Willi is a regular at Karacters: a bar in Homer. He drinks brandy and water, or Miller High Life. The frail man can barely walk by himself, and his unlaced and over sized boots provide another obstacle for him. With his health and at 70 something, I wonder if Willi will be there when I return.
Hair sprouting from his collar, his hat, his ears, his nose, his brow, his neck and chin, it is only assumed he has eyes and a mouth. He settles nicely in the murky of the bar, usually only communicating through head nods and tilts- at least from what I saw, But locals really know Willi: the good, the bad and the ugly.
He used to live directly upstairs, above Karacters, until he drunkenly collapsed down the stairs one too many times, springing the door open to the bar like a jack in the box. Rhonda, the bartender, who would take the deserted man out to dinner on father's day even said herself, "I love Willi... but no bartender deserves to come in here to Willi, lying dead on the floor..." He was evicted. When his is very drunk, he has a squeel that he convulses randomly. It sounds like what a elephant/parakeet hybrid might sound like while orgasaming.
I was intimidated. Intimidated at his legendary status in this small fishing town. Maybe a 100 pound, legally blind, deaf, arthritic, poor, feeble man might have a different effect on most, but I sweat, stuttered and fumbled at the thought of approaching him. But I had to.
I walked up beside Willi's usual seat at the bar and ordered a Jack and coke, opening up my direction to him and raising my gaze with hopes he might make eye contact with me. He ignored me, but luckily the man sitting beside him, picked up on my open invitation: "What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?"
Nervous. Make it good, B. You got your easel and supplies in your truck. You came here to paint Willi. Do it. "Well... I heard about this guy," tossing my thumb over my shoulder to Willi. He perked up. "Well don't believe anything your mother said!"
... Incredible. Perfect. Willi has got a real good sting.
He props himself up on on the bar by his bony elbows. His head looks doubled in size because of his beard and it sinks deep in between his shoulder blades. Pointy knees spread wide, with his sharp ankles narrowing on the cross bar of the stool. His boots look like monstrous fleshy plant leaves, shooting his sticks-of-legs upward. He is closed off from me, how appropriate. He melts into the dirty green panel and has two cold, natural light sources: a faint window directly across from him, and a stronger source on his back. His posture shows his rejection to the natural light. His posture shows a rejection to anything.
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