It is dusk and the best time of the day to be walking Dog Alley. A man emerges in front of me through a gate from one of the houses on the south. He is carrying a handful of trash out to the same garbage bin near the spot I had seen the seven neatly-arranged books about 10 days ago.
I had been so curious about the books and their intelligent arrangement that I came back later and shot a photo of them. I even blogged about it on August 28.
The man stopped at the bin to put in the trash. He is a 6-footer, about 40 I guess, with the beginning of a paunch. He has dark hair and wears dark shorts and a white shirt. I wonder if this could be the book-arranger.
“I was wondering,” I say as I walked up to him, “are you the one who layed the books out on the ground here recently?”
“Yes,” he said, looking sheepish. “I thought somebody might like to read them. I guess they weren’t.” He smiled and turned to leave.
It was an obvious time to ask him the question: But why did you arrange them in such a neat, structured order, out here in the blistering heat of the alley? But I don’t ask him, why I don’t know. I’m like that sometimes. I let things slip by me, like I didn’t want to bother him. Or maybe, worse, he would think I’m weird. But why would I care?
I have a lot of regrets in my life. This was not a big one. But a regret nonetheless. Maybe I’ll catch him another time.