I don't know his name, but he sits in front of our building's spirit house all night. He sits and eats chips, smokes cigarettes, and drinks coke. He, according to the security guards down stairs, is visiting the ghosts which reside in the spirit house. They say he talks with the dead.
The first time I met him I hopped out of my truck and heard someone laughing. I spun around and saw him chuckling on his step. I said, "Sawadee Crop," and this made him laugh even harder. But in truth I don't think he knew if I was real or not -- spirit or in the living. Perhaps to him the difference has completely faded away.
It is sad to see him out there every morning, his legs twisted in that uncomfortable looking posture and both of them twitching and bouncing as if he had enough energy to run a marathon. He seems oblivious to all most of the time, but every once in a while when I walk by I get a smile from him -- shy and uncertain, but perhaps he is just a few steps away from rejoining us in the world of the living.