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So long cowboy

I hear him yelling in an unusual way before I am even down the escalator.

There is something very unique about the rhythm and timing of someone losing their shit in the street to nobody, at nobody, with nobody’s interaction or assistance.

He’s yelling in choppy little blasts of words and modulating volume. There is a fractal randomness to it.

“Why why wup,” he says.

“WUP WUP WUP you think, you think you think. CHEE YEEEAGH. Hello. Hello hello hello. I’m a cowboy.”

I can’t see him yet but I can see the people looking towards him, or pointedly not looking at him.

It’s almost like a science. Those farthest away are looking openly at him and smiling. As you get closer to the eye of this storm the looks get smaller and more glance-like. As I come down the escalator I see these glances turn into the pointed inattention that we give to the mad people in the street.

And then I see him.

Or rather I don’t. I just see a red and black blob shouting. Back and forth, back and forth. I ignore him. Busy myself in my phone.

When the train comes I get on board. Sit down, watch a video on my phone.

I can hear him yelling and bellowing from the other carriage. Dutch words now. I don’t speak Dutch very well so he could be a normal person very upset at this point. But I know from the noises he was making outside that he’s not.

I hear him moving, the loud voice getting louder and closer. He’s talking to people but none of them seem to be answering him.

Then he is in the carriage with us.

I keep my head down in my phone, glance out of the corner of my eye and see the others doing the same. Turn up my volume. Watch some video on something.

I imagine him walking in to see all of us head down pointedly looking away from him. It’s like the anti-Cheers. Everyone knows you’re crazy and doesn’t want a fucking thing to do with you.

But why.

This is your life right now. Not a YouTube video. This is real. Something real and vivid and unexpected and it’s happening here and you’re not even looking at it.

I unplug my earphones, turn off my phone. Look up.

He is a cowboy. Or at least he is wearing a cowboy hat. White and quite clean. So too is his jacket. Some sort of design that hints at military camouflage in dark red and black. This too is clean and his pants are ironed and spotless. The outfit is functional but somehow childlike. He’s being taken care of by someone at home. They clean and iron his clothes. He is freshly clean shaven and I wonder if someone does that for him as well. Is it one person who loves him, or does he live in a group home with many people who care for him. It could be either. His face is energetic but friendly and uncomprehending. He has a large bulbous stomach but the rest of him that I can see is soft and pale.

His hands and fingers look like an office workers.

They are pale white and I know the fragile and precarious feeling I would get shaking his hand — those thin wrists and fingers possessed by that frantic energy would be a danger to him.

But I guess that’s right isn’t it? I guess that’s exactly right.

He’s trying to talk to us. Any of us.

He slaps an older man on the knee, says something in Dutch and laughs.

The man is with his wife and gestures with his hands in a “slow down” or “stop” motion. But he does it at the wall or at the ground. He’s trying not to offend someone who he probably can’t offend.

Across the aisle there is a young girl whose hair is so blonde it’s white. She’s trying to make herself as small as possible. Even smaller than she already is. Something on her phone is so interesting she’s virtually trying to climb into it.

Next to her there is a Dutch couple who the cowboy talked to when they first got on. They’re relaxed and unconcerned. I think this is because the man in the couple is huge. He sees me looking at him and smiles back. There is a gap between two huge front teeth and his eyebrows are taking up enough space for six of a normal person’s. He must be at least six and a half feet. I can see reddish-blonde hair poking out of the cuffs of his jacket, the collar of his shirt. He is wearing tan boots. His partner is also Dutch and must be taller than me as well.

They’re not worried.

The cowboy is still talking. Slapping the man’s thigh again to the recipient’s discomfort. The man moves away a little and looks over at me. I shrug.

Two rail workers get on the train at the stop and stand near the door. The cowboy barks out a few random words.

“Watch watch FANS FAAAAAAANNN,” he says before saying the only thing he seems to say in a normal tone and volume.

“I’m a cowboy.”

The reaction is comical. They’re obviously office workers. Getting a little older and softer. But they are wearing the dark navy blue uniform and gold emblems of the rail company. It gives them some authority. The other people in the carriage can feel it.

A few of us look at them.

They look back then at each other as another scramble of words and noises spills out of the cowboy.

Suddenly they are seized by the urgent need to talk about something. Their heads come together and they begin talking quickly.

Their feet give them away. As they rearrange themselves to talk their feet turn away from the man. Their bodies face him slightly. They could be talking about him, about what to do. But their feet give them away.

They have the feet that someone has when you bump into them in the street and they don’t want to talk to you. Inching away bit by bit until they’re almost talking over their own shoulder.

That’s how they are talking now.

Sure enough two stops after and they get off. Still in their urgent conversation but I’d bet 100 euros that it slows down and fails once the doors close.

I get out the stop after that. The cowboy with me. I’m behind him as he churns his way through the station. Big steps and a constantly turning head. He tries to talk to anyone who catches his eye or who he sees.

“HOWAREYOUHOWAREYOU,” he says. People look away.

“I’m a cowboy.” People look away.

“HERE HEEEEYYYYA HOOP.” People look away.

I turn right, get on the next train. He keeps walking.

So long cowboy. But thank you.

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