The weirdo is strange. He does weird things and says weird stuff. Strange is probably being too nice, for I suspect that his weirdness spills into the obscene and disgusting. I don’t know him personally, never met him as a matter of fact, but I see him leave his house every day. In the early morning and late afternoon I watch him closely through my binoculars. Given my attention to detail and a keen sense for odd human behavior, I’ve noticed patterns in the weirdo’s routine. Every Thursday, I swear, he’s wearing a periwinkle shirt, or maybe it’s blue. I can’t tell for sure because my car windows are tinted. What the weirdo does in his house all day when he’s not at work I can only guess, because apart from going to the mailbox or fetching the morning paper on his driveway, he rarely emerges. I imagine him putting on silk stockings over his hairy legs just to feel the sensuality of it. No doubt he does that sort of thing to compensate for impotence.
Sometimes I follow him to the coffeehouse that he frequents in the morning on his way to work. Throughout the summer he’d sit out on the terrace sipping his iced Americano. Worried that he’d spot me eyeballing his every move, I’d sit across the street at a beer garden and pretend I’m just a person enjoying the beer garden. I had to buy prescription shades so that I could see him and he wouldn’t notice. Usually I’d order just a Coke and appetizer to keep the waitress off my back. One time the weirdo left a cup on the table. He was in hurry for work or something. Once I saw him round the corner, I hustled across the street to see what he was drinking before someone threw it away. I tasted what little was left, letting each drop roll on my tongue playfully. That’s how I know what the freak likes to drink.
He’s definitely a creature of habit. Aren’t we all? I certainly have my own “habits,” though my ex-wife—that bitch!—called them perverse. I think she even referred to me at a party as “perverted”! Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The world is replete with real freaks, and she wants to castigate me as perverse? What does she know? She ended up marrying some asshole from New York. They both had the audacity to call me a sicko in our final meeting with the lawyer. Speaking of sicko, the weirdo, I found out through a little investigation, moved here from Pennsylvania two years ago. I bet you he’s fleeing the long arm of the law, hiding out in suburbia with a false identity. I can easily picture him engaging in all kinds of naughty activities.
I find it ironic that a guy who’s doing society a favor by keeping tabs on weirdos, gets a restraining order from his ex-wife, has his license revoked, and is arrested for indecent exposure when, technically, wearing a sock doesn’t count for nakedness—three socks actually, as I didn’t want to get my feet dirty. Another strange thing about the weirdo is that he probably isn’t even aware of his own weirdness. In a way, that's sad. He can fool most people with his outward appearance, but not me.
