Two Page Character Study

Two Page Character Study

The old man clenched the pipe between teeth discolored by age and smoke. It was not just his favorite pipe, it was his friend. While the leather cover on the Meerschaum pipe had turned from light ochre to ruddy brown, his hair had changed from ruddy brown to light ochre, and in sections, both were thinning badly.

His leathery skin was filled with furrows deepened beyond restoration; the three at the corner of his eyes most prominent. But it was the eyes themselves that hypnotized you: bright blue, inquisitive, sparkling with a mixture of mirth and wisdom. They were the kind of eyes you wished you could get behind to view the world from his perspective.

He was laid back in a wicker rocker, gazing into the glittering darkness, with the attentiveness of someone who might be counting stars or dreaming of a planet where life might begin again.

Shabby khaki pants, which didn’t quite reach his ankles, were fastened to his tall frame with fatigued braces. The woolen, plaid shirt hung loose about his body, the cuffs pulled high up on his wrists. His dangling arms appeared as if they had been racked three inches longer. The breast pocket had lost its button, the flap curling upward behind the pencils standing in the corner.

The veined hands were huge with long, thick fingers, and flat, broad thumbs. When he packed his pipe, he resorted to a metal pick, his index finger too big to push into the carbonized bowl. They were hands formed by hard work, painfully evidenced by several arthritic knuckles.

He leaned forward over his knees, and with his hands on the rocker arms, pushed up, rising slowly to his full stature. Even bowed with age, you could see he was a tall man – still a magnificent model of the human race.

With steps shortened by age, he ambled into the house and down the hall to the kitchen. Adding a 1/3 teaspoon of frozen decaf, hazelnut cream and Latté chocolate to his cup, he poured hot water onto the frothing mixture. It was the one present he gave himself daily. Setting the cup on the table, he dropped into his chair.

On the table before him stood his second best friend; an old Underwood with a wooden cover. He had one hour before he would be forced to lie down on the sofa in the corner. With index fingers bowed but stiff, he began to peck out the start of his new novel: T-h-e o-l-d m-a-n c-l-e-n-c-h-e-d t-h-e p-i-p-e b-e-t-w-e-e-n t-e-e-t-h d-i-s-c-o-l-o-r-e-d b-y a-g-e a-n-d s-m-o-k-e.