The Story of Dustin

I met, a couple of years ago, a tall, scraggly-haired 60-something-year-old guy who came into my life shirtless. His name was Dustin.

Dustin played basketball regularly with a cousin of mine. He dropped in on a barbecue at this cousin's house after such a game. He hadn't been invited, but showed up anyway. Shirtless. He smelled horrible, which could've been attributed to sweat from the game, but was just as likely a constant condition.

He kept his shirt on the back of his chair throughout the meal. His shoulder-long hair was pinned out of the way of the several hotdogs he ate as fast as he could. His eyes were a sharp green and they darted around at each of us. Many of his teeth were missing and the ones he had were lemonade-yellow.

He drank a few beers in quick succession. He talked to everyone at once and did not stop talking during a bite or sip. He had so much to tell us and all thoughts were punctuated with a loud cackle. He hunched over in such a way that his nipples were inches from the potato salad. This was what disturbed me most.

I had been told Dustin was fucking crazy.

So no part of this display was very surprising, even though it was fascinating to finally meet and observe someone with a reputation for discarding countless social customs.

He went on monopolizing the conversation, burping, sweating, asking for seconds and thirds. But about a half hour into the meal, something interesting happened.

We were sitting on the backyard patio. His eyes wandered to the flowerbed next to the grill and he started interrogating the host about the choice of those flowers. He wanted to know why they were picked and why planted in such an order. He didn't seem satisfied by the answers. I asked him why he was so fascinated by the flowers. He told me he had been a landscaper for a few years. Then he proceeded to rattle off the longest list of the most beautiful and colorful and vivid flowers he had ever seen blossom. He looked not at me when he answered but stared off into the woods behind the house. He spoke not like a former landscaper but some kind of poet-botanist.

I had been told Dustin was fucking crazy.

I had heard from my cousin that his background was in trucking. And before that he had had any number of odd jobs, including a stint doing deliveries for the post office and another as a handyman. The way he was talking about flowers, anyone would've thought it was the only thing he'd studied for decades.

Then other subjects came up. Someone mentioned music. Dustin gave his synopsis of Mozart and Chopin. He told us what was special about each of them. Someone asked about his previous basketball game. He compared the high points of the game to some of the legendary NBA championships of the last five decades. He rattled off statistics on Larry Bird, Wilt Chamberlin, Bill Russell.

A short while later he was quoting the Austrian poet Rilke about the secret wonders of the universe. He also revealed a deep understanding of ancient history and the roots of political philosophy.

My daughter, Cecilia, was one and a half at the time. Naturally, she was staring at the loudest, and most naked, man at the table. Dustin caught her glare. He stared back for a while. Then he shook his head and seemed to become emotional. He said, "Man, they are the only ones who see things the way they really are." He kept shaking his head. "I would give anything to see the way she sees."

I found out after the dinner that these subjects -- and the range and depth of them -- were not uncommon in Dustin's meanderings during and after their games or any other time my cousin would see him.

Dustin was a genius.

His mind was on fire with ideas and associations for any subject that arose. Everything he had to say was colorful, precise, wondrous and new.

It was also obvious that he rarely had anyone to talk to about any of this. He lived at that time with his mother. He was not employed. He played basketball every night of the week for many hours and swam afterwards at the local pool. His life consisted of extraordinarily simple and routine events. It was explained to me that this was the only way he could function. It was also clear during that one meeting, which remains the only time I met him, that he was unable to really perceive or process the social tells of others around him.

To say he could never fashion a career out of his gifts would be a radical understatement. Dustin could barely make a coherent day out of them. Instead of being recognized as gifted, his neighborhood unfairly knew him as insane, strange and a man to be avoided whenever possible.

I tell the story of Dustin to make this point: All creative people, at some point in their lives, are not Dustin by a margin. They are, eventually, for a little while, a sliver away from enduring Dustin's fate. (And if perhaps not the threat of destitution, certainly that of alienation, chronic aimlessness and schizophrenic artistic attention.)

Too many beautiful things appealed to him to seriously pursue any one at the exclusion of the others. He lived in a state of inspiration and potential -- at the expense of creative output and actualization.

You could say, what's so wrong with that? Maybe he was The Dude. Maybe he's drifting around, not bothering anyone, getting excited all the time, and who cares what the neighbors think? That's possible. But I didn't have the feeling I met a man who was in any way at peace with how things had turned out. And I think creative geniuses of that kind have an obligation to themselves and the world to do more than just think colorful thoughts.

He lived in a state of inspiration and potential -- at the expense of creative output and actualization.

There is so much riding on the choices creative people make at relatively young ages. If they can create a career and a system of work that enables modest improvements, month over month and year over year, they stand a chance at finding a place to put their gifts. If they do almost anything short of this, it is at least an even proposition that they will become the eccentric guest at some barbecue in 30 or 40 years, bursting with insights, possibly even irritated that the guests have not quieted down long enough to listen to them.

We wish the world would be kinder to people who color outside the lines of social norms. On the other hand, we all know those stultified creatives who have become insufferable friends. They have no one to listen to them, because who could possibly listen long enough? Over time, madness emerges. It just has to. There is no other form for all that unspent energy to take. It has swirled around in the caverns of the spirit so long that it has now become foul, grotesque.

I think about Dustin more than I should. I don't know why that is.