Clipboard Man

It was that man again. Who else could it be? A clipboard lay serenely in his clutches, just as it did any other time of day, or day of the week. He muttered and mumbled to himself, almost as if the material world did not exist. Perhaps he was plagued by a spell, or caught in a trance? Maybe he was not of a sound mind as he scribbled furiously, walking along. Walking and writing, walking and writing; they consisted of the day's syncopation. Although performed as one act, one piece of music, the two were different. Sometimes incoherent mumbles stuck out like porcupines among rabbits; they just didn't belong.1

His sense of awareness was uncanny. That is to say that it never was. Never was, and never would be. However, a perpendicular awakening occurred in the rest of the community. Questions began to be raised. Did this lone wanderer have a shelter of his own? Who was he? Why does he do what he does?2

As little as anyone knows, the questions still lay dormant. That does not mean the questions do. They breed in speculation, in curious awe. Does he know how mush of a stir he's caused by potentially doing nothing? Perhaps there is reason to his madness. It may just be a natural occurrence, but we feel we are too outgrown as people to enjoy simpler means of entertainment.3

There he goes once again, the silent spook. He wails, but only to himself. Is there perhaps an invisible chain linking him to that clipboard? Upon my approach, the specter pauses. Mutely he looks up, eyes as dead as stone. One brief glance was all it took, almost a mental transfer. One look, and I would never know another look like that again.