An art form that I had never encountered before these Olympics: teenage group evangelical street mime. In three weeks I must have run into 15 crucifixions. On the first day of competition I saw 10 or 12 young people by the Five Points MARTA station going through an elaborate silent sketch that culminated in their kneeling in a semicircle and lifting their arms and faces heavenward. After a moment, the youths lowered their arms and arose. "Did y'all like that?" one of them inquired of an impassive group of spectators. Nobody replied.
"Did y'all understand it?" she asked. Nobody replied.
Several nights later on Forsyth Street, I saw a street preacher standing by himself in the rain, waving a Bible and shouting, "I know I'm not crazy!" This man had no visible audience or object of worship whatsoever, but—or therefore—I could relate.
"I'm not either!" I yelled back.
It took him a moment to bring me into focus. "All right, brother," he said softly. "The world is crazy!" he cried. Then, it seemed to me, it struck us both that we were standing in the rain with no one else in the vicinity. We walked off in opposite directions.