Well hold on to your vegetables, because right below my window, I have "The Clacker." His clacking puts the Chop-O-Matic guy to shame.
Last week he appeared on Broadway. As if out of clacking hell.
I had never seen or heard him before. But there he was. This tall black man. Wearing a red head band with bells attached, a white shirt with a bell necklace, a silver belt with bells, long black jeans, and black boots with bells on the toes. In the palm of his hand he held bright red clackers.
Clack. Shake his bootie. Ting-a-ling-a-ling. Clack. Shake his bootie. Ting-a-ling-a-ling. Clack.
Man, this is tough. He's part of the local color, but he is REALLY LOUD. Mr. Clacker Man.
Right in the middle of a call, I hear his clack. I walk to the bank. He clacks. I cook my dinner. He clacks. Thankfully he stops in the early evening. But he clacks on and off all day long.
Seems as often is the case with downtown eccentrics, they find a block and stay there for awhile then leave and move on. So far he hasn't left.
Yet through his annoying sounds I wonder. Does he have a family? Where did he come from? Why does he clack? Is he happy? Or sad? Or lonely. Or alone.
That's the thing about the street people of downtown, you just don't know. Perhaps his clacking cuts down on the sounds in his head.
And that is okay, Mr. Clacker Man, that's okay.