I think that there is a ghost haunting the street I live on. It`s hard to tell for sure, whether or not it`s a ghost. I`ve tried to eliminate as many of the logical alternative possibilities as I could possibly eliminate while staying within the bounds of decent, civilized public behavior. For example, I haven`t tried sticking my hand, or anything else through it. But my curiosity been tickled, tickled right past the giggling stage, straight through the laughter, the crying, the begging and the pissing myself right up to the passing out and waking up with an obsession.
It`s a bustling, urban street, the street that I live on. Never empty, never dull. Never short of people from all walks of life, doing their walking at all paces, from the hurried salarymen, to the stumbling drunk. The leisurely school boys who are obviously taking the piss out of all the rest of us by slowly taking up the whole sidewalk and half of the street, as well as the young families they are carefully imitating. At all hours of the day and the night people are patronizing the street`s vast array of eating and drinking establishments, haggling energetically with the street`s vending machines and using it`s imaginary public toilets. It`s here, on this street, where I believe, well, am starting to believe that a ghost is haunting, well, maybe more like inhabiting. Like I said, it`s hard saying.
Here is what I know for sure; It, whatever it is, is in human form. More specifically it takes the form of a man about 5 foot 8, approximately 60 years old, weighing somewhere in the neighborhood of 165 lbs. with a weak, mangy beard. It is dressed with an unblemished record of consistency as one would dress for a sunny October morning: business casual, dark sneakers from Pay Less; dark, off the rack slacks held up by a black belt off the same rack from T.J. Maxx; a button up shirt, not inappropriately unbuttoned at the top with an elastic waist/wrist, Izod jacket zipped up just over the hump of the 3rd trimester sized midriff. The lot of which, not excluding his persons, appears to have been hosed down like a Southern Civil Rights activist with a dirt fire hose often and extensively, leaving him looking like he passed out on the conveyor belt labeled `Brown` at the Crayola Crayon factory one regretful night, fully clothed, and has never been the same since. He walks with a slight limp as if he`s been sitting Indian style for 10 minutes too long and he is always walking toward me, never with me.
Here is what I have been able to deduce from my encounters hitherto; First, It is not homeless. Though this was my first thought, given his appearance, I have never seen it carrying anything and I have never seen it sitting. This eliminates it from being homeless because, A: Homeless people don`t leave their stuff and go off on a walk-about empty-handed and B: I know all the homeless people on and around my street, it isn`t one of them. Second, It is non-verbal. I have made 3 points of verbal contact with it; offering it a beverage, both alcoholic and non, asking it for simple directions and “accidentally” bumping into it in attempt to induce any kind of verbal response, all coming up naught. Leading me to my third and final deduction; It is not haunting me, nor does it have any specific interest in me, personally. I was both relieved and a little disappointed at this deduction.
Anything further would be pure speculation which I will be happy to do, but that`s all for now.