Garrison Griswold whistled his way down Market Street, silver hair bobbing atop his head like a pigeon wing. He tapped his trademark walking stick, striped in Bayside Press colors, to the beat of his tune. A cabdriver slowed and honked his horn, leaning to his passenger-side window.
“Mr. Griswold! You want a ride? It’s on me, my friend.”
“Very kind of you, but I’m fine, thank you,” Mr. Griswold called back, and raised his cane in a salute.