You, sir, are sporting oversized aviator sunglasses, and your shirt is unbuttoned to the middle of your chest. Your head is shaved. You are strutting backward up the street, your arm at a right angle to your body, as you point up the block, greeting someone you know.
That guy? The stranger in the distance? He is the man. “The man,” you would say, if he could hear you, but he is too far. Instead you point silently, profoundly. You point with emphasis.
…You are still doing this — still walking backward, pointing meaningfully at this person, who is no longer visible. The friend walking with you offers his feet an awkward smile, shakes his head.
Maybe the friend walking beside you has a girlfriend. And if he does, she wishes he would hang with you less.