Crazy Larry

My favorite homeless person’s name is Crazy Larry. I am not sure that is his real name but it is how my coworkers and I affectionately come to refer to him by. Crazy Larry is African-American, shorter than me and seldom wears a shirt. He pushes around a shopping cart that he sometimes perches himself upon it in a way reminiscent of a yoga pose. Sometimes he mumbles to himself and or makes kissy noises to no one in particular. I have only heard Crazy Larry speak coherently once in the years I have known him.

For a long time, Crazy Larry lived right outside the sliding glass doors on Sixth Street. For awhile he disappeared in a way that reminded me of my cat running away when I was a little girl. Crazy Larry, like my cat, returned and I wanted so much to know where he had been but knew, like with my cat I would never knew where he had been. A day doesn’t pass that I don’t look for Crazy Larry. Usually I see him somewhere between CCCO’s front door and the lot I park my car in. On the occasions I do see him, I make a point to look him in the eyes and say hello. He nods back in way that reassures me he knows me. On the days I don’t see him, I wonder if I will ever see him again.

There is something tender and endearing about Crazy Larry and most times I see him it is all I can do to not give him a bear hug. I know he is a deeply troubled soul, the product of his own demons but our lives have intersected in a way and in a place that is as absurd as it is healing and it is for this reason he is etched in my soul. Intellectually, I recognize Crazy Larry probably needs more mental health care than our broken system affords him, but he endures despite it. But emotionally, I hope for Crazy Larry that somehow the world becomes a better place for him despite the frail capacities of well-meaning do gooders, like me perhaps, in our fragile community.

JH