Laughing like Louis Armstrong Played the Trumpet

If you’re going to lose your mind, bring someone delightful with you

There was a memorable man who used to come to the pizza place where I worked. He talked to himself like he was having the best conversation in the world. Back in the 80s, before cellphones, a one-sided conversation in public was unusual. Not unheard of, but it implied you were resistant to breaking up with your imaginary friends.

I was in my 20s. I scrutinized people like I was auditioning them to appear in the novel I would one day write. He was one of my favorite customers because he was always laughing. My other customers were mostly university students, professors, and high school students — bubbled wrapped. If I pulled up a chair, I might hear a slice of academia or gossip, but the man’s voice carried like a soloist in a choir. I couldn’t keep it out if I wanted to.

The man was always in midconversation with someone I couldn’t see. Someone he liked, who made him laugh hard, with whom he agreed. How do I know he agreed with the person in his head, you ask? Because he was always saying, “You can say that again,” lifting off his fedora, slapping his hat on his knee, tossing his head back, and laughing like Louis Armstrong played the trumpet. His laughing stretched the range of his voice, changing pitches, sounding slightly out of key — jazz.

I thought about that man today while I drove my son to school. It snowed hard last night. The road was narrow. I drove cautiously, trying to avoid black ice. I kept my eyes on other cars anticipating a crash.

The memory of the man snuck in through the cracked window of my mind and a smile caught my nervous face off guard. I felt the need to pluck the memory of the man from my mind and share it with my son. Stories do that. They pull at my hem and say, “Show me. I’m a good story.”

When I told my son about the man, his smile widened.

So no one was there? my son asked, grinning.

Not that I could see, I answered.

But he liked who he was talking to? he asked.

Seemed like it, I said.

That’s awesome! he blurted out with excitement. And he wasn’t mad at all? he continued.

What do you mean? I asked.

Well most people I see talking to themselves seem mad.

They do? I asked.

Yes, like that guy who walks down our street yelling at everybody.

Yeah, he seems pretty mad.

I mean, if you’re gonna lose your mind, my son continued, it’s so smart to bring someone great with you.

I silently concurred. By then, I knew we were talking about more than just the man. We were talking about life. I couldn’t believe the man’s smile had traveled three decades from his face to my son’s. I was so happy I’d carried it with me all that time. It hadn’t weighed me down a bit.

I also loved that my son thought you could choose the crazy person you took with you when you lost your mind. But then again, isn’t that what we do every day?