IN WHICH Mojo Is Accosted By a Crazy Person.

Yes, I know what you're thinking. Either "so what else is new" or "what, did she go to a family reunion?" No, in this instance I don't mean someone who is irritating or different than Mojo's august self. I mean certifiably loony tunes. I mean, poor delusion person, ya wonder how they survive when they can't perform simple tasks. But they do. There could be some sort of devastating natural disaster, with people dying right and left of starvation and disease, and you'll still have a crazy person wandering the streets completely oblivious to the horrors around them and asking the rescuers stuff like, "Have you seen my car keys? I left them on the counter and now they're gone."

Of course going through a natural disaster and observing all the horrors around them some people's brains break anyway, so that's not a very good analogy. And I feel badly for people who are drug addicts or chronic drunks and who are slowly killing themselves, which is what I suspected this crazy person was doing. Their face had that sunken skull-like quality of someone not much longer for this world. And they were just really scared and desperate. I felt badly and did my best to help them, but since I was unable to conjure up the fictional street they were looking for I'm afraid our interaction didn't do them much good.

I needed to open the library and I was rushing to do an errand before that, and coming out of my errand place, backing my car up, I was flagged down by someone who ran up to the window and wanted to know where--oh, let's say, "Smithfield Street" was. To which I said I'm sorry, I didn't know, blah blah blah. They became very agitated at this and told me they were already VERY LATE for something and they were hopelessly lost, and their directions said they should just turn right at the police barracks and they turned right and now nothing looks familiar!

Well, there's only two police barracks in a thirty mile radius or so, and one right off the street where this interaction took place, so I asked a few obvious questions and determined that yes, THAT was the police in question. So I suggested that they could just drive down the street they obviously came up on and start again at the police barracks. And if that didn't work, well, that's what the police are for, huh? To help people that are lost. Well, and catch Bad Guys, too. Oh, and harrass people < a href="">when their plate lights are out, but that cop was quite nice about it and I shouldn't keep beating that story like it's really that interesting, huh.

But this person did not want to have ANYTHING to do with the cops, which I can't say I blame them given what I supposed was their background in recreational substance abuse, so instead they started asking me if *I* knew where the house was they were looking for. To prompt me they explained that the backyard "had a swamp in it". To which I had to admit I needed a little more to go on than that, like, say, at least a house COLOR or STYLE, but such things were beyond our confused friend. They then told me they LIVED in that house, but things have changed so in town and they had lost their bearings.

By now I REALLY needed to get the library open, so I suggested they follow me to the library and I'd haul out the town maps. They stared at me as if I were trying to lure them into my car with candy while hiding a baseball bat behind my back. So in vain I gave them directions to the library, which wasn't that far away and one of the more distinctive buildings in town, being a library and all. But they would have none of it. Instead they started asking questions like "What street is this?" and "How would I get to the turnpike?"

Mojo being who she was just sort of sighed quietly to herself and did her best to answer all the questions, but it was pretty much like trying to hold a conversation with someone delirious with fever--words are being spoken, and they seem to make sense, but in the grand scheme of things it dawns on you that it's mostly gibberish. So we parried around with random observations and non sequiturs until I evidently suggested stopping and talking to the cops once too often. They got sick of me and my density and walked away.

Mojo thinks it must be sad to be living a nightmare like that, twenty four hours a day. Especially since her own life is such a blazing trail of glory.

Well, at least I know where my house is. So far.


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