The Times We Live In.

So I'm making supper and I glance out the window and I can see this guy at the corner of our lot. He's got a red wagon with extended cardboard sides and he's kind of staring down the sidewalk past the side of our house kind of blankly.

"Crazy alert," I say over my shoulder into the kitchen. My son elbows me out of the way and stares at the guy over the sink.
"What's he doing?"
"I don't know. What's with the wagon?"
"Why's he just standing there?"
"I'm sure he's just waiting on someone."
"Dude," my son uses my given name. "A grown man with a wagon?"
The girl reports from the front room: "There's a blanket and newspapers in the wagon! I think he's homeless!"
"He's not homeless. Look at his shoes."
"Crazy. Definitely crazy."
The guy turns like he's following something invisible. He moves the wagon like he doesn't know what he's doing. It rolls off the sidewalk into the snow. He rocks it back and forth kind of gently. He looks up. Looks around.
"He's not going anywhere."
"Why us?"
"Dad, can my friend walk home with a crazy guy in the neighborhood?"
"Uh," rapid lawsuit calculations. "No. Tell him to wait."
[pullquote]"How do you know he's crazy?" The friend asks.
"Dude: grown man. Wagon. Blanket. Newspapers."[/pullquote]
"DUDE YOU CAN"T GO HOME BECAUSE SOME CRAZY GUY IS IN OUR YARD!"
"WHAT? OMG!" Rush to the window. The dogs follow the friend. Now two tweens, a teen, me, and two dogs are all staring out the window at the corner sidewalk intersection.
"How do you know he's crazy?" The friend asks.
"Dude: grown man. Wagon. Blanket. Newspapers."
"Right."
The guy looks up, starts pulling the wagon around the corner to our front sidewalk, toward our walk.
"Oh shit! He's coming!"
"Come on, guys, he's not . . . I mean. . ."
"Dad, should we call 911!?"
"No. Just go to your room."
"I'm in the middle of an assault anyway."
They leave. The girl resumes manic T.V. consumption. I go back to washing dishes. I look up through the window and the guy is kind of rocking back on his heals, waving his arms vaguely, like he's talking to himself.
Maybe I should call Dave. He's a cop. He'll know what to do[1. Dave would laugh].
Then a kid walks into the scene from the front of my house.  A poor innocent kid! I drop my towel and I'm thinking I have to warn that kid! I've got to do something!
The guy reaches for the kid with one great maniacal gloved hand . . . and tousles his hair. The kid throws a couple of newspapers into the wagon. The man takes the kid's hand and they walk away, down the block, father and son, delivering the local paper.