There is a man who lives in our apartment complex (not in the same building, but close by) who is semi-frequently out standing his dog. I say standing, rather than walking, because he is of the ilk who stand about 7.5 feet from their building, smoking a cigarette, allowing their canine to roam within the circumference of a leash.
The man has quite the head of hair (think Russell Crowe in State of Play), unkempt, with a full beard. The first time I saw him, he was wearing plaid flannel pajama pants with a T-shirt and an enormous, camouflage jacket. It was early morning, so I guess he was a bit chilly. He was puffing away on his cigarette.
The second time was Wednesday afternoon of last week, which was the one day it was a little colder than the 60s and 70s we’d been enjoying – a comparatively frigid 54 was the high. There was the man, standing his dog, puffing away on his cigarette, wearing an unmemorable long-sleeved T-shirt and one of those lifejacket-style vests in the most surprising pattern (his wife’s?) with a bathing suit. Hawaiian brown and white, I believe.
This complex is quite the character study.