Man on Street

As a general rule anyone walking along the side of a busy road is going to be interesting in some way although even here, two types predominate. Most common is the vagrant: faded eyes, lank hair, tattered clothing, an expression of lust and longsuffering. The other type is the accidental pedestrian: sweat-stained, clutching gas can, tottering through the grass with an aggrieved expression.

But the really choice subjects belong to neither of the above categories. The other day I saw a young man strutting along the grassy median, clad in black pants and a tight black shirt, wearing a black backpack. His head was shaved in a Marine Corps fade and his red, round face was twisted in an expression of disdain. He pumped his clenched fists with each stride, as if pounding the belly of some invisible victim. He was clearly enraged but with what or whom I would never know. He slipped into the rear view mirror, an anonymous black shape beside the endless river of automobiles.