It would never be said of his son – Micah, “A chip off the old block.” A middle-aged man of pale complexion and reddish brown hair – these and his glasses were the only traits that could be claimed as ever being shared between the men. His son’s exterior was a contradiction. One could easily make out his hefty midsection, still within the socially accepted picture of “average,” but gaining. His choice in the latest alternative band t-shirts attempted a distraction to the mismatched area in contrast to his spindly legs and scrawny neck. Lanky but graceful – his straight, wiry hair sat atop his globe as a wig might.
It was clearly his own hair; its roots visibly clawed into his head nearly a full inch behind where his forehead should have ended. It seemed to follow a set of standing orders as it cascaded back and then, in tune with gravity, down the sides of his head in the form of a sort of academic-looking mullet. That pasty, waxen forehead was accentuated by his choice in eye-wear. Dark wire rims joined his cartoonish appearance, and together they defined the word, “spectacles.” At 38, the boy had not acknowledged his adulthood, it seemed to George. He dressed in rust colored jeans that hugged his legs, the shirt bloused over the waistline. Wore suede construction boots with the ensemble. “As if he’s worked a day of manual labor in his whole, enabled, meaningless life,” mutters George, as he counts and thinks, and waits for his lungs to join him once again in this life.