You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
The mean old man.
I’m standing in front of the lake. It’s a warm morning, but there’s a slight breeze making the rising temperatures bearable.
The sun is on fire in the brilliant blue field of blue. There are no clouds on this 2nd day of summer in Tennessee.
I look across the lake. It is tranquil, reflecting the homes nestled on its shore.
A flock of ducks lands, like a military squadron. They dip their bills into the water and toss the cool liquid onto their backs.
There is a sign before me. It is prominently featured. It says “Jackson Lake is intended for the sole use of Residence only. All others are prohibited”
I stare at the sign in front of the placid lake.
“Who wrote that?” I say pointing to the misspelled word.
“What?” my camera man says focusing on a heron half way across the small body of water.
“Residence. You don’t spell it like that. It should be residents.”
“Oh,” he says dismissively focusing on the tall grass growing by the shoreline.
“When are those kids coming?” he asks wiping the sweat from his brow.
“They said five minutes. They’re bringing the car with the paint job scratched up too.”
We are here waiting on teenagers who claim their car was vandalized. They were fishing even though they shouldn’t have been. The boys say an old man came up to them and warned them that there was a crazy old man who keys the cars of people fishing illegally who don’t live there.
Just then, we spot an old man barreling down the sidewalk. He is tall and lanky. He is in his 70’s and he has white flowing hair. He has angst written on his face.
“Look at this guy. This is the guy,” I whisper to my photog.
I quietly slide my iphone into record mode just as the older man arrives.
“What’s all this?” He screeches.
“How ya doing?” I say not answering his question.
I’m discreetly pointing the camera at him.
He is animated, agitated, like a metallic dradel rolling across an open electrical conduit.
“Why is the camera here?”
I stare at his clenched jaw, his furrowed brow. He is a vortex of dyspeptic twisted energy.
I point the camera at his face.
“Some kids tell me they were fishing here and an old man keyed the side of their car causing $1,000 in damage.”
The old man’s eyes grow wild with excitement.
He forcefully knocks my hand holding the iphone.
I feel the camera slide in my fingers, but I manage to hold on.
“get that camera off me.”
His voice is a pit viper’s venom.
I am not happy, but I hold it together. Technically the old man just assaulted me.
“So what do you think about that?” I ask the old timer.
“You see that sign there, “he says, his bony finger extended.
“Yeah I see it.”
“They are not allowed to fish here if they are not residents. We have expensive carp that eat the water grass by the shore. If they catch the fish, we residents have to pay for that.”
I point the camera back at the man.
I stare at him. I know he is the one. I am certain that I am shooting the face of the old angry man who keyed the teenager’s car.
I watch the blood boil inside his eyes. I knew he was the bad guy before he got close. He had a bad energy field as he walked up to me and my camera man. It’s a small complex. I figured the perpetrator was a resident who was angry about trespassers. I figured they’d be close. We figured the news vehicle would flush him out.
As this man approached, it’s as if I had a thermal scanner of his soul. He was filled with swirling dark blue anger and impatient flashes of red.
“Get that camera off my face,” he snarls. He takes a step toward me. “You’re an aggressive little shit,” he says.
I stare into the old man’s face. he is seething, blowing snot bubbles of indignation.
He is an old man, but he is rude. He is an old man, but he is foul.
I take a step toward him.
We are jaw to jaw.
“You better back up,” he says.
“Maybe you need to back up. Sir. You’ve all ready hit me once. You’ve insulted me numerous times.”
I feel the adrenaline surge through my veins.
I’m not going to fight an old man. But I’m letting him know this is America.
This is a tax payer funded street.
I have a right to be here. The 1st Amendment says I can shoot anything that a normal person would see from this street, including him. If he doesn’t like it, he can kiss my ass.
He is angry, but he is old. And now that I am close, I can see he is frail.
The old man senses the futile position he has put himself in. “I’m dying,” he says pulling up his sleeve.
He reveals a bandage and a port for medicine. He doesn’t say it, but I guess he has cancer.
“I’m sorry. I just had my medicine and I get crazy. I apologize. I was rude to you.”
I take a step back. I face the lake and stare at the magnificent body of water.
It is calming. I feel badly for the old man. I’m sorry he’s dying. I am sorry that he chooses to celebrate the final days of his existence by vandalizing a kid’s car.
“That’s terrible what happened to those kids,” he says. “I mean the sign says no fishing if you don’t live here. They shouldn’t have been fishing here. Someone could have told them. But people shouldn’t key their car because they were in the wrong.”
I listen to the man. I know he is a liar. I know he did it. I only shot his face so I could do my own photo line up with the kids.
The man talks to me about carp that eat the high grass. He talks about a bald eagle that lived in a nest at the edge of the lake. “It killed all the ducks,” he says. He tells me about people who come into the neighborhood through the tree line beyond, littering and creating noise.
I thank him for his knowledge of the lake.
He apologizes again for his abrupt and rude behavior.
He walks home, two blocks from where we are standing.
A few moments later, the kids arrive.
I say hello.
I show them the video of the old man.
“That’s him,” one of the teens says.
I look to my cameraman.
I knew it.
“That’s the guy,” the other kid says aloud with a smile. “How’d you find him?”
I smile. How did I find him?
I looked into his soul that’s how.
It’s what I do.
Life’s Crazy™