Mr. MRT

They lurk in the shadows of every city; waiting to spring out unexpectedly and scare the surrounding population. They frequent secluded corners and public parks, and scurry through the mass transit systems. As soon as you let down your guard, just when you think it is safe to relax, in an instant they appear and rattle your normalcy. They are The Crazies, those scant few who are so far out in left field they’re standing by first base. You know the ones I’m talking about. The guy skipping down the sidewalk in cut-offs and a tube top, spreading the joy of the rainbow with his fairy wand. The lady arguing with her coffee and ordering pie for herself and President Lincoln. The seventy-five year old who doesn’t shave her armpits, bathes in goat’s milk and wants to tell your fortune with a deck of cards. They are loony, off-center, tipping the scales toward freak-ville, and we’ve all met them somewhere, somehow. News flash! Taipei, like other big cities, still has Crazies. The following is a tale of our first encounter with their kind.
It was a normal, peaceful Sunday morning. We met up with our fellow teachers, Matt and Melanie, and started the long subway trek to church. We enjoyed a quiet MRT ride all the way to Taipei Main Station, the hub of the subway lines. Switching to the green line, we headed towards Gonguan, where church awaited. As we started moving, Matt’s new travel partner greeted him in Chinese. Let me take a quick moment to explain that this is not the behavior of Crazies. Many normal Taiwanese people say hello and even like to practice their English with you. (Unlike the subway in New York where riders only practice four-letter English words with strangers.) Being a stellar example of American friendliness, Matt began talking to Mr. MRT. (As I have so skillfully labeled him.) All was well until a whole sentence in Chinese appeared. Matt explained he did not speak Chinese, so Mr. MRT decided to translate his sentence for Matt. As a matter of fact, he became his own speaker/translator for the next ten minutes, teaching Matt everything from “What time is it?”, to “Do my socks smell funny?” For those of us standing by, our desire to save Matt was trumped by our non-interrupting manners. Truthfully, it was just too darn funny to stop. (However, the first explanation does provide a quick glimmer of parental pride in our upbringing.) The conversation continued to get better with Mr. MRT explaining that Matt was tall, broad, and fat. Full membership in the family of Crazies was almost reached by the accompanying hand motions that looked like Sunday school children singing Deep and Wide. Completely crossing the line was the final Buddha belly rub, at which point Matt exclaimed, “Whoa buddy, that’s a little too far!” He then explained how in America it is very difficult to make friends by emphasizing certain aspects of their person. Matt then responded with his own hand motions as his finger circled his ear and he asked, “Are you crazy?” “Yes!” Mr. MRT said, laughing and nodding his head. “Yes, crazy!”
Congratulations, Mr. MRT! You are now an official member of The United Order of Crazies. I dub thee, Mr. Madman Roaming Taipei, and present you with this ticket to visit Michael Jackson, one of your American relatives.

Note: No Crazies or oversized teachers were harmed in the writing of this story.