He's one of the "characters" of the neighborhood: average height, with the effeminate gait and chubby build of Truman Capote, a large head and small features, tiny round glasses perched on his bulbous little nose, and an unnerving, almost simian grin. Even though he's constantly singing or talking to himself in a creepy, operatic, Mickey Mouse voice, he's harmless, as far as I know.
It's near closing time in the grocery store, but the cat needs food so I'm here, scanning can after can at the automatic checkout, the computerized female voice announcing the price, "Sixty, cents, sixty, cents, sixty, cents...."
He stands, just out of sight, over by the frozen food, echoing the computer in his, strange, high-pitched voice, "Sixty, cents, sixty, cents, don't, stop, don't stop," and then giggling.
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