He was quiet as he walked the grainy sidewalk. –A girl slid past him on the shoulder of the street. He almost laughed. How does she expect people think she’s normal; everyone knows the sidewalk is the safest place. There’s plenty of space here; no one else is walking on the shoulder.

Really, John enjoyed walking; it gave him a chance to observe; time to note how others reacted to the stresses and fine little surprises of everyday life. Surprises like a husband seen with another woman. Or a child running into the street. Everyone overreacted. Because it was an excuse. It was a few seconds of interest and fear, and it kept them happy.

He observed so closely, one wouldn’t be surprised if he made a successful Sociologist. He had read in a magazine once that observant people made the best Social Workers, but he felt the field wasn’t the common interest. Most of the time, he saw people as so wrapped up in their daily lives, they couldn’t think a lot about others, much less, closely follow the feet of anyone walking.

John thought the hands and feet were the most important aspects of the human body. To him, they masked everything a person was thinking. He focused on stereotyping. He stereotyped people’s walks, their hands, and the way they dressed. Often times, there had been the same man in a business suit, rushing through the crowds. John imagined the fast feet fleeing from a three-o’clock-red dress-date, praying a wife hadn’t called the office.

Beautiful-model looking women seemed too confident. He noted their slow, elongated stride, and the delicate rising of their heads, purging a warm and friendly smile. He thought he could see right through them. See their deceptive tongues, whispering promises, but the eyes were laughing. Their eyes were always laughing!

He especially liked the self-conscious; the way they bundled themselves in long sleeves, and baggy clothes. They walked like they would trip, and their hands were never still. He was sure no one had told them they were beautiful.

John always stayed on the sidewalk. He wasn’t like the girl slipping down the shoulder; water escaping into a gutter. He thought a lot about his feet; who might be observing them, and his hands. So he made sure they were in his pockets, and that the footing was a light, silent stroll.

He was reserved as he entered the café. The hostess motioned him to sit where he normally did, as the waitress brought him the same Italian Cream Cappuccino.

For two years it had been the same. The same seat, unless occupied, the same coffee, which he sipped through a thin stirring straw, and the same window, where he could continue his observations.

John smiled. He smiled at his accomplishments. Such small accomplishments others would probably never care about. Today, was a normal day. And John, was a normal guy. Anything else would be a nightmare.