As I was waiting for the bus to go home yesterday, a tall man asked me if the 66 had passed yet.

I should have known instantly from his eyes, but I was tired.

So when he struck up a conversation with me, I half-heartedly responded. He was wearing a lightweight Indian-style shirt and joked that he dressed like that to freak out tourists into thinking he was a terrorist. Whatever. I yawned. Checked my text messages. He’s quite handsome, I thought, but a little too intense.

And then, it finally kicked in.

This post appeared in its original form at DC Metblogs
“I used to work for the White House as an engineer,” he said, plugging himself into his cell phone headset, “I was over there today and got footage of a UFO – I’m serious – the space-time continuum just folded right in front of my eyes.”

Maybe he’s joking. I just shake my head and disengage. The 68 arrives and he follows me on it closely, now talking on his phone to someone about a very important appointment he is on his way to but “it’s classified, I can’t tell you anything more about it.” He sits right behind me, making call after call, all centering around a Dr. Beaufort who is trying to steal his x-ray technology.

I’m so familiar with this patter, my skin is crawling. I begin to get delusional myself, thinking he will follow me off the bus and try to murder me in my house. He has that look of the walking wounded, but semi-functional.

You see, my mother is a psychologist. Insanity runs rampant in my family – obsessive compulsives, manic depressives, yes, even this man’s kind – paranoid schizophrenics, the dreamers who can’t control their dreams. And somehow they know, they always talk to me. It must be that I have the dreamer’s eyes too. But my dreams are in control, aren’t they?

I jump off the bus and race into my house. My husband and our visiting friend arrive. I rant on and on about my encounter, not able to control the rambling speech. It’s terrifying. I sound like one of them.

This post appeared in its original form at DC Metblogs