Every day, I see the man who works in my building, but I don’t know him. He is very tall. Although he is perilously thin, his frame folds into itself as if the weight is too great to bear. His sharp elbows and pointy knees lead as he slumps across the parking lot, a human question mark.
Long skeletal fingers flutter a lit cigarette under his triangle nose. A gloomy halo of smoke and long wiry hair billow around his head. He looks neither left nor right as he drifts across the asphalt. His ancient wool sweater and worn corduroy trousers seem vaguely academic.
I think of a Shel Silverstein drawing. He is a caricature of a professor or perhaps a mad scientist. What thoughts preoccupy him on his breaks? Does he decipher forgotten languages? Does he solve complicated mathematical equations? Translate obscure Russian literature?
I see the man every day. I don’t know him.
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