Perfection perfection perfection.

Every day, he wakes up. He turns, either to the left or the right.

This all depends on which side of the pier he slept on the previous evening.

Be it left or right, he heads for Rosie the Riveter. Rosie the Riveter, in this scenario, is a sign, pointing to a retired warship.
As he approaches the sign, he assesses the placement. It has to be perfect.

He makes sure it is lined up directly with the "Keep" portion of the "Keep Clear" painted on the ground. It has to be perfect.

He repeats this obsessively, every day. After all, it has to be perfect.
He stares down, along the sign. He moves it an inch to the right, an inch to the left, half an inch back to the right, all to make it perfect.

He spends anywhere from three minutes to close to half an hour, perfecting the placement of the sign. Perfection, for this man, knows no time limit. Not within about half an hour at least.
He stands back, surveys his work, and makes sure that it is perfect, as it has to be.

Some people call this insanity, but to this man, his home is the pier. The forty-third-and-a-half pier, and he will keep it perfect for the rest of his days.

He'll keep it perfect for the rest of his days, or until the manager of the retired warship tour finally gets sick of denying him 'his rightful paycheck.'

Some people call this obsession, but it seems to be all he has.
That, and cigarette butts he picks up on the ground.