Character

David Ginney points his squat and chunky frame in the direction he thinks it should go. It helps if he perceives and casts his eyes on an imaginary spot yards away and holds his arms stiff to preserve intent, so in spite of the floppy dress of an unemployed ne'er-do-well he is a man resolved. He bounce-walks when he wants to run but thinks it impolite, and sometimes he jabs his legs forward when the tiny weights he drags behind him grow heavy. Occasionally, on David's afternoon hike to the coffee shop at the end of the block, where he bathes in the comforting scent of chickory and orange zinger tea, someone calls out, and he stops himself as if impaled on a spit or preparing to be shot out of a pipe. A straight back means self-respect; a level gaze demonstrates one is approachable, engaged. He knows this. Because it is entirely about expressing in solid form the rigidity and shape one no longer owns, a mental suit of armor that may forever allow David to endure moldy kitchenware, unpaid credit card bills and the tiny, red rectangle on the phone that silently blinks its concern...