On summer nights between 8-10 pm on a certain block in Berkeley, someone walks the sidewalk whistling so loud it echoes off the houses. It’s right at that time when the traffic noise dies down but before people start going to bed. This person whistles with vibrato and, although slightly creepy (in a Darryl Hannah Kill Bill way), it is kind of romantic. I usually stop whatever I’m doing when I hear him, mute the television, stand on the couch and peer out the blinds to put a face to the voice. And I never could see him through the shrubs. So I made him up. He became the typical old Berkeley scholar that had some kind of connection with the university with a dignified look, a tall, lean old man. And he takes evening walks after dinner up and down the street while his wife stayed home doing dishes or something cliche about that kind of stereotype.
Yesterday, coming home kind of late, I was getting out of the car when I heard him. I smiled really big over at boy and he knew why. We even stopped our conversation when we heard him. I got out of the car, probably still smiling when I looked over my shoulder, to see a rather chubby latino guy whistling away as he walked on the sidewalk. When he passed I looked over at boy and he had the same shocked grin I must have had.