His name is Meir, and he could be any age between 40 and 60. He lives in a nice building on Balfour Street, and he is the neighbourhood schizophrenic – harmless, but annoying. His illness manifests itself chiefly in nocturnal (after midnight) shouting: he likes to stand outside the 24-hour kiosk on Yehuda haLevi, near Mazeh Street, and yell in an incredibly penetrating voice, over and over, “be healthy!” According to local rumour, Meir used to be a sports announcer. If this is true, it certainly makes sense. When he shouts out “tee-hee-yee bree-yaaaa” (be healthy, addressed to a woman, with each syllable draaaaaged out) he sounds like a drugged sports announcer yelling goooooaaaaaal!



When Meir's not shouting, he asks passersby for cigarettes. Sometimes he walks into the local cafes and asks for a glass of water: if the staff is in a good mood, they give him one; if they're busy, they tell him to go away. But mostly they're kind. They give him water, offer him cigarettes. Everyone agrees that he's a “misken” (someone to pity).



I used to live just behind the 24-hour kiosk. One hot summer night Meir's shouting got so bad that I couldn't stand it any longer. Tolerance went out the window. I got out of bed, pulled a sundress over my head, thrust my feet into a pair of flip-flops and went out to confront him.



“Meir!” I shouted, “It's four o'clock in the bloody morning! Shut up already!”



He looked at me, with my wild sleep-creased hair and my raging eyes, and he said, in what can only be described as a lascivious voice, “Aaah! You are beautiful!”



The local juvenile delinquents, lounging on their mopeds and smoking Marlboros, watched the confrontation and smirked.



I turned to them and said, “You guys shut up too. I've heard you torturing him and mocking him. You're just making him worse.”



Meir looked at me and asked in a hurt voice, “Yael, what have I done to you? Why don't you love me?”



I realized that I was behaving like a total idiot, trying to reason with someone who was mentally ill, a misken. He was deep in ga-ga land, confusing me with someone named Yael. So I went home…



A year has passed since that night, but Meir's memory is long. Whenever he sees me, usually outside Gili's cafe on Rothschild Boulevard, he starts to follow me, one hand holding up his trousers, which are perpetually falling down. He holds out his free hand in a supplicating gesture, his face a mask of pleading as he cries out, over and over, “Yael, what have I done to you? Yael, why don't you love me? Yael, isn't it true that you love me?”