Took a Walk

A black man in a very red hat wearing a red and black winter coat stood facing the street, shoulders square to the building and sidewalk, like a lawn ornament. I expected to see a dog in front of him, doing his business while the man waited, not wanted to watch. There was no dog. The man didn't move. He reminded me of a lawn jockey. The thought offended me even as I smiled at the parallel.

At the beach, a white man in a brick red coat was giving a tour.
"Chicago is down that way. Northwestern is a few miles up there. This here is Rogers Park. There's a dog beach half a mile down there. Daniel Burnham in Chicago. Lake Superior."
It took me a minute to realize he was alone and directing his commentary my way.
I smiled, I nodded. I didn't want to be one of those people who just smiles and nods. Sometimes we let our inner monologues bubble over so that someone else will say, "Yes! I understand!"
He walked over to a large shadow and asked it a question I couldn't hear. As I got closer (it was on my path) I saw there was another man sitting in the shadow.
"Don't listen to him, he's a homeless alcoholic," said the tour guide.
"No, he's a homeless alcoholic," said the homeless alcoholic.
There was no one else on the beach. It felt like spring under the warm sunshine. We had a "conversation" about the weather in short declarative statements.
"It's beautiful out."
"There's 14 inches of snow."
"There may be snow."
"It's beautiful now."
Then, "You're Katie Couric and I'm your husband Robert. I built this lake just for you, Katie; Lake Superior."
I said, "Thank you," and resumed my walk.

On the way back, my dog scared a mess of pigeons off someone's lawn, but a single tawny dove stayed behind. Smaller and thinner than the wounded dove I couldn't save last year, but there it was--a dove.

The lawn jockey had moved to a different street by now and walked very slowly. He must be hot in that thick winter coat.