The lunatic conjures up an image of a Tyrannosaurus Rex in my mind's eye. To justify this statement I will have to describe his physical appearance. The lunatic is a man of about forty-five to fifty years of age. He is tall, pale-skinned and usually has his belt undone at the waist so that the straps dangle either side of his crotch. He wears a light tan jacket and his head is permanently cocked to his left shoulder which is raised and hunched awkwardly. He appears to have no control over his posture, both his arms and his small twisted hands are frozen in the classic prominent 'tyrant lizard' pose and he shuffles precariously along the pavement, thrashing his body from left to right as a man would if his knee joints were fused solid and immovable.
He has wild tufts of grey hair, uncombed and unkempt, sprouting from the sides of his head, and mutters continuously to himself at a volume too low for a passer-by to understand. I have never been able to make out a discernible word though every day as we cross paths I strain to hear. All his sounds are often drowned out by the noise of the traffic anyway.
When I see him, we invariably meet at opposite sides of a busy crossing near the school. Seven minutes into my journey I arrive at one side and he at the other. This crossing at this busy junction is, at this early hour of the morning, manned by an old, fat Lollipop lady whose disapproving glare I feel daily as I sidle up to the roadside with my briefcase and smart shoes.
The lollipop lady is almost as round as the lollipop sign she wields. Her face is deeply wrinkled and pock-marked and her expression in its neutral position conveys an air of bitterness and disregard. I have never seen her smile or laugh. The lollipop lady is past the point of caring about her appearance. She appears to resent her job. I perceive her as a mean-spirited and uncaring woman - and walking past her station each morning is the low point of my journey.
Then I see him.
The timing is exact. The lunatic arrives at the far side of the school crossing as I stroll past the lollipop lady to the near. If I take a side-step left, he takes a side-step right. For some reason I imagine holsters on our hips. A gunfight signalled by the lollipop lady as she drops her lollipop. Or maybe something more complicated - a Mexican standoff perhaps. A three-way battle conducted each morning at exactly 8.34am across a dangerous crossing filled with innocent bystanders and their children. I have a feeling the lollipop lady would emerge victorious. I have been engaged in a battle of wits with her for some time now.
This is how it started:
It started when I realised that the lunatic relies on me. He makes use of my judgement to cross the road safely. He trusts me. I stand on my side and side-step right - across the road he side-steps left. I bend down to tie my shoelaces and he waits patiently for me to finish, he stares skyward and mutters - his twisted hands shake in anticipation. As I step out into the road so does he. We always pass in the dead centre – and when I figured out his game I realised:
I don't want this responsibility.
I found myself resenting the lunatic. Suddenly it became my 'job' to carefully check both lanes before I made my move. I could no longer dash out between cars opportunistically. I had become responsible for the safe crossing of both of us.
He shuffles forward uneasily; it seems he can only look over his shoulder in one direction. His feet point inwards and he lollops like a man pushed forward by momentum alone. I wonder why the lollipop lady won't help us across the road.
Is it not part of her job description?
She sits on her wall on my side of the crossing. She seems oblivious to everyone else. It is only when children come along that she resentfully hauls herself up and drags her round frame out into the road.
It seems that something has to be done.
I am appealing to the conscience of the lollipop lady. I am appealing to her sense of morality. I want her to feel guilty about her lack of social regard. I arrive at the crossing and deliberately wait - I hold off crossing. The lunatic waits on the other side. I shove my hand in my pocket and jingle my change. The lunatic nods his head across his shoulder and shuffles expectantly. He is ready to cross the road. His body language seems agitated, impatient. Perhaps as the seconds tick past his routine is being disrupted.
My routine is being disrupted
I stare at the lollipop lady as she slumps sullenly against her wall. She glances up at me impassively. I take her gaze and lead it across the road with a subtle nod of my head. A small gesture towards the lunatic and his obvious plight. In my mind I urge her to do the right thing. To understand that if she helps me cross the road the lunatic is assured safe passage too. Of course it is really about shifting responsibility. I don't want to be the guardian of this lunatic's safety. I have my own safety to think about – and I don't have a massive luminous lollipop. I have a stressful job in the city. I'm only asking the lollipop lady for an extra minute of her time a day. To pull herself away from the wall and help a lunatic shuffle across the road. A small selfless act which would benefit all parties concerned – a simple gesture of humanity.
Then yesterday morning.
As I arrived at the crossing I noticed his shoes were untied and a jolt of fear streaked into my chest as a large truck barrelled past about a foot from my nose. The coffee I've started to drink in the mornings was making me feel jittery. The traffic flow seemed faster, heavier; my judgement seemed clouded. I'd lost all sense of perspective. Yesterday morning I decided I needed help. So with great firmness I stood my ground and nodded at the lollipop lady, but she didn't budge - though I'm almost certain she acknowledged my hint. I half-gestured towards the lunatic with my briefcase and shrugged my shoulders, I raised my eyebrows. I had a sudden urge to grab the lollipop from her and run madly into the street. I could see the headline: 'Lollipop lady refuses to help lunatic cross the road – local hero takes lollipop into his own hands!' Then a better plan came to me.
I'd just wait.
I stood around fidgeting. I checked the time, tapped my foot. If she wasn't previously aware of my 'less than subtle' request then she certainly was now. Across the road, the lunatic was waving his twisted arms and shaking his head. The tension built. Buses zoomed past, cyclists; scooters weaved by. I knew I would be late for work. The first time ever. Then a calmness swept over me - acceptance. I felt like a Zen monk. I was a lone stationary figure while the madness of the city blurred around me in fast-motion. I saw myself with a bell and robe. One small step, one tiny step forwards and then a pause to strike it softly. A dull, earthly ring resounded.
I could see a group of school children approaching.
I waited for them to arrive, all the time glancing down at the immovable lollipop lady with disdain. She could sense my victory. I detected a flicker of defeat wash across her frame as she heaved herself upright. I stood close to her, as close as I dared. The lunatic was straining desperately, almost hopping on the spot. Then the lollipop lady strode into the road in a sudden last ditch attempt to prove something to me – that she still had a modicum of control over the situation; that she could still take me by surprise. But I was too quick for her. I strode out right alongside, never taking my eyes off her lollipop - making it clear that it was she and she alone who guided me across the road. She was serving me; she was providing me with safe passage.
The little kids trotted along behind, talking, waving their hands in the air, swishing their schoolbags from left to right. I paused dead in the centre of the road. I stopped when she stopped. The lunatic was beside me then. I'd almost forgotten about him. His mutterings seemed louder - more urgent than usual. The lunatic and the lollipop lady stood either side of me, all three of us motionless in the centre of the road.
Then I took one step forward and turned around. We were a triangle. I shifted my gaze from left to right and silently introduced the two to each other. The lunatic stared across his shoulder and his eyes rolled skyward. The lollipop lady breathed out slowly and took a small step back towards the pavement. The lunatic followed; the torch was passed. I reached the other side and fought the urge to turn round and gloat.
Something happened yesterday on that crossing.
I decided to take the whole morning off work and sat on a park bench in the sunlight and watched the dark suits streaming past. I bought an ice cream and took my shoes off. I let my toes play with the grass.
Then today. When I arrive at the crossing this morning the lunatic is not there. He is more reliable than my watch; I assume something must be wrong. I turn towards the lollipop lady for an explanation. She looks up at me and stands. Without a word she strides into the road with great purpose, her lollipop held high. There are no children at the crossing. I realise this is a gesture intended for me and me alone – and, as I move I feel like I'm being pulled out into the road by invisible arms.
Somehow she is in control now. She has turned the situation around. I sense a profound pity in her actions, in her demeanour. I am a man whom she is prepared to go out of her way to help. I am a figure who cannot cross the road without assistance. For all those who look on, I am a man suffering from some sort of disorder. The grass between my toes a blue remembered hill, the clothes we stand up in, a smart suit and tie - and an irresistible force which urges us to bow our heads and shuffle forwards.
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