There is a gruff man who goes west in the morning, east in the afternoon. He is known around the neighborhood by his singular dress: a head-to-toe paint-splattered canvas, a walking Pollock.

There is the woman who waddles down the sidewalk, her thick hair bouncing in step and obscuring her face entirely except for the peepholes around her eyes.

There is the actress who was on “Law & Order: Special Victims Unit.” There is a speckled Great Dane whose head is the same size as the newborn it is sniffing in its stroller.

By three o’clock, there are children on low-riding bikes and young women howling with laughter as they rap in unison down the street. There is a couple fighting in the park. There is a painter whose house is boarded up after nearly burning down last year. He is unlocking his bike.

There used to be a man whose faded suit hung over him loosely and bunched at his ankles as he crossed diagonally through the park at 5:45 p.m. each day for years. He wore a hat and looked down as he walked alone, mostly indistinguishable from any other man, from time itself.

And then he vanished, and I often wonder to where.

— Selin Thomas