He walks on a street that I know goes in a loop all the way around the entire city. I’ve only ever seen him on a specific strip, but that’s the only part of it I drive with any regularity. He could walk the city round, and I wouldn’t know it. He may be 20 or he may be 50, and it’s impossible to tell. He’s always clean. He’s always appropriately dressed for the day and the weather, be it a polo shirt and khakis and a baseball cap for high summer heat, a cherry-red wool cap and a down parka for the death of the world winter, and even a bright yellow slicker with matching hat and galoshes for days when the sky falls in silvery strips. He shows a marked preference for hats. He’s black, short, wiry—not skinny, but wiry. He’s clean as well as clean-shaven, and from what I can tell as I drive by in my climate-controlled haven of portability, has a fairly well-kept haircut. His clothes are neat, in good shape, clean, nice. He smiles, gestures wide and glad. I can’t hear him over the traffic and the A/C and the music, but I think he sings. His lips move, but whether in prayer or hymn or in simple nonsense phrases and nursery rhymes, I can’t tell. I do not know anyone who has ever stopped to talk to him, who knows his name or where he’s walking to and from, although thousands pass him each day and know him on sight, on their way from work to appointments and dinners and day cares. He will wave back to whoever lifts a hand to greet him, with a smile, and continue with his swaying, loping, dancing stride, from journey’s beginning to destination. Maybe he knows where he’s going, and perhaps he will be as surprised as any when he gets there. He is happy, genuinely, totally, and completely.