Fiction: Catalog of Urban Pedestrians

As I promised, here is the urban equivalents to the rural road-walkers.

The Lost But Proud

He has absolutely no idea where he is.  He may be a tourist, or a local who has not yet gotten used to the terrain.  Either way, this is not his home, and he does not know where to go.

But he will not ask for directions.  That is not the way he was brought up.  Men find their own paths, without any need to rely on others.

This is the third time he's taken this road.  No matter.  It's all good exercise.  If he keeps going this way, he may yet find a map.

The Latent Racist

After years of living in the country, he's made his way into the city proper.  As he walks along the streets, he finds himself feeling increasingly uncomfortable.  He does not realize why at first, but as time passes, he slowly comes to the realization.

He is the only white person in several miles.

Now, to admit that this is the cause of his discomfort would be a very bad idea.  So he bottles it up and keeps quiet.  But he sweats and silently panics.

This is not something they told him about on the farm.

The Closet Pervert

Careful, measured steps.  Stare straight ahead.  Keep your body closed in.  Breathe with controlled inhales and exhales.

There is pornography in his handbag.  Tonight, he will visit a strip club.

With luck, nobody will be able to tell by looking at him.

The Urban Yeti

Whether he lost his razor or just never bothered with one is unknown.  He shuffles down the street, arms dangling, back bent and head stooped.  The only time he stops is at stoplights.

An odd specimen, this creature.  It has adapted to its urban environment, with enough knowledge to avoid being struck down by passing cars.  Man, beast, or something in between, it shies away from other living creatures, preferring a solitary existence in the heart of the city.

The Anti-Cyclist

There's another one.  A look in his eyes shows his building frustration as bicycle after bicycle blows through the crosswalk.  He waits for the road to clear, but his muscles tense as he waits.

If it were legal, he would have given one of these bastards a running jumpkick a month ago.  He would like nothing more than to shoot out all their tires.

But he keeps this to himself.  You aren't supposed to feel this way.