Theme, Week Seven

I can remember visiting my grandfather when I was younger, about twelve, and there being a man there working for him. His name was Stanley and he had the typical look of hardened alcoholic. Stanley's face was either very dirty or very tanned, and it wore the wrinkles that come from years of hard living. Whatever its reason for being bronzed, his face was always disgruntled. Upon seeing him one might assume he was drunk, even when he was sober. He was very bow-legged, and walked with a slow, unsteady stride. Indeed, filming him, one might have thought that they were using a highspeed camera, for his snail-like pace was enough to slow even the thoughts of the person observing him. As it happened, this worked to Stanley's advantage, for his voice was even droller than his walk, and hearing it made time stop compeletly, making Stanley seem as though he could running. His Brownish hair was long and was thinning enough so that one could see the bald spots forming on the top of his head, and he wore an old blue jean jacket which had taken on the colors of his trade: painting. I can recall finding Stanley sleeping against the house one time, while my grandfather was away at work; when he awoke he had paid me $10 to help him finish up the spot he had been left to do. My grandfather noticed the paint on my shirt when he came home, and after a thorough scolding at having played near the wet paint, I foolishly informed him that I had been paid to help. He fired Stanley the next day for sleeping on the job; he was an unforgiving man. Stanley, moped to his car in no apparrent rush to leave (though one couldn't have known) and drove away. I can still hear his snail-like voice calling my grandfather's name as he was known to do, "Heeeey.....Eeeeaaarrrrlllll."