The Man Who Hollahs "Hey!"

"Hey!"

From the street below my window I hear, "Hey! Hey! Hey hey!" At first it was loud, but it's fading into the distance. Phew.

That's all he says, while moving in groovy yet agitated circles. Pedestrians give him a wide berth, and don't make eye contact unless it's by accident. "Hey!" he'll say, abruptly pivoting to face them. He slides and glides like a Soul Train dancer.

I estimate his height to be around 6'5", and his weight at around 160. He's very dark skinned, wears a knit cap over his close-cropped knots of hair and his eyes reach out at you as if to grab you and pull you into his skull.

"Hey! Hey!" When I'm on the street, I give him a wide berth and do my best to avoid eye contact.

He's one of several overt schizophrenics wandering the city, unattended, unmedicated and under fed. There is no real way to keep them under control without violating their civil rights, and so we wait until something bad happens and then we jail or hospitalize them. Then comes a court order to medicate, and the long process of convincing someone in another reality to take their pills no matter how god awful the side effects.

One hallmark of the disease is self-isolation. They are alone in their world, often in darkness, yelling at passing shadows. "Where are you going? Get in here and keep me company, damn you! Help me!"

"Hey!" Here he comes again.

"Crap, that's annoying," I say to no one in particular, as I glide across the room and close the window.