He jogged from house to house attaching menus for a local pizza restaurant on to each door handle with a snap of a rubber band. It took him less than three seconds to advertise pizzas (with such cryptic names as "Green & White Tandoori " and "White Sauce Special"), more or less continuing his jog, never missing a beat.
I walked my usual gait alongside him for nearly ten blocks, trying to discern his age (graying and saggy, though with a glow) and his nationality (certainly Eastern European, uncertainly Polish). He wore a matching track jacket and pants, red with yellow and white stripes down the sides, which could be the colors for some formerly Communist country, but I couldn't say whose. On his shoulder he carried a small nylon bag with the same colors, most likely filled with innumerable menus like the stack he held in his hand.
At first, it seemed as if he was running in slow motion, so purposeful were his movements. But then I realized after a few blocks that his pace quickened. A thin film of sweat formed on his brow and his thinning hair flopped and fell to one side of his head or the other.
I picked up my pace too. We were racing down the block, although I don't know if he knew it. He certainly heard the click of my boot heels, but he choose instead to look straight ahead of him, at the next door to overcome.
At last we reached a point where he turned a corner and I continued on. He finally acknowledged me, smiling broadly, his wrinkles forming in the corners of his eyes.
"There's always one more door!" he said, running away from me. "There are doors everywhere in this city!"
"It's a good job to get a run in, isn't it?" I said.
"I'm always running!" he yelled. "Always!"
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