Friday, on my way to work. I see a man who is apparently a zombie, or else in the thrall of a mesmerist. Standing still and ramrod-straight on the inner edge of the sidewalk, he holds his arms out over the grass beyond.
I see there is a sprinkler there, which wets his hands at the apex of its swing. Fine, I think, it is after all really fracking hot today. He runs his now-wet hands over his shaved head. He’s wearing the sort of camo-print pants that make you think that, surely, they must be too colourful to be of any use in actual camouflage unless you’re trying to hide in the post-apocalyptic ruins of a Toys-R-Us. As I pass he starts muttering in an eastern european accent — perhaps to me, perhaps not — about finding a bathroom nearby.
When I get to the corner I take a glance back, and he is moving slowly, deliberately, his hands still on his head. I walked on.