Nearly Naked Outside the White House: How Nature Boy Became a Washington Fixture.
The former defense secretary betrayed no surprise - or interest - at the canvas of bare skin on display at 8 a.m. on a 61-degree October weekday. Rumsfeld, 83, crossed the road and disappeared into a downtown D.C. office building.
Alexander, who seconds earlier had stopped to urinate between two evergreens, was equally unmoved. "Boy, he's aged," said the 70-year-old, sporting a look sometimes compared to Methuselah's.
Crossing paths with an architect of the Afghanistan and Iraq invasions didn't feel special, because, for Alexander, it's not.
The Vietnam veteran spends most days in the historic, tree-shaded square across from the White House. "My office," as Alexander calls the seven-acre park, draws visitors from around the world, along with legions of lawyers, lobbyists and administration officials headed for work.
Alexander - who has a tiny apartment, 5,000 Facebook friends and an unexpected rapport with the Secret Service - revels in his role as one of the District's most visible eccentrics. In a city of heels and wing tips, suit jackets and cellphones, government badges and top-level security clearances, he has become a cherished fixture for federal workers, a tour stop for sightseeing groups and a giggle-inducing curiosity for flocks of schoolchildren.
Almost none of them know about the long, delusion-riddled journey that brought him to the nation's capital six years ago. Or about his declared political intentions - to become the country's next president before civilization ends in 2028. But their opinions of him probably wouldn't change much even if they did.
He is a prophet of doom who wields a five-toothed smile instead of a megaphone. He is a source of momentary encouragement to some and a guru of perpetual wisdom to others - all while sitting nearly naked outside the home of the free world's leader.
Beneath the statue of Andrew Jackson's rearing horse, Alexander sat on a park bench in the center of Lafayette Square and carefully removed the thick rubber band that held shut a weathered, cream-colored glasses case. He slipped on his $5 spectacles and twisted out the lead from a yellow Paper Mate mechanical pencil.
Alexander then turned to Page 25 of The Washington Post Express and embarked on his morning's most strenuous challenge: the Sudoku puzzle.
Dress shoes clicked across the red bricks in front of him.
"Morning," said a fast-walking woman in tan pants and tennis shoes, her federal identification hanging from a lanyard. "How are you?"
"I'm well, thank you," he responded, looking up. "Enjoy your day."
"One of my regulars," he added.
A Secret Service agent, head shaved and pistol holstered, soon approached.
"Morning, Elijah," the man said.
"Morning," he said back. "Enjoy your day."
He has delivered that message - enjoy your day - thousands of times here. Although he has never experienced it himself, Alexander recognizes the pressures of District work life and lends to those wearied by it his unorthodox brand of optimism.
"There's something special about him," said Bryan Vidal, a 29-year-old government contractor who works nearby and considers Alexander his closest friend. "He's like the only person that I can totally be a genuine human being around."
Washington has always attracted peculiar people with political causes, including the Florida mailman who landed a gyrocopter on the Capitol lawn in April to demand campaign-finance reform and "Tractor Man," who drove his John Deere into a pond on the Mall in 2003 to defend tobacco farmers. Nature Boy has an agenda, too; he just preaches it much more quietly.
As the sun climbed, more tourists streamed into the park, and a familiar routine began.
Three young men walked by him, glanced, grinned, whispered, then glanced again. Eventually, one came over.
"Hello, sir," he said, his accent thick.
"Don't call me 'sir,' " Alexander said, extending his hand. "Call me 'brother.' "
"Photo take?" the teen asked, and within minutes, 10 Turkish college students, then in the United States fewer than 24 hours, gathered around him to snap selfies and collect advice on where to meet women.
A bit later, Alexander peered toward the White House and eyed a bobbing umbrella covered in colorful fish. He smiled. Beneath it was German-born Inge Schmidt, one of his favorite tour guides.
But just as she turned in his direction, the Secret Service began to clear the park for a brief closure. Frustrated, Alexander headed north, where along the sidewalk she spotted him.
"There you are!" Schmidt yelled.
And then, as always, she extended her hand, and he bowed his head to kiss it. Her stunned sightseers shot pictures that would inevitably land on social media.
"He's probably as well known in Germany," she said later, "as he is in this country."
Alexander understands his viral appeal. For a man who has devoted 39 years to a oneness with nature, he has made remarkably good use of the Internet.
"Check out my website," he often tells people about the page he manages with his single possession of real value: a $1,500 MacBook.
