Joey's Purpose in Life

There is a fellow in my neighborhood - Bay Ridge, in Brooklyn - that I see every morning on my walk to the subway. I call him Joey, although I have no idea if that is his real name. But, through the lens of my ignorance and predjudice, he looks like a Joey, so I will refer to him as such. Joey wears glasses, is balding, and is probably in his late thirties, or early forties. However, I do not know his exact age, because I do not know him. The glasses and the baldness happen to be facts. Joey comes out of the house every morning, dressed in his pajamas or in a set of clothes he will wear for several days in a row, and immediately checks to see if all the gates to the entrances of all the houses on the block are closed. If they aren't, he closes them. He notes which gates were left open, and which gates were closed. He taps his forehead periodically during this task, mumbles to himself, and always has a finger pointed to the next gate he is approaching. He is very dilligent in his task, he takes it seriously. From the gates, he moves to the trash cans, looking into them to see which cans are empty, and sets upright the trash cans that have fallen over after pick up, or for other reasons. He is just as dilligent in his second task as he is the first, constantly taking mental notes, tapping his head, mumbling. From there his job is somewhat hodge podge, noting dog droppings and where, the same with human trash, too. He notes which business have there doors propped open, etc. Other people on the street seem to know who he is, and have no problem with Joey doing what he does, they accept him as part of the day. As do I. In fact, I find myself a bit concerned when I don't see him on my way to the subway. I immediately start to think he is sick, or worse, dead. I grow sad, and feel relieved when I see him bound around the corner in his erratic, jagged walk, one finger pointing to the next location. It is clear that Joey has a sort of mental disability, or better said, the mental workings of someone not normal. It's a shame to think him disabled, he does such a good job at what he does, never missing an open gate, or fallen trashcan. But he does seem a bit disasociative, and exibits the air of someone possibly afflicted with Downes Syndrome (light case), Autism (medium case) or Asbrger's (severe case). I've, of course, made the judgment that he lives at home, and cannot have any normal employment. I've seen an older lady come out of the house with him a time or two, I believe she is his mother, and since he wears his pajamas, or the same set of clothes until they are soiled, I feel it's safe for me to say he is not employed, at least, employed like most people. But Joey works everyday, at something he created for himself. I'd say it must be a life of extreme solitude, but, like I said, everybody seems to know who he is. And he knows who everybody else is, he's even noticed me. I have no idea what name he's given me, however, but he does notice. I saw him one afternoon, we were the only two on the street, he was seemeingly walking as if off duty from his vocation, when he noticed me, and immediately went to the trash can to examine the contents. He relaxed when I walked passed, I know because I spied on him until I walked around the corner. I'd say I feel sorry for Joey. It's clear he cannot function in a society of accepted dress for acceptable pay. People accept him, but they kind of smile a goofy smile to him, as if he was a child. The slow man-child on the block. I'd also say he was an outcast because nobody seems to walk up to him and talk to him, myself included. I'd even go so far as to say that his mental illness has rendered him an unfortunate soul, a ward and burden to cursed parents. But I won't say any of those things, becasue he really seems to like his job, and because he's smiling all the time. I'm gonna try to post again next week, but I'm not very good at steady blogging. I am gonna try, however, to be as dilligent as Joey. It's not like I have a job, or anything.