Freak on a train

I was talking to a crazy man on the train the other day.

You know how it is; you get on the train and look around for a place to sit. But all the seats are taken and you really don't want to stand. Then you notice one man sitting on his own and several empty seats all around him. And you just know there must be a good reason why nobody wants to sit near this guy, but you aren't going far so figure you can take your chances.
And it all makes good blog fodder.

I sit down and this wild-eyed, toothless madman looks at me. I pretend to be fascinated with something outside the window. Then a girl listening to her iPod sits down next to crazy man. She is listening to her music loudly, so that all you can hear is the tinny, hissing beat. Crazy man says something to me. I don't know what it is, but I figure it's something about personal stereos not being very personal. I make a noise of agreement. "What?" he says "Hm, nothing" I mumble and continue to look out the window. But I've spoken to him now.

He keeps looking at me, and looking at this girl, then he leans towards me
"Is she with you?" he asks
I laugh "No" I tell him. This doesn't seem clear enough to him.
"Is she your girlfriend?"
"No. I only saw her for the first time when she sat down."
"Nice, though, isn't she?"
"Yes, she's very pretty"
"Why don't you ask her out?"
"I don't think my girlfriend would like that very much"
"Fair enough, I'm just trying to help you out, mate"

I thanked him for the thought, but assured him it wasn't necessary. Then crazy man starts complaining how nobody talks on trains any more. It did seem a little strange when he mentioned it, the carriage was full of people, but also completely silent. Except for him. He was telling me how in his day people would all talk to each other on the train. I was tempted to tell him that people are likely to think you're a crazy freak if you talk to them, but figured it best not to call him names, in case he stabbed me for it.

He moves on to the subject of work. I'm dressed in my finest black suit since I'd just been to an interview and he asks me what I do. I think we can see where this is leading. I was tempted to tell him I was an astronaut. But instead I tell him I'm an artist, I was carrying my bird canvas with me, after all. He says "Really?" and makes a drinking gesture with a questioning look. I laugh and tell him, yes, I'm a piss artist. He points out that I said it and not him, so I can't get mad.
"But really," he wants to know, "what sort of thing do you do?"

If you ever seen Spaced you will remember the artist character, Brian, who whenever he was asked that question would reply with "Anger...Pain...Fear...Aggression...". It took a world of restraint not to take the piss and repeat this to crazy man. Instead I talked a bit about photography and a move towards painting. He asked me if there was a lot of money in it. None at all, I told him. I don't make any money out of art. He told me I should be a plumber, like him. How he was earning 35k a year, and when he completes his next course he will be on more like 50k.

You'd think with that sort of money he'd get some false teeth or something, since he had only one or two mangled, discoloured lumps for his gnashers.

Luckily about this point it was my stop, so I was able to bid farewell to the freak and his misguided matchmaking and try to navigate my way from Deptford to Goldsmith's College...