The point of this exercise was to describe a character, and then describe him again through the lens of another character. These two paragraphs, by the way, are the first two paragraphs of my final project.
Tinman was sure his heart was acting up again. The constant thump thump thump that precluded his sleep was now waking him at some ungodly AM hour. That fucking heart seemed to be reverberating throughout the entire tiny apartment, throbbing inside his head: thump thump thump. In the moments before complete alertness, he rolled off the couch, cursing. As he trudged to the refrigerator, empty beer cans like fallen leaves eddied in his wake. He stared at the fridge’s contents while his brain caught up and his vision cleared. The one edible item was a half bottle of milk. He drank the bottle’s remainder. Then he stood motionless concentrating on his stomach; either he would puke up its contents, or the milk would alleviate his heartburn. In both cases he would be ready to start drinking again. This lesson he learned from good old Bukowski, and it never failed. He didn’t puke. He rated this hangover two stars out of five; it was pretty bad because he hadn’t slept it off, but he was up and functional much earlier than usual, and that made him feel pretty good. He might get to the recycler before they closed; he might get in a full day of work. And it was at this thought of work, of the road side and collecting cans, that he realized the thump thump thump was not his heart exacerbating his headache. Someone was at his door, knocking. The shopping cart he used to haul his loads blocked the door, so he shoved it aside. In the doorway stood Scarecrow.
The probability that Tinman passed away during the course of the night I calculate as the minutest fraction of a percent and dismiss it as a possibility. I continue rapping on the door; with due diligence I will achieve my end. I always achieve my end. Much more likely: his incapacitated carcass recuperates on the couch. I estimate it will take him approximately thirteen minutes to arrive at the door and grant me entrance. It will take five minutes for him to wake and realize someone wishes to visit. He will remain prone on his couch and ignore me for another two minutes. Finally, begrudgingly he will rise, but he will not immediately answer the door. He will first require libation, either milk or beer, depending, Which can he more conveniently scrounge? Also, he will sate his urge for nicotine, probably smoking the spent ends of cigarettes; I imagine he smoked his remaining whole ones last night. Finally, before answering the door, he will make himself decent because he does not expect me to come calling right now. He and I were the closest of friends. Now we are gifted, and our lives embark on divergent paths. But we know one another intimately as brothers know one another, and we maintain that fraternal love. Or at least I for him. At eleven and half minutes the door opens, and before me stands a bedraggled friend, fully clad in shirt, pants and shoes. As he appears before me, he explains how I, by a minute and a half, overestimated his preparation time: he slept in his clothes and did not need those extra ninety seconds to locate the requisite garments.
