Indeed, I had my iPhone. I'd been snapping photos of him for five years now or more as our paths crossed. I'm thinking I should do a booklet. Or maybe just start tacking photos of him to phone poles along Locust.
Omar deflated here for a moment, a brief one. I brought the camera up and took a photo. As if pushed suddenly, Omar jumped and ran into the street – he started waving at cars, doing some sort of dance, then picked up a stick and broke it in half waving the two ends like a ramp agent guiding 747’s into the gate. “Hey!” he’d shout at the cars, waving the sticks back and forth, “hey! PAY ATTENTION!”
The week earlier I’d seen him standing outside of the local coffee shop with a deck of cards, methodically flinging queens and jacks and diamonds at two patrons on the other side of the glass trying to ignore him. Things catch his eye, he follows them, then he moves on.
“Sometimes I don’t see Omar on my morning jaunt,” says Greg, “and I worry about him.”
“Me too,” I said.
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