The Strong, Silent Type
(This week's assignment consisted of attempting to portray a character in four distinct ways: Speech, Summary, Habit and Appearance)
"...and to think that there are still people out there naive enough to believe that more tax will lead to better state provision. Private enterprise drives more change in this country than the state could ever hope to. Far too much inefficiency, it's all back office staff and meetings about meetings. We're paying for needless job roles which, ultimately, give someone an average salary but do little for the country as a whole. It's the equivalent of paying someone to dig a hole and paying someone else to dig it up. Right?"
Dad looked up from the dark swirling void of his black coffee and realised he missed the crux of the debate. He smiled weakly and said "Sure" in a manner which he hoped was convincing enough to end the subject.
It had been many years since he considered himself to be alive in any meaningful way. His work, lifestyle, interests, philosophy were all sacrifices to allow him a means to simply last until the next day. Loss sometimes had this way of changing people. Dad simply had nothing since she went to school one day and never came home.
He'd step through his front door softly, hang his only coat on the single wall hook and take a Macaroni Cheese from the freezer. He'd turn on the television for background noise and illumination. His flat was spartan enough that he could orientate himself easily from the TV's glow. He'd eat quickly, without enjoyment and drink 4-6 beers sitting in his worn armchair. He'd drink until he felt fuzzy and rest his head back, staring at his daughter's school photo until sleep took him.
His buzzcut maintained a neatness without cost of paying someone for the service. He shaved with a straight razor and soap, skin now toughened enough to be achieved daily without blemish. His short-sleeved shirts and slacks of neutral, woody hues served the dual purpose of being smart enough for work and comfortable enough for home. He ate to stave off hunger, drank beer to help him sleep. He cut an unassuming figure at 5 ft 8 in. Even his anatomy was functional. In childhood his body decided both his tonsils and appendix were superfluous to requirements and promptly infected them until surgical intervention was necessary. His straight demeanour and fixed frown had stayed with him since the Sandhurst days: the Falklands had left him with a medal and a handshake, a scar running across his left knee which gave him a terrible ache in winter, and an underlying sense that God seeks to punish the humble.