Ever have one of those days when everything and everyone looks shabby and you just want to go somewhere spotless? Or is it just me? It can’t just be me.

Anyway, yesterday was such a day. Everyone on the train seemed to be an un- or under-employed and shabbily-dressed middle-aged beardo. There’s one guy like that I’ve seen a couple of times on my way into town from JFK who always sits at the front end of the first car, curled up in a corner seat scribbling in a notepad. I mean, he’s curled up in a fetal position practically. And this is a man in his late thirties, probably. Talk about age-inappropriate. Time to leave the womb already.

Of course, I have an instant dislike of anyone who puts their feet on the seats. It’s one of the most inconsiderate, offensive things you can do on the T, and God knows there are about a million inconsiderate, offensive things you can do on the T. I don’t get it, personally. And it seems like when someone does it, they sort of look around the car defiantly. Like, “yeah, I’ve got my muddy boots up on the seat. Whatchu gonna do about it?” It’s provoking behavior, isn’t it?

A couple summers ago I was on the orange line on my way in from Stony Brook, and there was a fat, mean-looking Latina sitting across from me and my roommate. And she was eating cherries out of a plastic Safeway bag, and throwing the pips on the floor, and each time she threw one on the floor she made sure to look up and give us the evil eye, like we were the ones acting like assholes. She was sort of daring us to say something, and clearly poised to retaliate should we decide to do so. I mean, who wants any of that?

But back to the beardo with the scribble pad. He was a little like that. He would look up from his scribble pad to see who had noticed his exquisite eccentricities. You can’t but stare at sods like this, is the unfortunate thing. And staring at them makes them think they’re worthy of attention. But it’s got nothing to do with merit. I mean, you ever see someone have an epileptic fit in public. People stop what they’re doing to observe the spectacle slack-jawed. They can’t help it. It’s the rubberneck gene.

And this guy was like a car wreck, somehow. I mean, he had that car-wreck aura. He’s one of those tiresome crazy people who knows he’s crazy. Kind of like Andrea Yates. I don’t know who’s crazier, people who know they’re nuts, or people who don’t. I think in some ways people who know they are have lapped those who don’t.

One thing is for sure: crazy people who know they’re crazy are more tiresome, because they want to draw everybody into it. I mean, if knowledge truly is power, you’d think knowing you’re crazy would empower you to, I dunno, take your meds or something. At least make an attempt to act normal. I mean, manage it somehow. but this sort of somewhat self-aware “hey, lookit how crazy I am!” shtick. Irritating. I mean, “look at me curled up on the T with my big, muddly clodhoppers on the seat scribbling in my notepad like a nut!” Well, bravo. How very original.

My idea of heaven is a sanitarium. I think of Prince Muishkin. I’ve always thought The Idiot had a happy ending. Off to the santiarium for an endless vacation. In Heaven everything is white, just as people imagine. There are no TVs, maybe off in the distance you can hear a radio, but all they play are accordian waltzes. The lamps are old fashioned. No skittering, nervous fluorescent lights. It’s summer, and gets dark late, and the lights are dimmed at night. They comfort you. There’s a big window, across from your bed, and an oak tree outside. There is a courtyard, and sometimes the nurse-angels wheel you out in the early afternoon, if you cleaned your plate at lunch, and you can feed the sparrows and the pigeons, talk to the squirrels, whatever. There’s an old gardener, who’s very kind. He’s the only one who sometimes you talk to, but he doesn’t expect you to say anything. He may ask you a question, like ‘lovely weather, eh?’ but you don’t have to answer. He’ll smile at you (in a nice way), and tell you a story, leaning on his spade, about when he was a boy. You love his stories. They never go on too long.

The beauty of it is, you can sleep just as long as you like, and nobody disturbs you, and even if you have a visitor, which you don’t often, you can close your eyes. You don’t have to talk to anyone, and you can listen or not, as you choose. No one expects you to understand them. And after a while you don’t. You never really did, you were just pretending to. Now you don’t have to. They make sounds like the birds, or some of them like the squirrels. Maybe they are speaking a different language. No matter. In the divine sanitarium you are taken care of. You don’t bother yourself about whence come your meals, or whether the nurses get a fair wage. Everything is white. Everything is clean. Everything is taken care of.