Turning heads, one book at a time

Here comes Leisure Bum, shuffling slowly and deliberately into the far reaches of the Sidewalk Master Plan, in all his godless and jobless glory. He's going places, doing things. He's mobile.

But what's that he's carrying under his arm? (No, the other arm, the one that actually bends.) It looks like a book. A rather large book with a stiff, proud spine. Why is he carrying a book? Isn't he aware of the dangers of reading and walking at the same time? Shall we call him Thales?

But he's not reading it--he's just lugging it around. Maybe he's trying to impress people with it, or he intends to read it once he arrives at his destination, or it serves (because of its heft) as a tool for self-defense, or he intends to sell it for a mere fraction of its cover price to the entrepreneurs that sold it to him in the first place.

Here comes trouble...there's a rather vulnerable looking fitness enthusiast jogging straight toward Leisure Bum. That sidewalk is pretty narrow...she sees him now, all 6'2" 270 lbs of him--the flowing goatee, the worn jeans, the baggy sweatshirt (number 2 of a 3 sweatshirt rotation), the backwards cap. She's casually reaching for her pepper spray, but she pauses. What's going on? She sees the book under Leisure Bum's arm and seemingly forgets the pepper spray, flashing him a polite smile as he creates space for her to pass (not an easy task). Is it possible that Leisure Bum transitioned from menacing miscreant to harmless oaf just because he was carrying a book?

There goes Leisure Bum, book in hand, creeping into a densely populated area. He's heading straight for the tavern (hardly surprising). Oh, it's one of those taverns--aging, distinguished faculty with doctoral prototypes in tow, toasting one another on yet another successful grant awarded, or a book chapter completed, or a promotion to Associate Dean, or the fine skiing weather at the latest conference. Leisure Bum doesn't belong in there, does he?

They're creating a space for Leisure Bum! He's pulling up a chair, he's ordering drinks, he's answering questions. Cheers, Leisure Bum!

Wait a second...what's going on here? Ah, they see Leisure Bum's book. A rolling of eyes, impatient tapping of fingers on Merlot glasses, satiric nodding of heads as someone asks the (supposed) obligatory question (one that is not expected to be answered), "So, Leisure Bum, what are you reading?" Is it possible that Leisure Bum has re-transitioned from harmless to menace just because he was carrying a book?

Conversations resume--dogs and dinner dates, the exploits of grandchildren, petty departmental gossip. Hi-tech devices are fondled as attractive bodies glide by, just out of reach.

Where is Leisure Bum? He must have found the Exit. Yes, there he is, outside amidst the tattooed knuckles strumming the blues, hats upturned to capture the rare falling object. What's he doing? Can it be? Leisure Bum has opened the book, leaning slightly forward on a park bench, cradling. What could he possibly be smiling about?