Mr Rumble Tumble Man

As he walks he holds his posture in a V shape, hinging from his hips, his torso leans back, to balance the weight of the huge stomach that cantilevers over his legs. His back is straight and head held high. The stomach isn’t a slovenly one, but protrudes upwards as though something is about to burst inside him. The weight forces him to rock as he walks, but lightly, like a bobbing balloon injected with helium, not necessarily in pain. He moves his fingers as he walks, conducting his silent orchestra. Despite his size, his racing mind has him moving quickly, and swinging his arms unpredictably. He walks back and forth, pacing, continuously rocking from side to side, like a spinning top toy.  

I first stumbled across him on my way home from grocery shopping. I had bursting green bags on each shoulder and was head down on a mission to get home. I came out of my own little world to the sound of his mumbling. The footpath was narrow at the corner where we confronted each other.  Construction works had us pinned in and unable to side step. I couldn’t put space between us. He was talking urgently to a lot of people all at once. Though none of them were there except me. His eye caught mine but not for long. He knocked me out of the way and strode past me. He returned again to following the line of the road that distinguishes the end of the road and the beginning of pedestrian territory. He stuck to it as though wires ran from the white line on the asphalt into his legs, preventing his diversion from it. He was back on his own mission.

I’ve seen him since but from afar, as I’ve generally crossed the road; something I’m ashamed of.  

One night my partner and I saw him walking alone along his white line. He was walking forward a little, then turning to go back in the direction he came from, turning, walking again in the first direction. It was busy. Cars were whizzing by. He’d rock slightly into the path of the oncoming traffic, tempting fate. But the rush of the air from the passing cars seemed to physically spin him out and nudge him back to the pedestrian side of the line. He didn’t get hit, he just continued his dangerous choreography and eventually walked out of sight. 

We didn’t see him again for a long time. We didn’t know him, hadn’t properly met him, but his situation seemed doused in hardship. We’d never bothered to see if he needed help, others probably hadn’t either. We worried that maybe he’d strayed too close into the traffic. 

Yet, I saw him again the other day. I was relieved. Although, I’ll still probably never stop and try to speak with him or ask him if he’s ok. Maybe an offer of help, pity would be insulting. Or maybe we’re not as kind as we like to think we are.