Hair. Nails. Tanning.

Nobody wanted to look too close, especially not into those cast eyes of his that seemed to flank you while remaining perfectly still and fixed into some middle distance just beyond the present moment. He didn’t move the rest of his body much, either, just shook his shoulders back and forth enough to disqualify himself for Improv Everywhere’s frozen Times Square experiment. Nobody knew his real name, since he only communicated one way - out - and only then to ruminate on the most inane details in the immediate proximity. It was how we knew he was still alive, and not a vegetable, so we treated him like a parrot in a doll’s body.

Zip dubbed him “hair-nails-tanning,” and I asked him what that was supposed to mean. Hairnailstanning blurted out a string of syllables that sounded like ‘ten percent off!’ and ‘more parking in the rear!’ and we shot desperate, apologetic looks in every direction but his to see who might have overheard. I asked Zip again, and again, trying to make myself heard over the motormouthy advertising patter that had become a flood. He shouted something about big box stores and outlets over the storm. If I concentrated, I knew I could make it out, and my hands tried to help by pushing Hairnailstanning against a dumpster and squeezing his cotton throat. But the harder I pushed and squeezed, the louder the blood in my ears roared, and Zip’s answer sounded the same.

The body sagged, as dead bodies do. I stood up and stared past my shaking fingers into the middle distance.

Funny. I didn’t remember that strip mall being there a half hour ago.

Zip nodded sadly.

“You can destroy Hairnailstanning, Griffy, but you can’t crush his indomitable spirit.”