Homework

For my writing London class, we've had to observe one person on the tube, and determine four items that sum them up as a person. I did that, and then I basically did a character sketch of the people I was observing (I did two. I know; I'm an overachiever). Anyway, I figured I might as well post the sketches on here, just in case anybody finds them interesting, or entertaining. The first is an older (late 60's) woman, and the second is a young man (late teens, maybe early twenties, hard to estimate). Keep in mind these are based on a few minutes of observation and probably have not much basis in reality, if any. If you're interested in the exercise, it's something you can do on nearly any mode of public transportation, or really in any public space. It's good for helping you create characters. Here goes:

Old Lady

She hadn’t given up yet, at least not entirely. That much was obvious from the painfully overbright coral lipstick smeared across her thin toad-like mouth and the grey-blue eyeshadow smudged onto her eyelids.

She hadn’t given up entirely, but she was close, said the gym shoes on her feet. She used to wear heels, used to look smart, used to try. Now the sneakers, veined with blue-grey plastic, speak of comfort and sit mildly beneath the awkwardly fitting black pants. Once upon a time, they may even have been nice pants. Now they stretch and groan in an attempt to cover a bottom grown large and indulgent in its age, expanding to an impressive mass.

Above, a starkly beige jacket (nearly as beige as the rest of her) contrasts with the fuzzy black scarf. It’s not really the kind of scarf you buy for comfort, not with those silvery spangles in it.
‘They must itch something terrible,’ I think, watching her.

‘Look at ME!’ the scarf shouts at the top of its lungs. ‘I’m pretty!’

That scarf is a teenage girl at her first party, wearing far too much makeup, with her clothing way too tight, trying too hard to be pretty, without actually knowing she is.

It’s a scarf completely out of place on a woman of her advanced years (but I’m not going to tell her so), and it looks particularly odd against the jowls of her neck, which has long ceased to be a neck. It is now rather a resting place for the jowls she seems to have collected over the years, which droop like pale echoes beneath her overpainted lips.

Her hair shows a clear attempt at fashion, or perhaps simply the aftereffects of a long-ago attempt. Frizzing around her face in a sort of sad halo, it has been teased, dyed, blowdried and fluffed so many times that the colour is now nearly unrecognizable, and it resembles nothing more than an unusual variety of sponge, perhaps one yet to be discovered along the bottom of some foreign ocean.

Above a flattish nose, her eyes, set in a rotund face, begin to close, and her head, with its discoloured, overteased hair, begins to tilt towards the plastic partition, resting there, carelessly, while her small hands grip a diminutive black, metal-studded bag, protective of her possessions even in rest.

They say there’s no rest for the wicked. Perhaps she wishes she was more wicked in her youth, because there’s certainly no rest for the aged.

At home, her bed is soft, comfortable and happy, with its yellow sunflower pattern on cotton, with oversized pillows and a thick comforter. But she gets no sleep, old bones aching, weighed down by the mass of her limbs and that nice, warm comforter makes her sweat, waking her in the middle of the night, flooded with her own heat.

So once again, she finds herself drowsing on the train, clutching her little black bag against her knee.

Young man

Nearly everything in his appearance speaks of someone who doesn’t care. The first thing you will notice while looking at him are his hands, which seem to have gone unwashed for so long that they seem to have developed a grayish film, with inattention extended to the overlong fingernails, complete with dirt underneath.

I imagine that he works with cars, maybe that’s why his hands are so begrimed. Somehow the dirt is more acceptable if it comes attached to a profession, if there’s some reason for it. But I think that says more about me than about him.

I fancy that he plays guitar and that’s why his nails are so long, because I need a reason to excuse it with. I can’t respect people who don’t take care of themselves out of a simple lack of will.

His boots are well-worn and slightly caked with dirt. He’s not the sort of person who worries about appearance or seems concerned about anything other than comfort. They’re not fancy boots; more the kind you’d see on a construction site than in an office. His jacket speaks of utilitarianism, too. A dark and weathered navy blue, covered with zippered pockets (I don’t want to know what’s in there), puffy enough to be warm but not puffy enough to get in the way.

I doubt he’s put as much thought into his jacket as I have looking at it, and maybe he’s put no thought at all into it, as he looks young enough for someone else to have purchased it for him.

Slightly greasy hair falling in front of his eyes, and an acne-riddled face once again tell the tale of owner’s neglect.

I wonder if he has anyone who cares about him, and he probably does, but it doesn’t matter. He’s sucked into the game he’s playing; utterly absorbed by the itty-bitty box between his grimy hands, and I can see that he lives the rest of his life the same way. His dark, untrimmed hair hangs in a curtain, separating him from the rest of his life.

He spends all his life sucked unto little boxes. While I’m sure he has someone who cares about him, I’m also pretty sure there isn’t anyone he cares about. I don’t think he cares about himself, and that makes it damn near impossible to care about anyone else.

Actually, I’m pretty sure that he’s breaking someone’s heart, but he doesn’t know it. Maybe he’ll learn someday, and maybe by then, it’ll be too late.