Young Writers Society

An Odd Encounter With Dali

Spain in the 1980's:

It is not everyday that one gets to rome the streets of a foreign city and encounter a complete stranger with an annoying habit of rambling on about his personal life to someone who he has never met and, quite frankly, has no interest in what he has to say.

A tall confused middle aged man with a flamboyant mustache positioned himself in front of me. At first, I thought that he had said something to me but I quickly noticed the quiet nervous rambling was directed to himself. We made eye contact, and our gaze stayed locked until he seated himself beside me. . I broke eye contact as I noticed that our eyes had stayed on one another's for more than a few uncomfortable minutes. I created a larger awkward gap between us as I shifted a few spaces to the left, sliding myself, with caution, along the sandy granite bench, feeling stifled and unsettled by his odd piercing stare.

His hands had started to tremble…faster…more vigorously every second…until his rambling became louder, every word more pronounced.. as if his intentions were for me to hear every single word.:

"For God's sake!..why did she have to die…my muse…Gala…!…Greatest…I am…yes..I'm sorry…. Imaginary people… Leave me a..l…o…n…e HELP"

After such a loud powerful outbreak, I glanced over to ensure that he was alright. He had a manic look in his glazed eyes and had drawn unnecessary attention to himself in such a public place. He went on mumbling about hallucinations and how he hadn't slept a wink in months.

My will to make casual conversation with this insane man had disappeared. His eyes lost, searching for something in the far distance. As I jumped to my feet, attempting an escape, the man which appears to be having a mental breakdown grabbed my free arm with urgency and wrenched me down with full force. Back on my original spot, he places his hands on either sides of my terrified face and pulls me in close. His words are a whisper, but I make them out :"Son" he says in a desperate hush "Do you know the difference between me and a mad man?" dumb struck by such a vague, random question, I reply with a slight shake of my head. His eyes start to tear up, his lower lip faintly trembling, but he doesn't cry. "The difference, you imbecile, is that I am not mad".

As he hissed out that sentence in a venomous manner, he released the painful hold he had on my now-finger-stained-inflamed cheeks, looked at me one last time with his bulging blood-shot eyes and stumbled away expressionless.

In loving memory of Salvador Dali. The self-proclaimed genius that was thought of being slightly insane.