Silent Anger

There is a place thousands of miles away from my hometown of Paradise, California. The tower like trees all shrink to regular sized foliage like that of which you see zoos. The pine cones are switched to muddy grass, and the smell of pine trees are changed to the ever lingering smell of turkey or cow manure. I don’t mean to make you quiver at the thought or the senses that my observations leave behind, Nor do I have any intent to stir up culture values with any Missourian. I for the mere fact of setting this story have wanted you the readers to understand the surroundings of the individual I will be speaking of.

When you pass along the road on a escape from home or a slow and invigorating ride to work, you will by chance of luck or annoyance will pass by “Crazy” Charlie. His tall slim figure, step by step walking along the highway, screaming at the top of his lungs statements a mother wouldn’t want to hear. Slowly pacing along the pavement path, not a hand gesture to signify his attentions but just with his voice he echoes against busy businesses and people lingering in the daylight.

Mother F- and anger against the government of any kind local or nation. Charlie bellows from the bottom of his throat his views and his days. A cowboy hat sits atop his head, which will blow off from time to time adding further extents to his soapbox drama. To and fro. Stop and Go. from his little house on one side of town to God knows where the day will take him next.

I have had the opportunity to meet face to face with “Crazy” Charlie on some occasions over the years. Many of them meaningless and void to any champagne holding gentlemen. The conversations are as almost all his words full of four letter words and temperament. I was once asked by him what breed I was, and also if I was taken under sexual sodomy of higher officials.

Nonetheless these were conversations with a man so many people new so much of but at the same time so little about.

It wasn’t until my meeting with him yesterday, that I saw the human being everyone had turned a blind eye to myself included. The Hyde had mellowed down to the Jekyll once more if only for a mere moment. “Does the old man sell doorknobs?” not a single four letter word snuggled itself within his question. I led Charlie to the interior repair isle of the supermarket and with a little hesitation due to fact of absence to his needs I took a deep breath, closed my eyes waiting for Pandora’s Box’s hinges to break. I in my mere mortal ness replied “No-”

Charlie tipped his dirt stained hat and replied “Thank you anyways.” He turned and walked down the isle calmly as I followed back outside. The towering man almost as tall as Northern Californian trees looked down at me and put out a sideways palm. We Shook. And Charlie was off toward another local merchant quiet and somber. I watched him walk away and the idea of an article came to mind like the old story of the Tortoise and the Hare.

The moral of the story is “Don’t judge a book by it’s cover.” Needless to the say the jacket can be worn and torn and the pages can be crinkled and bent but the story cannot have a genuine review unless picked up and read. In closing I would like to subject to you that we are all “Crazy” Charlies he just says it out loud.