The Kind of Guy
The kind of guy always scanning the ground for cigarette butts with enough tobacco left for a puff or two, gratis.
The kind of guy who loses the trail of the conversation, finds some point in the distance, and wanders off, and suddenly you’re the one who’s embarrassed cause you’re not sure how long he’s been gone.
The kind of guy who seems to require an awful lot of taps on his phone to place a phone call.
The kind of guy who stays up all night and sleeps late so he’s only awake during the hours when it’s socially acceptable to drink.
The kind of guy who never talks to anybody, but always seems to have a lot of friends.
The kind of guy that always steals your lighter because of a deep-seated condition, some subconcious survival instinct for preparedness, “holding on to it, just in case.” Or the more sinister version, the kind of guy who often seems to pick up a $9 knife at a gas station counter when he's buying cigarettes, never failing to comment “just in case.” You, understanding that which we are expecting often finds its way into the world, refrain from asking “in case of what?” and for the longest time afterward are haunted by the possibilities.
The kind of guy you just know ain't worth messing with, blasting beats you can hear from his earphones, sneering, walking his tricked-out bicycle, swaggering, but with every step his boots squeak.
The kind of guy who keeps lists, but so many of them that their function is largely negated and the resulting system is incomprehensible.
The kind of guy that don’t want no part of anything a man like that enjoys.
The kind of guy who lives alone and likes it that way. He’ll get real tired of company sometimes, because at heart he's a quiet man who wants you to know that he has things to do, and that it isn’t personal, its just the way the sun keeps moving on us, so you understand if he has to get on with his next chore in a life of chores, which is (he usually says) cleaning his guns. Even though people who don't know any better take this to be a very tacit threat, its really just the most mundane and utilitarian task he can imagine. Once they leave he’ll just be in there reading some book, enjoying the quiet and smiling at himself because he cleans his guns on Tuesday evenings.
The kind of guy who would never just show up at the last minute expecting to find parking.
The kind of guy who has no idea why anyone wouldn’t keep using the same body puff for three years. Its clean the whole time.
The kind of guy who moved out to a big house he fixed up in Gentilly, but is easily bored, so everyone knows he won’t be there long.
The kind of guy whose mornings seem particularly prone to disaster.
The kind of guy who likes to tell stories like how he played the sax part on "Baker Street" but lost the ability altogether after suffering a head injury.
The kind of guy who always carries a pen so he can respond to bathroom graffiti.