We're, some of us, not that far from him

I have seen him numerous times over the past week. He's maybe six feet tall. Middle-aged. Clean, lanky, slightly tanned. Dressed for work in khakis and a crisp button-down shirt, with a good belt. Business casual. The only thing odd is that he walks up and down the street near my home with a handmade cross - two rough sticks lashed together with leather or twine, less than 12 inches tall, held out before him as if banishing demons. He walks deliberately, slowly, and always turns to look at me as I drive past, as if he feels my gaze.

I pointed him out to my son the other day, when we were driving to baseball practice and stopped at a red light on his route. Whatever his route was.

"I see him a lot," I said. "I don't know if he's afraid or thinks he's helping, or if he's fighting something we can't see." I thought maybe he was in some personal version of "Buffy." I didn't want Charlie to make fun of the man. He looked, with his grim mouth and his careful steps, like he was working so hard.

Charlie was silent a while and we watched the man together. The man turned his head slightly as he walked past and our eyes met.

"He has," Charlie said, thoughtfully, "Really good hair."

I watched the man cross the street, his cross leading the way. Other drivers were looking, too. Faces baffled behind glass.

"He does."