He wore a small fedora and shorts, old casual shoes with socks pulled up half-calf. It wasn't a bowling shirt but it was close. There was a patch of hair on his chin. He was probably in a ska band at some point, and if not, then he definitely wanted to be. Trombone. Bass, maybe.
His car was dark green and fifteen years old, there were spots of rust around the tire wells. He'd manually roll down the window to flick out cigarette butts when the ashtray got too stuffed. There were two doors and he'd have to fold a front seat forward to let you in the back, and once you were there you were surrounded by receipts, wrappings, jewel case plastic, the odd empty cup. Sand lived in the cushion crevices, bits of old chocolate and mysterious fragments. You could hear it hurting before it was even on.
When he got home he'd open up a cheap beer, maybe read a comic book, sit back in his recliner and recline. Dinner was frozen lasagna cooked in the microwave, garlic bread cooked in the oven, salad in absentia. Maybe a few chocolate chip cookies afterward, but definitely another beer. He watched movies like Predator and The Matrix over and over and knew them by heart. They got better with each showing. Nothing could ever top them.
His days he filled with substitute teaching and working at a record store, the kind that has a keg in the basement. He made suggestions and helped people, though he expanded few horizons. Minds were never really changed. This was not for lack of enthusiasm. You could have called him many things, but you could never say he didn't care.
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