Week 7 : Character Profiles

Sitting in the waiting room, he leans on his old oak cane. The hat that covers his bald head is the same color tan as his pants; he is wearing an old winter coat over a plain gray sweatshirt.
He's silent while the others around him are talking about anything and everything. His old green eyes are unfocussed and far away.
Mom notices his his distance and gives him a kind rub to his shoulder.
"I'm just worried about Nana." He said quietly and stared back at the door where the doctor would come out and end the wait that has already seemed so long.
Inside of his head, he was probably a million miles away. But he was here, at Eastern Maine Medical Center, waiting in a room while his sweetheart was being operated on.
The cane he carried and the way he held his back as we walked was a surefire sign that he has worked hard in his life to earn that extent of being sore. His simple clothes and demeanor makes it obvious that he is in no way an extravagant man. The lines on his face have changed the look of a man that was once young, vital and handsome. Today he looks like an old man who has lived a long life.
He slowly stands up, groaning as he does, and he walks to a table with a coffeepot on it. He's done this a few times, but every time there is no coffee in the pot. However, every few minutes he still tries. Does he forget that the pot is actually empty? Or is it at least something to get his mind off of wherever his sweetheart is?
He returns to his seat with a simmering cup of tea because there still is no coffee.
"She's strong, Dad." Mom told him and patted his knee. "She's almost 80 and this is the first kind of surgery like this she's ever had."
He shrugged, "I know she's strong. I just want two things. I don't want her to be in pain, and I don't want her to be afraid."
Mom said nothing and just looked away.
His words showed how much he cares about Nana, and the way his hands shook and the fear in his voice made it obvious how much she means to him.
In the parking lot, the 'Veteran' symbol on his license plate meant that he has served our country during his life. The tired look in his face shows it. The way he stares at that door, jumping at every person who opens it, shows that he is, as patiently as he can, is waiting for the doctor to come out. He's waiting for Nana.
If I were to guess, I'd say that all he is thinking about is how Nana is.

***

Working for a local business in a small town, you begin to see more of the people from your community then you ever thought you would. I worked in a grocery store for two and a half years. I knew all of the regular costumers, and usually I could tell you what they were going to buy before I even bagged it.
There was the old woman with the scratchy voice who bought nothing but Bud Ice and cartons of cigarettes. There also was the guy who only bought cat food and then liked to dig in the trash cans outside (rumors were that he ate the cat food). The 97-year-old woman named Ester with a crazy blonde wig and a great sense of humor was always a hoot when she came in every Saturday. Mrs. Foley did her shopping on Sundays; she only bought organic food and brought her own reusable bags. And then there were the few classic, rich-looking housewives who came in and only bought the top-of-the-line expensive foods, and insisted that they only get paper bags because plastic bags are made out of 'oil by-parts'.
So basically, if you did a lot of grocery shopping in Calais, chances are I'd be your bagger. If you came in to shop enough, you'd be another familiar face to me. There weren't many regular costumers that I didn't chat with when they came in.
One particular woman always made me feel a little sad when I saw her.
My mom used to point her out when we would see her around town. She was as skinny as a rail and she was always going for a run around the streets of Calais. Mom said that running was all she ever did, and that she has always been that thin. That oh-so-very unhealthy thin.
She came in the grocery store at least once a week. Usually on weekends. She didn't buy much; probably because she didn't exactly eat much. She always bought a four-pack of Shutter House white wine coolers, fresh vegetables and a loaf of french bread from the bakery. She'd ask for it all to be put in one plastic bag, probably to make it easier for her when she ran home.
Working in a grocery store for as long as I did  is probably what contributed to my fascination with human behavior. I realized early on in that job that you can tell a lot about a person by what they buy for food.
This woman was always one of the most interesting regulars.
When she approached the register, you can smell her before you see her. She always smelt of body odor. Why, I'm not exactly sure. I always thought it was from her extensive running. She was always polite but never said much.
My mom had always told me that this woman was anorexic and always ran. She was never very happy with herself, so she punished herself. 
I would smile and say hello as I bagged her things for her. She asked for it all in one bag, and she always paid with a check that was already written for $25. In my mind, I decided that she did this so that she never paid more then $25 dollars for food. That way she couldn't eat a lot; that way she'd still stay thin.
I was always as polite as possible to her, but she never seemed to notice. Her eyes were so preoccupied. Her mind always elsewhere. Her skin had a yellow-ish tint, and her long fingernails were brittle and many were broken off.
Every time when I watched her leave the store, I hoped that the next time she'd come in she'd be a little heavier. I always secretly prayed that maybe she'd decide to stop running and start living. I wanted her to eat more then she did. A cheeseburger. A piece of apple pie. An ice cream cone. To me, it always seemed so profoundly sad to be so governed by something. Her life always seemed a little sad to me.
But, until the day I resigned from my position as a Costumer Service Clerk, Joanne never did gain any weight. She always had those same sunken-in eyes; she always had those same broken fingernails. I swear that woman weighed no more then 95 pounds, even though she was at least 5'7.
And although I may not have known much about her life other then local rumors and what I saw of her inside of Shop 'n Save once a week, my mind returns to her sometimes. I haven't seen her in a long time, but I still hope that she found some kind of help for her disorder. Because a life that is so closely governed by your own fears really isn't living at all.

***
Every high school has one. In the movie The Breakfast Club, he hid dope in his locker and was in Saturday detention because he pulled the fire alarm. He had torn jeans, combat boots and an 'I don't give a fuck' attitude. If you're a fan of the famous 'Brat-Pack' movies of the 80's, you'd know that I'm talking about the criminal.
The criminal is that bad boy in high school who was always stirring up trouble of some kind. Everyone is afraid of him; he's always the talk of the town. He had that look on his face that basically taunted everyone around him. He was cool; he was badass.
In my high school, it was a certain fellow who took his role as a criminal a bit too far.
He's tall, with blonde hair and a nice smile. He has a strong build and has a surprisingly quick wit. He sat in the back of every class he was in; he started every fight in the hallway. A day didn't go by that you didn't hear his name being called over the intercom by an angry staff member.
There are a million things I can say about this guy. There was the day that he pushed by me in the hallway to help his friends start a fight. This was the same day he got in trouble for hitting a teacher. He was always in the paper for getting a summons of some kind. He sold the best drugs in town. He screamed at teachers; ripped things off the walls; came to school high as a kite.
I'll never forget the time he threw a chair in the lunch room that just barely missed hitting me in the head.
"FUCK YOU!" I remember hearing him yell at Mr. Noyes as the flying chair almost throttled me.
There also was that one infamous time where, one day after school when the building was empty, he shit in a chair.
Yes. He shit in a chair.
He somehow got into an empty classroom during after hours and shit in a chair. The worst part? No one even noticed until halfway through the next day of school.
Going to school with him certainly made school a little interesting. He went to jail during senior year; no one was surprised to hear the news. When he returned, he ironically was the first person to graduate in our class. How he passed, I'll never know. A huge part of me thinks the school just passed him to get rid of him. He graduated on time and, for once, it seemed he was going to do okay.
But nowadays, things are a little different for him.
He's been in and out of jail a few times. He pulled a knife on a cop once. A certain new and very dangerous drug took hold of him, and he spent a month in jail because of it. Whenever I run into him, he never looks very good. His eyes are always dark underneath; he is too thin for his frame and looks weak.
"How are things going?" I ask when I run into him.
He shrugs and simply says, "Same shit, different day."
He always says he's a fuck-up and will never amount to anything. He has said before that the only thing anyone sees in him is a failure.
But little does he know that he actually has so much potential.
In English class he'd always come up with these ridiculously smart answers, even if he didn't read the book. Whenever he played basketball, you'd see this different person come out. Gone was the violent and unhappy guy that everyone had an opinion of, and in his place was a graceful and very talented athlete. He had a way with people that instantly made others like him; he had a confidence that seemed to make him invincible.
In high school, I used to think his wild ways were 'cool'. I thought to myself, Why aren't I more like that? Because I care too much, about everything. But he just seemed to go through life, with one lucky break after another. One more time where the drugs he's done should have killed him but didn't. One friend who will bail him out of jail after another. An alcoholic at 20; never seeming to have a real care in the world.
But that has stopped being cool in my eyes.
Everyone has told him he has potential; everyone has tried to reach out to him. 
But after a while, you just give up. You decide to let him float on, and you decide that your effort is pointless.
Hopefully someday he'll see the potential that we all saw in him. The one that he so obviously has forgotten he has.