SKETCHY CHARACTER?

.
...or just a character sketch?

One of my first assignments:



I AIN'T SINGIN CAUSE I'M HAPPY

He sits perched on a stool out front of the old tavern, as he does most every night. His arms, half covered in a maroon button-up shirt rolled just below the elbows, are crossed, resting on his stomach inside his dark denim overalls, making his already broad, thick frame appear even bulkier. His kinked, frizzy, shoulder-length black hair is pulled back at the nape of his neck, held in place by an elastic rubber band. His eyes are masked by a pair of dark, round sunglasses that never leave his face.

He is a quiet man, approaching 60 years old. He chooses his words and conversations sparingly, but he has seen things and has stories to tell. It is apparent by the deep creases on his face and roughness of his hands, but also by the way he grins to himself, on occasion, when he thinks no one is watching. His laugh is robust and genuine, but to make him laugh is a rarity. Achieve such accomplishment, however, and it resonates with you for hours.

"SERG, telephone!" someone yells from inside.

He tosses his cigarette butt to the ground, shifts his weight off the stool and stamps at the orange glow on the sidewalk with his heavy black boot. He shakes some imaginary embers off his overalls, which are worn and faded at the seat. He makes his way inside, letting out a deep, low sigh as he goes. His walk is heavy, almost forced, as if he is bothered by each step that no one has figured out a more suitable way to get from here to there.

Pulling the phone to his ear, he lets out a gruff "Yeah?" A series of affirmative grunts follow, and he slams the receiver down shortly after.

"You drove tonight, yes?" He says to me, with just a hint of a Mexican accent.

"Uh...yes, I did," I respond, not sure where this is leading.

"How about you throw me out at the Old Ale House? It's just a half mile down the road."

"Of course, no problem," I say.

After we close the bar down, we drive down the street, in silence at first. Much to my surprise, he hands me a cd and says "Put this on number 19." I hit play and immediately recognize the voice that fills the car, which now smells of stale cigarette smoke, to be his. As he pulls himself out of my car, he nods in recognition to the bouncer outside the Ale House. He leans his head back into the car and says, "You keep that cd, ok?" Then, even though I can’t see beyond his sunglasses, I’m sure he winks at me.

And it stays with me for hours.

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