A loud voice burst behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder before I could stop myself.
I recognized the man. I’d often seen him wandering the streets while talking at high decibels. Usually, he wore the same outfit: a too-tight, long-sleeved white T-shirt, tan pants, and a disposable mask.
The first few times I had seen him, I had glanced around to find the second half of the heated discussion. Someone behind him? Someone above, leaning over a balcony railing? But then I realized the other participant was invisible. The man was talking to the voice in his head.
As our paths crisscrossed today, his loud monologue slid into song with one of the most guttural singing voices I had ever heard. It began with the quality of a deep belch and moved into a haunting tune, with an almost flamenco sway. But different.
Captivated, I had to force myself to keep walking.
The church plaza was full of elderly gentlemen with canes and audacious pigeons that only fluttered away when they realized I wasn’t planning to step around them. As I started down the street to the supermarket, I crossed paths with another man. This man was also bellowing a one-sided conversation at an invisible participant.
What distinguished this man from the one I had just left behind? Did that tiny black device nestled in his ear give him license to be publicly lost in his own world?
Maybe it’s just because I’m growing older, but sometimes I find it odd that the things that used to send people to asylums have become part of our everyday lives.
My Thoughts From Afar | 