There's a drunk who shuffles up and down a busy crossing, introducing himself to the students and faculty who pass there, in his stiff, steady manner. He'll try to shake your hand and hold your gaze with his yellow glazed eyes. He performs his pitch with the air of a 1950s junior salesman selling wares without his briefcase, which he may well have been at some point. Most people see him and know exactly who he is but don't stick around to see exactly how he operates.
One time I was saying goodbye to a friend and the drunk got in the way and asked me, 'am lost?' to which I frowned and replied, 'I'm not lost, if that's what you mean.' He frowned back and just walked away.
When I had finally crossed the road, I turned back to see where he was. He was still on the other side but further down the road, leaning in to shake a café worker's hand in front of the campus entrance: performing, operating, maintaining eye contact.
He doesn't always appear but then again neither do I these days.
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