I've met my share of lunatics. As I've previously hypothesized, I think my brain secretes an unusually high level of seratonin, which attracts fruitcakes like chum does marauding sharks. Whether I'm on the bus, ambling down the street or sitting in a movie theater, I'll invariably end up squared off with some nut-job, who'll somehow try to weave me into the script of his delusional movie.

Most of the time I respond with good humor. Sometimes I even try to find out what their "theory"is. You know, the reason why everyone looks at them funny and avoids them. A popular idea is that the poor unfortunate came too close to the CIA/Martian alliance that runs everything. That's why the Men in Black (Will Smith?) canceled his bank account, gave his family new identities and injected him with a drug that induces bizarre behavior. After all, who's going to listen to a crazy street person? Tin foil helmets are optional.

But these fellows are fairly benign. They're victims of a system that at some point crushed all the rational behavior out and reduced them to beggary. Merely trying to keep up with the process of how this could happen to a taxpayer and a citizen is enough to drive anyone bananas. We live in an unfair world in which hard work, ethics and personal pride matter not. It could be you or me out there rummaging the garbage cans — and sooner than you think.

But the most fiendish and fearsome example of a crazy person that I ever encountered, is someone I didn't even lay eyes on. I was just too scared. But I could hear him. And if you had heard him, you'd know that somewhere out there is an even more horrifying process than the one that turns citizens into jabbering bums. There is no process to describe the origin of Mr. Shit.

It was about 12 years ago, and my friend Jim and I were somewhere on I-5 south of Drain. Jim was driving the "Blue Pig,"an ancient Toyota Corolla that was frequently in need of mechanical attention.

The car had been sputtering and lurching for the past 15 minutes, so we pulled into a rather desolate rest area. Jim quickly struck up a conversation with a rubbernecker who watched us vainly try to restart the troubled Toyota. The guy knew where there was a mechanic in the next town (Sutherlin, I think) and he and Jim took off to go fetch the fellow in the guy's pickup.

This left me pretty much alone at the rest area.

Rest areas are creepy places. Have you read the graffiti? Long-distance truckers rendezvousing with whores, vacant-eyed religious wackos passing out coffee, predatory homosexuals behind every bush (at least that's what my Uncle Roy said). Wannabe Ted Bundys trying to lure innocents into their vans full of torture devices. The list is endless.

I wasn't happy about the developments, but the guy only had a two-seater truck and no canopy. Fortunately, I had to take an enormous dump, so at least I had something to occupy my time.

That's where I stumbled onto Mr. Shit.
The bathroom was like any other hasty roadside design: two stalls, two urinals and a sink area. The air was thick with a nose- wrinkling combo of industrial-strength disinfectant, piss and vomit. The towel dispenser had a cloth towel that was thoroughly soiled and pulled all the way down. "That's why God gave us shirts,"I thought, heading for the nearest stall.

Unfortunately, the first toilet was full. Of shit. And piss. And paper. Hell, for all I know, Jimmy Hoffa was down there. The damn crapper was an overflowing Vesuvius of filth. One step closer and it would erupt, spewing its vile contents all over my Chuck Taylors. Like the staggering freshman girl at a the Senior Keg, she was ready to blow.

I backed out slowly. I eyeballed the stall nearest the wall. There were no feet visible.

"Did you see what Mr. Shit did?" I might have hit the ceiling. The voice came from the last stall. The one where there were no feet visible.

Someone or something began to batter and beat on the walls of the second stall, laughing the whole time: "Waaah-hoo-hoo-hoo! Waaah-hoo-hoo- hoo!"

He sounded like he was enjoying the wildest carnival ride ever devised, except his laughter was devoid of merriment. This was a creature that had stopped experiencing joy sometime long before.

"I see you in there, Mr. Shit. You aren't going to get away from me,"he cackled. I heard splashing, like a dog in a wading pool. Oh God, he was looking for something in the bowl! There were still no feet or any other extremity in view.

The crap I'd had to take earlier dissolved to powder in my bowels.

"Hey! Hey fucker! C'mere! Mr. Shit wants to talk to you!"He was not only aware of my presence, but he wanted an audience. I did the sensible thing and rambled.

I kept my eye on the door from a nearby picnic table, but no one ever emerged. I tried to tell Jim about it when he finally returned (two hours later), but he thought I was telling tall tales.

I still wonder about that guy. He was obviously a fecophile, but what else? A dwarf? A ghost? Crazed 'Nam vet with no legs? Demented child?

I don't know. But he's still out there. Waiting. For the shit.

By John Chandler