People I'm Next To

I am next to this guy.  He is weathering a heathered purple tee, fitted tan jeans, and gray canvas shoes. He has a scruffy beard, big headphones, and expressive eyebrows.  Eyebrows that just gave me a condescending waggle. This waggle is, presumably, referencing my use of sidewalks. We are in a park, and in the fashion of most public greens, the sidewalks are meandering devices, more concerned with rose smelling than pedestrian efficiency. But, Tan Jeans is unconvinced by their suggestion of an idle pace. Our paths cross as he enters the park. We seem to be headed in the same direction. I am bound by these fascist sidewalks, this intrepid son of Magellan has plotted a new course. A straight fucking line.   This is where he shoots me that patronizing look. Then, he boldly steps from concrete. Shocked and cowed by the genius of his revolutionary trailblazing, I sheepishly fall behind his blistering pace, herded along a preset path. He reaches the edge of the park and immedia

I’m next to this probable berserker. This behemoth is well over 6 and a half feet tall, and densely built.  He is made up of these big slabs of muscle that might be defined, but I can’t tell because his body hair is also quite dense. Given the height, the musculature, and the excessive body hair, I’d say he weighs roughly the same as my Honda. As you might have guessed, he has declined to put on a shirt this morning in order to beat the heat. Or perhaps, he had to brace himself under a portcullis to stop it from closing, and the ensuing bulge of his deltoids and pectorals resulted in the puny garment splitting at the seams. Who knows? His only wardrobe concessions to modernity are mesh shorts and some well-used sneakers. So yes, he might just be a fit guy out for a run. To my eye though that seems unlikely. I am a little nervous. He is running right at me.  His gigantic form is surprisingly graceful.  The iron thews of his legs granting him dexterity as well as speed. His

I’m next to this smoker. He is nondescript, and only my own habit pushes me to note his look. He comes in a bit under six feet and is of a medium build. He has a pair of khakis, and a grayish-green and a tie with a checked pattern on it. As I pass, he briefly and deliberately locks gazes with me. His unsurprisingly brown eyes crinkle a bit at the corners as he presses his lips together in a thin smile. He gestures with his cigarette, and I realize he is apologizing. I awkwardly shrug at him, hoping I am absolving him on any secondhand sin.  Glancing back a few moments later, I catch him turning his head and politely blowing a thin stream of smoke to the side, despite the fact we are entirely alone on this street. There is something strangely sad about this kind-hearted, if useless, gesture. Here this guy is, risking life and lung for a five-minute chemical respite from his worries. Yet, this very practice seems to carry some sort of stress. How much does his concern over h

I am next to this svelte gentleman ordering at a coffee shop. He is very thin and has accepted this fact. He is dressed in fitted clothes that accentuate his overabundance of underabundance. His shirt is a white button-down, with the sleeves rolled crisply to mid-forearm. It is tucked into pants that are... problematic, more on this later. He has tan loafers on, and he has eschewed socks. He has a lanky confidence to his stance; leaning over the counter splaying his angles with a social comfort that I envy.  Moreover, he seems nice, chatting nonchalantly as he orders his coffee. No soy milk? Oh, no problem, I’ll just take it black, thanks for checking though. So, pants.  They are nice pants.  They are well fitted and cuffed to about mid-ankle. They complete his look, and despite this next sentence that look is a timeless cool dude sort of look. The pants are bright orange. Very bright, like poisonous toad bright. Like a freshly made traffic cone, ready to avert disaster, bri