Just a middle-aged white guy with short grey hair and Van Dyke beard, wearing a faded green Hawaiian shirt adorned with game fish and boats. He studies the book in front of him with Irish blue eyes that peer out of a florid face and narrow bifocal, Transitions lenses. His arms are hairy and he has a quarter-inch brown mole on the slightly browned skin near the middle of his forearm. All of his skin has a slick sheen of sweat and sunblock. The torso is thick, but not grossly so—just extra fat at the middle and slight love handles. His shorts are baggy and rise above a pair of pale but well-worked legs and scuffed white cross-trainers. His legs are crossed as he sits on a shaded park bench under the hot Florida sun, but his body is more or less relaxed and at ease.
At any moment he will decide he’s had enough with reading, bend over one corner of a page, bound upward, and begin walking. He keeps his gaze on the sidewalk or briefly at the obstacles in his way. His brow furrows and his mouth is turned slightly downward, moving but making no sound. Occasionally he pauses, strokes his beard, tilting his head and nodding before setting off again.
He rarely makes eye contact, merely scanning faces as he arrows through a crowd. His pace, when not lost in rumination, is brisk and his steps long. At a steady four miles per hour, he can get anywhere or nowhere in good time, often sweaty at the end of his march.
Now and then he looks at a building or some piece of nature that attracts his attention. If something really interests him, he pauses, pulls his iPhone from his front pocket, and captures the image before moving on. He is not thinking about anything in particular. He is not angry, merely lost in thought. This is what you see, this is what he does.
The Real Bart Leahy 