,Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name..

I was standing in what was more or less a line for coffee in this tiny coffeeshop, that was run by a lesbian co-op near St. Marks place in New York’s lower east side. I was painting a high end brownstone townhouse across the street, in a neighborhood that in 2015, had become all high end. The coffeshop was unbelievably cramped but charming , with a low painted tin ceiling. The line of customers didn’t move, so much as kind of surge towards the counter , where they placed their orders, then just kind of ebbed away; coffee and pastries in hand

The staff had that hardcore punk look to them, with any number of painful-looking piercings and tribal tattoos, making their wonderfully warm and friendly, yet totally professional demeanor, seem almost contradictory, and I pondered the nature of human interactions in an overcrowded urban setting -

That maybe the aggressively thorny exteriors of the wait staff, made it possible for these people to expose the soft white underbelly of their empathy to the daunting crush of humanity that their work regularly subjects them to, and as uncomfortable as it is to buy coffee here, I find it utterly charming , and as well run as it could possibly be, given the physical restrictions of the room .The coffee is also excellent, and the staff is amazing and frankly, fun to look at.

They also seem to always have great music playing over the house system ; as any cool coffeeshop worthy of the name, must have.

On this particular day, I’m waiting to surge my way up to the counter to order my “ cuppa black ; no sugar “, when The Rolling Stone’s “ Sympathy for the Devil “ comes over the speakers. Ive heard and performed this song a zillion times over the years, but I find myself really listening to Mick Jagger’s voice, and really taking in the lyrics -

“….I stuck around St. Petersburg / when I saw it was a time for a change / I killed the Czar and his ministers / Anastasia screamed in vain / I rode a tank, held a general’s rank / when the blitzkrieg raged / and the bodies stank..Pleased to meet you / hope you guess my name …..”

Suddenly, over the confusing din of overlapping conversations, a voice emerges -

“ That’s Mick Jagger…you know ; this is the devil’s bargain , HE knows your sin…dont you, Mick …? “

The voice struck me as if a narration ; a meta-voice, voicing what everyone must be thinking, but apart from the chaotic noise of coffee orders and conversations- an oddly cogent statement of fact , an answer to a question unasked..as if the collective Id of the mass of patrons, was asking the singer to cop to something we’ve all agreed took place, and he’s inadvertently confessing to in song -

In short ; I’ve detected that a crazy person has emerged from the pack . There had to be at least one; this being New York, and any gathering of 10 or more is bound to harbor some soul, whose earthly vessel has cracked from the horrific strain of being human, and can no longer contain the interior dialogues never meant to be heard by others. Or perhaps their condition is an inherited chemical imbalance, an heirloom mental illness, that didnt get its landing gear down till the age of 16 . Or 30 . Maybe they suffered some terrible abuse, at the hands of someone , or an organization ( like the church ) that was charged with protecting their innocent , which shattered the world for them, leaving them to make their way through the remnants of the reality they once knew, now reduced to a jagged landscape full of demons and angels, never sure which is which.

I, like many others, am fascinated and fearful of insanity.

What does the face of madness look like ? What happened to this poor soul to cause them to stray into the dark , and get lost there ?

The voice I heard seemed to be coming from behind me, so I very casually turn my head in that direction, affecting as much nonchalance as I can muster

There , sitting on the extra wide window ledge , I saw him .

Maybe 30 years old, fresh faced, with dark, curly hair .

He was already staring directly at me , smiling darkly , eyes as empty as a desert road. I quickly look away from the madman, but he has his audience now , and proceeds to broadcast his presumptive Meta-voice narration; with all of its sly commentary, his wryly observed asides, in an unmoored, spiraling extrapolation on what’s essentially , a critique and overview of the moral degeneration; alternately symbolized by the singer , whose voice has become the voice of all the customers in the coffeeshop’ intentions , with the singer, Mick Jagger, also engaged in an examination of these symbols of degeneration , once-removed , or a critique of a critique of a critique …I suddenly realize , that I can actually FOLLOW the the surreal permutations of logic in his sardonic rant … I GET what he’s talking about , and the thought that I GET this guy, suddenly disturbs me enough, that I begin to intensely peruse the various coffee / pastry related products strewn along the sales counter, and the wall behind it, as if intending a larger purchase , than just a small coffee to go and a danish.

In reality, Im just trying to stop the forward inertia of tumbling thoughts, as if I were in some kind of danger, as if I was engaged in some psychic warfare, and this crazy bastard was sent to remind me, that the agents of insanity are everywhere-

And they seek to reclaim me

Jesus. The look on that guys face; the mindless smile…it held a real malevolence for me, in that I sometimes cant help but feel that I am magnet for the broken, crazy spirits that cross my path ; that they recognize me from somewhere

I say to myself, like a prayer - “ I am not one of them, no..

I am not of your legions

that wasn’t me you saw, hovering by the coffee urn in purgatory.. motherfucker..Im sorry you went nuts, I am - but was that a choice, possibly ? I dont want to judge you, its just not worth the risk to indulge those dangerous thoughts , that seem to coexist too comfortably with my wobbly reality ….. I CANNOT go there again, Im not sure I would know my way back

I feel for your mother and father - you were their baby, now, youre a near-specter in a lower east side coffeeshop, and I dont know how you wound up here, but I cant help you now-

My worst nightmares, still offered me a way out.

I could wake up.

I dont know if that path is available to you, but I must get back to work now .

I surge my way towards the exit, looking towards the sunlight, since I cant really see the door yet, but I know it’s still there , it’s where I came in.

The song is fading out as I leave, and the crazy has fallen silent.

I dont dare look at him now. I recognize that silence, and it’s no place I want to be..