The powerfully built man was well over six feet tall. His thick mustache stood as the highlight of his unshaven, ruddy face, and he had drawn everyone's attention along the festive street. Unfortunately for Rock, he attempted to walk past this example of masculine totality without any way to know why it was there.
All he was trying to do was find his hotel room. Rock had been directed by a clerk in one of the many large luxury hotels to find a row of auxiliary rooms somewhere along the perimeter of this powerful and crowded pulse of tourism and enterprise, and though it was long before bedtime, Rock was already concerned about the volume of this self-sustained, perpetual, ritualistic ruckus.
He hadn't even noticed the actors at work, not until he tried to walk past their focal point. As he did, the large, strong man, dressed in weathered western wear, placed his hand on Rock's arm. "Please, help me out," the man whispered. "All you have to do is stand here for a second or two and act as if you're listening to me, just like you are right now."
Rock agreed with a nod. He didn't know what else to do.
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