Jackson Heights Troubadour

In terms of eccentric residents that I've identified so far, my favorite is the man who dresses up in bright skirts, a pink wig, and a clown nose and rides his bike with his toy poodle and parrot in the front basket. I see him every couple of months on the main drag. Then this Wednesday, I discovered a new delight. My walk to the train was serenaded by a man I'm calling the neighborhood troubadour.
The troubadour is not so eccentric in his dress, though he tucked his pants into his black socks, giving him a strange 80's look. He wore a denim long-sleeve shirt and respectable brown leather shoes. His gray hair was tied back in a bandanna and he has a full gray beard that make him look a little hippy-ish, but nothing outrageous. The remarkable thing about the troubadour was the way he moved.
He had his empty guitar case on his back and hugged the guitar close to his chest. His elbows were tucked protectively around the sides of the guitar and his left hand just barely reached out to caress the neck of the guitar that stuck out to the left. With his right hand he was constantly strumming, and with his legs he marched down the street. He took huge steps, raising his right knee high in the air like a soldier and then following with a more casual swing in his left leg. Up and down went his legs, flashing his black socks pulled up high around his pant legs, moving forward with intention and grace. He attracted the stares of everyone on the street, but his own gaze remained focused on the space directly in front of him, the space he would enter momentarily with his striding.
With his guitar he repeated a succession of chords. Two strums on one chord, then a shift, then another, then something that sounded like a conclusion, and then the first chord again. I would say it sounded like a paso doble, but it seemed too gentle to inspire bull fighting.
I abandoned the bus stop to follow him, and when we reached the next intersection and a red light, he made an abrupt turn to the left, and then swung around and stepped to the right. He continued in this figure-eight pattern until he could navigate a way through the cars, never missing a beat on his guitar. When the light turned, I followed him down 37th street, running to catch up so that I could still hear the music. We walked like this for another six blocks, and then he stopped at the Jewish Center. He approached two old men sitting in lawn chairs out in front of the center and swung his guitar away from his body as he took his last high step and glided to a stop.