home.

As he stood on the first step - which steeply leads to the dark brown home - he began to open the letter.

An apology. No, a confession. A murder.

Within seconds of reading the opening line, which described the old man’s guilt, a gunshot - unmistakable from its origin - rang down the steps, through Rafe’s ears, across the street, into manholes and alleys.

Rafe ran. He thought about his wife. He thought about his kids. He thought about his Aunt Susan’s bread pudding. He thought about everything he loved. He thought and he ran.

As the sun was slowly losing its daily battle with the night, Rafe was getting very near to home.

Several thoughts flashed his mind - turn the letter in, report the apparent suicide, sleep forever and not talk to anyone ever again about anything ever… again. Quite a few thoughts indeed.

Hours passed.

In a pastel colored dining room, a sweaty and overly-friendly Rafe is sat at a dinner table, across from his wife, she was suspicious of his mood, hearing teeth grind, and shaky forks on ceramic plates.

Rafe thought quickly of ways to divert her. He was always good at that.

Err… great pot roast, he blurted.

Genius, both Rafe and I thought.

Filed by Zach at March 7th, 2007 under Articles.