Plunger
It is imperative that I make you aware of our resident man of leisure. He swims in an giant navy blue winter coat. His hands are buried in oversized pockets that do little to improve the warmth of his extremities. Chances are that you have already spotted him. The old man studies would be opponents at a distance. It is almost ritualistic. Those whom he singles out become disarmed over his increased presence. He looks unwell, but is spry beyond what any mental snapshot could relay. The features on his face oscillate between sharp protrusions and sunken pits. Deeply set hazel marbles play in a darkened valley past the crest of his furrowed brow up to the lower cradle of his orbital bone. And what a specimen of a nose. So fine and narrow. The prominence thereof could peal fruit. Surely a blacksmith is smiling somewhere. His ears are wickedly elven. With only a papercut for a mouth, one is tempted to insert a parcel of mail. He has no hat. A bad comb over blows wildly in frigid winds that turn every shivering pedestrian into a hunchback. Yet the old man does not seem to mind a bit. You will never catch this trickster in summertime. It's just not his scene. If you ever prolong eye contact, he will lock you in with that rickety fence of a smile. Next, he will draw close muttering instructions in a foreign language. This is followed by the presentation of a sachet filled with jaxs and a rubber ball. Do not play! This man is unusually fast. Some venture to say that he is not one of us. Respectfully decline his offer with copious hand gestures to reinforce your disinterest. He likes to use his lack of comprehension as a excuse to keep pressuring you to play. None have not met a person who speaks his language. It is rumored that neighborhood birds go into a frenzy as if to set off an alarm. The old man comes with a touch of lore. However I have only witnessed the opposite. An invisible hand chokes out the ambient noises. How many a fool has felt the power of his own voice amplified in eerie silence? Do not show money. He will wag finger as if to say, "Tsk-tsk". A Native American family who live behind the laundry matt believes that he plays for souls. We chuckle, but secretly follow up on the players he has beaten. They don't laugh anymore. Neither do they flirt or challenge. They perform their jobs and go home.
