By Caroline Hack

Editor’s Note: Caroline Hack has been removed from her position as our advice columnist. Ms. Hack inadvertently advised a 9-year-old boy to “bash in” the legs of a classmate with a “baseball bat.” While we stand by Ms. Hack’s out-of-the-box approach to problem solving, we have been advised that Ms. Hack is “on probation” and is not legally free to “interact” with people in an advisory position. Ms. Hack recently completed Anti-Social Rehabilitation and has recently been named our “City Watch” editor. She will be reporting her unique observations of the people and places that make up our fine city in a column called “Hack Saw.”

I walked out of Bry-Lin Hospital after twenty-eight days of electroshock therapy treatment and had three things on my mind:  1. Sparks, 2. I kind of like the look of having shaved temples, and 3. if my car doesn’t start, I’m taking the one next to it.

I was pissed when my car started but I’m supposed to be practicing ways to tolerate intolerable people so I took it down to Spot Coffee on Elmwood. This worked out well because on my way, my editor (and the probable father of a kid I gave up for adoption), Murray Lite, called me on my cell and told me I wasn’t writing advice columnist anymore.

Whatever.

Now my job is to “creep around the city and tell us what you see. And don’t get arrested.”

Possible.

So I get down to Spot, hand over $3 to a homeless lady and am happy to see that it appears to be “Lesbian Night” at Spot.The place was crawling with them, so I settled into a chair that smelled like my grandfather’s back pocket and started to look for a low-browed girl with thick legs.

I didn’t find one but I did learn this: a ‘virgin mocha’ does not refer to an inexperienced black chick, ‘on wheels’ doesn’t refer to someone on crystal meth, and neck tattoos don’t go with acne.

I got distracted by the woman many people call ‘Screamin’ Jean,’ a lady who carries bags up and down Elmwood and talks to herself. She was lurking at the entrance by the patio and staring at me. She approached and I was about to punch her in the neck when she offered me money. It occurred to me that I must look worse than I thought if Screamin’ Jean is giving me money, but she explained that I had given her the handout outside and that she didn’t need it.

She smelled like rancid onions but I grabbed the money back instead of suggesting soap. She had her chance.

Because she reminded me of my mother before things went bad, I ended up at that little hot dog place on Elmwood with Jean for a late dinner of fries with salt and pepper. I learned a lot more about Jean than I learned about myself after my high voltage staycation in rehab.

Jean has experienced loss that does not allow her to move on. She hears too many voices and can’t filter out the ones that work against her. Jean is proud of a lot of her history, but is angry and bitter about the rest. Her family is mostly gone, and she misses her sister very much. And Jean wanted me to take to her Canada, to the only friend she has who understands.

Then it occurred to me: Screamin’ Jean IS Buffalo New York.

Stuck for the voices that argue in her head and keep her who she is. Stuck because the past is gone and the damage is done. Stuck because her loved ones have moved on and they haven’t looked back. Stuck for what is not, and unable to use what is. Stuck for all of the people who pass her by and can’t take the time to listen for one goddamn minute, as if her appearance isn’t enough of a cry for help.

And all things considered, she’d rather be in Canada.

Jean is not screaming, she’s just trying to work things out. And from where I sit, she does it with a lot more grace than the people you voted for.

So next time you see her, don’t be an asshole: give her what she needs and ask her if she wants to share some fries.