Howling Mad

The beard line came within a 1/4" from a field of chest hair and called a truce on this wild mop headed man-child who spoke with such decibel excitement his voice waned from totally cracking up to a young southern officer's bass drawl. Demandingly adolescent it was, but more experienced than mine. He paced back and forth on wooden planked floors in the only lit room of his family's farm house. Surely no one was sleeping. It was as if I was the very first guest. It was quite uncomfortable. He was pushy like a realtor showing you your 13th house in a month, so desperate for you to fall in love with it. "What do you think of these drawings?" inquiring innocently. They were sad. They were frightening, but artistically wonderful and marvelous. "You did these.... WOW! This is great Bobby!" I exclaimed. I thought for a split second he would yell out CAPTAIN CAVE MAN!!! and go crashing through the window, then I remembered earlier in the day he showed me his Salman Rushdie book and I started feeling scared as hell. This guy might have brought me here to kill me. He wasn't intimidating or a bully, not very powerful or athletic, but totally energetic and manic. He could do it. I knew he could, but I would have to be asleep. This would be a sleepless night.