The old man danced down the sidewalk like coconuts in the breeze, which is to say slowly and in scarcely perceptible waves. It wasn’t dancing really. It was drunkenness and old age. I sat and watched him approach my bench in his shuffling, drunken way. At ten feet, I smelled whiskey. Cheap whiskey. The kind of liquor that doubles as a varnish remover when you’re in a tight spot.

His clothes could best be described as a series of moth holes politely interrupted every now and then by some fabric. I wondered if he knew that his underwear were clearly visible. Asking the question seemed to be a bit too much. His hat was khaki. There were fishing flies stuck in it. It made it just that much more bizarre; flies in the only article of clothing that he was wearing that hadn’t appeared to have been eaten by moths.

His beard was gray and dingy. He muttered to himself as he walked along. I couldn’t make it out clearly, but I’d swear that he was saying “saffron” over and over again. As he got nearer, I had the debate. Should I smile? Should I ignore him? Would he notice either? I decided to ignore him. He was odd and clearly in a bad way. If I were him, I’d want to be left alone.

After getting about two feet past me, he turned and screamed “BOO” into my face. I leapt. He turned around and laughed. He went on his way. I shook my head.