There are some routine items that snag on the clockwork and perform their duties exquisitely. There are windows that reflect sunlight and peer into passersby. There are bells that announce newcomers with a welcome and thank repeaters with a farewell. There are bags swinging pleasurably, looping loyally around purchased hands. There are switches that count backwards, illuminating bulbs for twenty three seconds but dimming them for only seventeen. There are shadows that will stretch patiently and curtains that will juggle the breeze.

Pay attention to the exquisite routines. Look! Look now!

The man with many names wakes without incident. His cat is unimpressed as he dresses for the day and triumphantly hops on one foot as he puts on his pants. He drinks a glass of water from the kitchen faucet and then refills and dumps it in the hanging plant above the sink. As he leaves for the day he points a finger to the cat and reminds him to have dinner ready for him when he comes home.

The street sighs like an ocean wave as the man trots down the steps from the front door. He heads to get coffee and passes a woman refurbishing her mother’s dresser outside to avoid the dust from sanding and so the teal green paint won’t infest in her living room carpet. The woman names him Jake in her mind having seen him every day at this time, jaunting along. The small square pavement is just big enough for her and the dresser and often dust from the street gets caught in the paintbrush. As Jake passes, he bends to pick up a floating plastic bag intent on sabotaging the last few strokes on the dresser. There goes Jaunty Jake again, she thinks.

Within the coffee house there is a silver bucket with picture of a hand drawn cow mooing the words “for tipping”. The man waits patiently in line, the milk steamer explodes impatiently on the counter. His name is Buck according to the barista. Everyday, Buck comes in and orders the same thing but it’s the same thing he says that she looks forward to. No, she corrects herself, its not what he says, but how he wishes her a nice day. As if its a prologue to an adventure, not an automatic tagline; a jeweled hairpin against the dirty soap water responses.

But just now the barista isn’t paying attention to Buck. She’s just taken an order for the specialty coffee beans she knows are kept on the top shelf against the wall above the coffee cups, just high enough for her to half to go get the step ladder to reach them. This effort hits her especially hard with the short staff and the morning rush and this must have shown on her face, because before she can reply to the request, Buck has invited the nearest chair over and grabbed the coffee beans off the high shelf for her.

A block down from the coffee shop is a restaurant advertising purely aromatically. Exiting from a satisfying omelet and seasoned potato breakfast is an elderly couple, both in shorts, white socks and white shoes. No smudges. The husband touches his wife instinctually on her elbow protecting her from a passing car as they cross the parking lot. To the husband, the man becomes Sonny as he cries out to them to wait. What’s that now, Sonny, the husband thinks skeptically, what is it now?

Sonny points to the husband’s hat with a finger and says only one sentence then nods his head purposefully. The husband’s wife nudges him with the elbow he still holds with his right hand and if she hadn’t, he might still be standing still, surprised by a young stranger stopping him in the parking lot only to thank him for his service to their country. The right hand now free of the wife’s elbow extends expertly to shake the right hand of Sonny. Later that day, the wife will notice that her husband is peering at his hand and extending his fingers as if it were new.

An exception is made at a spot in the park for the man with many names. Runners speed through like bows upon fiddles. Birds speckle the lake as pie crumbs speckle a plate. People strolling are sidestepped and children playing are overlooked.

Fool is the name the man gets from the owner of the newsstand that perches on the corner just outside of the park like a birthmark on a knee cap. He’s stupid. That’s crazy. I should come out and tell him. Everyday its the same and what is he gaining? That tree won’t stop and notice you, Fool. Yet the fool stops each time. He shuffles up in between the spreading roots, looking at his feet. Just when it seems to the newsstand owner that the fool will stay that way, he slaps the side of the tree like a friend does to a buddy playing touch football and goes on his way. If it’s prayer its in the wrong place, the newsstand owner scoffs, and then scowls as he hands his customer her change and consequently making her resolve to buy her magazine at another newsstand where she won’t feel embarrassed for buying People instead of Newsweek.

The woman with the guitar referred to him only in her mind as a mixed bag. Whenever he approached, he appeared to her eyes as buttons on flannel or buckles in loops as she would always bow her head, her eyes never raising high enough to look him in the eyes. She’s in the habit of shouting out to the crowd a question like a harmony within her songs. Where do you feel safe? Why is this day important?  When did you last laugh so hard you cried? The mixed bag will answer her. He doesn’t make a speech, he does not answer her questions. He doesn’t describe his family or what indulgences make him feel guilty. He drops a dollar or even a penny and says something like, “nice one” or “good point” or anything that translates to “I can hear you”.

The cat is sour over being interrupted in playing with the fishing line vines of the kitchen plant when the man with many names comes home from his day, smelling of the street and leaves, coffee, paint and music, and a hundred other exquisite smells. Same today, same tomorrow. Time for dinner.