Bobby Benedict, contributor
I’ve come across the archetypes: the conspiracy hobo, diet the Dude, even not-blind-but-also-not-as-good Ray Charles. I try to associate with those weirdos, to understand how far past the fringes the human mind can be taken, but these three I still can’t quite comprehend.
The Alaskan Werewolf
Alaska was amazing, even if only for the experience of being chased by a moose. I met one hirsute gentleman wandering downtown Anchorage. He never asked me for change, he never bothered anyone, but he would just wander. Once I asked him where he was going, he responded with, “Toward the midnight sun, can’t see the moon there, can’t feel the change.” Now, he could have been talking about the seasonal change, or maybe an emotional catharsis of sorts, or was it something else? DUN-DUN-DUUUUUUUUUUN.
The Wilted Rose
One night I heard a faint knock on the door of my rented house in Sioux Falls. I got up to peer out the window since my anxiety prevented me from answering the door directly. A single rose lay on my porch. An admirer? An accident? An anime-style death omen? I wouldn’t know until months later. This time I had started taking anti-anxiety meds and my door answering game was off the chain. The knock. I sprang into action. Opening the door, a hand reached from the storm door and thrusts a flower into my hands. Stunned, I watched a frail frame draped in faded pastel colors float like a wisp down my walkway. “Thank you!” I yelled to the darkness. No one responded. They didn’t need to.
My Spirit Mom
Me and my mom are tight, but I met a lady patrolling 3rd St. in Reno outside the Wednesday haunt who was equal parts high, drunk, and jovial. Bursting into the circle of comedians, she asked for a cigarette in a language that can only be mistaken for English. She then took a shaky head-to-toe look at me and blurted out, “You could be my son!” I could; for now, I’ll be your son. She proceeded to give us a harrowing yet unintelligible story through her heroin-addled brain, and saunter off towards The Sands. Fitting.
As I think about the holidays fast approaching, I wonder what has become of these specters of my memory. Only Weirdo God can save them, or are they Weirdo Gods themselves?