I've already discussed my affinity for Crazy Asian Guy. I've been missing him a lot this year. He drives down the hill most of the time, I catch him as he is turning around, the yellow bus already through the light. I miss him.
However there is another intriguing character that I see every morning; once again, a denizen of 92nd Avenue.
He's a silver-haired gentleman; not old by any means, but his hair is silver. He is very... prim. By that I mean he has a very conservative, almost British look to him; I swear, a bowler hat would not look out of place on his head. He carries an umbrella, which he uses as a cane when it's not raining, and in cooler months he wears a black or camel trench-coat (depending on the day) that looks very large on his lean frame.
He is always dressed quite immaculately. A nicely fitted suit, shirt, tie, shiny black shoes... and he walks along 92nd towards Sunnyside with a purposeful air, eyes locked firmly on the ground before his feet, his pace quick and most determined.
He has a nice face. A quiet face. The sort of face you'll see atop his slight body, huddled in one of the couches at your local bookstore, little oval glasses pointed at a book you're probably likely not likely to pick up; with a title like "The Evolution of The Trebuchet and Other Ancient War Machines". He seems shy. He seems meticulous. He seems interesting.
I wonder every day what he does. Is he an attorney? An accountant? A Kaizer Permanente Administrative person? Where does he end up at the end of his hurried walk? Where does he emerge from? Is it a tidy space with everything in its place? Does he have a little egg-cup, plate and a coffee cup drying on his dish rack every morning, the crumbs from his toast carefully swept up into his napkin? Are his pencils all the same height? Are the ends chewed? I think not. Is he lonely? Is he married? Does he have someone to kiss his cheek and smile at him? I don't know. But I want to. I sort of feel... connected to him. Like I should wave to him with a smile of recognition if he should happen to look up-just because I feel like I want to know who he is. But that doesn't happen, he always looks down, and scurries along, his umbrella gripped firmly in one hand, and his thin briefcase swinging in the other, his coat whoosing against his pumping legs.
What's his story, I wonder?