I will now describe a man I do not know. I will describe what he wore, his face, his eyes and how he walked. I will also tell you all about how I do not give a damn about him. He is as irrelevant to me as I am to him. Maybe more, if I'm being particularly snarky.
This man, who I might call Kank whenever I feel like it, wore an oversized plaid shirt, untucked and dirtied at the bottom, sleeves rolled up halfway. Kank must've been in a hurry, or in a hurry to pretend that he was in a hurry. He wore a pair of black pants, also folded at the bottom to reveal his feet from inside his sandals. Kank must not have been doing very well financially. His bag, which he slinked across one shoulder, was ripped and patched back together in places. Too scattered to be artistic, too uptight to not bother about appearances.
But what sets Kank apart from the rest of us poverty-stricken inbreds is his face. It reminded me of a brown balloon, one that would fly his body away if it could. I bet Kank wouldn't particularly mind being flown away but he probably doesn't have enough money to fill himself up with the necessary Helium. No matter. The hair on his head was the same size as his pubescent beard, slowly meeting below the ears and forgetting their places, melting into one another. The bridge of his nose extended downwards and expanded into gaping holes with nostrils flaring out of them like angry raccoons on moonless nights. He also had a huge mouth. It was humongous. Bigger than Oprah Winfrey's on Botox Fridays. His eyebrows were thick and they never once contorted into any other shape. And at their epicentre was a fly-sized zit. One that threatened to take attention away from every other aspect of his face. But his eyes stole the show, really. They were saucers, full to the brim with truths, lies and the breasts of the girl in front of him. It's a miracle Kank had eyes large enough to contain all of that.
Kank walked like a pervert. A slow, meandering stutter that tells you he probably looks at his neighbour's wife funny. The swinging hands tell you that he probably goes to pray every Friday, wearing a skullcap that's too small for him. The way his head jars at the end of each step tells you that Kank is lonely. And that he is afraid of the sound of his own voice.
Let me tell you now why I do not give a damn about Kank. Kank is the type of person who obviously yearns recognition but is left frustrated -- metaphorically and otherwise. To you, me and to the girl he was ogling, Kank is nothing more than a parasite, a bottom feeder gorging on dead roaches in green sewers. But Kank is more real than you, the girl or I am. There are no grand hyperboles about his deeds or about his strong, unwavering morals. He is real. Real as the stars laid out on dinner plates at night, real as the blood pooling out of road kill, real as damp post-love hair. Do not waste your time giving a damn about Kank, he's already there. He will walk this earth with the same perverse gait for as long as we think of him. He's a person. Are you?