I S E E T H E S E P E O P L E
W A L K I N G D O W N MY A L L E Y
A L M O S T E V E R Y S I N G L E D A Y .
BY NED PEETS
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I see these people walking down my alley almost every single day. From
my back porch, I see them, or from my kitchen window. And I always
wonder: Who are these people? How do they live? What was the most recent
thing they ate? Of course, I keep my counsel. But these people, they
mean something to me—I mean, I see them walking down my alley almost
every single day.
Groove Man.
Groove Man is a tall and slender cat—I think he would like it, me
calling him a "cat"—probably in his late thirties. He often wears
leather pants and a blazer and a black beret. He always has a Walkman
on, and sometimes he smokes something that is not a regular cigarette,
and he sings softly; I think it's R&B, or perhaps jazz. Groove Man walks
slowly, dips down a bit with each step, shimmies—he swings when he
walks, and he snaps the fingers on his right hand. Groove on, Groove
Man!
Donut Boy
There is a Dunkin Donuts right across the alley from my building. Can
you imagine the luxury? It's right behind my house! Also near my
building is a university. And there is a young man, who I imagine
studies at the university, who gets up most every morning around 10 and
strolls to the Dunkin Donuts for a large coffee and a wax-paper sack
that, I presume, contains donuts. He usually wears sweatpants and has
touseled hair. Once, I thought, poor guy, doesn't even have his own
coffee maker. But then, I thought, the Dunkin Donuts, it's almost as
close to his building as it is to mine. The whole trip takes him about
five minutes. Lucky Donut Boy!
The Two Old Ladies, One of Whom Wears A Rubber Band On Her Head
These ladies, they live right next door to me, with two men who I
presume are their husbands. I'm looking into their back yard right now.
One is more interesting than the other, so I'll confine my description
to her. She is very old. She must be 90. Most of the time, she wears a
different type of shoe on each foot. She usually carries a plastic bag
from the grocery store. Through rain, snow, or the heat of summer, she
shuffles slowly out the back gate with her companion, and the two of
them make their way to the little convenience store-slash-Pakistani
video-rental place, where she buys a copy of the newspaper. Here's the
thing I can't figure out: She wears a rubber band on her head! It goes
beneath her chin, up the sides of her face, and across the top of her
head, as if she were trying to keep her hair from blowing away! What's
with that, Old Lady Who Wears A Rubber Band On Her Head?!
Boob Lady
This woman, she has really, really big boobs. I'm not objectifying her,
here; I speak not of her boobs in a sexual way, nor do I mean to cause
hurt feelings of any kind. I'm just saying: Her boobs are huge! She's
probably 40, and short, and a bit portly, and she wears tight shirts,
and the underside of her boobs, I swear, it bobbles along right at the
level of her waistband. If you were to look at her from the side, and
measure the distance from the front of her boobs to the back of her
bottom, I bet this would measure three feet! I forgot to mention: Her
bottom sticks out pretty far, too. You go, Boob Lady!
Literary Boy
You know how some people can read while they're walking? That's what
Literary Boy does! And sometimes, he's reading great big textbooks; I
mean, those things are heavy. I wish I could see what the subjects of
the textbooks are, but understand: When Literary Boy is walking towards
the university, he's passing my porch from my left to my right. If you
think about it, this means the cover of the books he's reading is always
facing away from me. When he comes back from the university, he's never
reading a book. Maybe he's a speed reader! Maybe he can read whole
chapters as he walks to class, leaving the rest of his time fancy-free!
Wouldn't that be something? You're the future, Literary Boy!
Our Little Man
Some people would call Our Small Man a bum. I have thought the word
myself, at times, but immediately felt bad—it's not nice to call
somebody a bum—and I feel a certain affection for him. He is very short,
and I'd like to give
him food, but I'm afraid if I do, he'll never go away. So I don't,
because I am kind of a jerk, if you must know. Our
Small Man, he carries shopping bags full of clothes and things he's
collected. He often stops to rest next to my dumpster, and sometimes
places a cup of coffee upon it. I think he'd like to riffle through my
dumpster, but he can't, because we have a cable stretched across the lid
that's padlocked on the side (Isn't that crazy, that we lock up our
garbage? But if you don't, people like Our Small Man will pull stuff
out of the dumpster and make a mess in the alley. See?) One time, my
boyfriend's parents came from Ohio to spend Thanksgiving with us, and,
when his mom was coming up the back stairs with a load of laundry, there
was Our Small Man—standing next to the dumpster with his pants down!
Well, I tried to distract my boyfriend's mom, but of course, she saw Our
Little Man's thingy. Wave next time, Small Man!
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