His name was Jack Phileas Fogg Mudd, I kid you not. He liked being called Foot but had long ago accepted the fact that no one would call him that, but the ever possibilities in 'coolnessism' from his name was enough to make him grin.
He had dreads that weren't long enough to weigh themselves down and therefore stuck out in every direction, a plethora of piercing and an assortment of random tattoos that would never make sense unless you asked what they were about. Of course, he had the quiet, "I'm the guy that sits in the corner" kind of demeanour but the truth about him being so open wasn't hard to figure out. Plus, he could be loud once he got comfortable.
Feet on the coffee table, drumming his ridiculously sized thighs, kind of loud.
He was exuberant, didn't care what people thought, was in no way skin shy and had a tendency to avoid touching people. And then there was the way he did things, because it's not all about looks, though one could spend days on just that. It was how he would put something back in the exact same spot he found it or how it should be, like candy canes shoved upright in a bowl or something. Or how he'd barely make a noise while walking, or breathing; which was kind of cool in an empty room or during the silent part of a movie when you realize how loud everyone else is being except him.
And there was all the wit, all the packed in and crammed up knowledge, all the things about cultures and languages and stuff most people don't know about or haven't totally gotten over the initial reactions. He was the master, the man with the plan who never had a plan. The guy who stood in front of doors figuring them out with the hand motions of a crack addict, or who laughed his a** off from missing a step on the stairs and landing pretty damn hard.
I loved him. I ******** love him. And I think everyone else does.
He was so much more than a person, more than most people could be, because he had learned early on how to appreciate everything, even the horrific stuff that plagues us–and we all know it plagued him too. I actually think it plagued him more, which makes some twisted kind of sense, I suppose. He'd laugh over his spotty memory and make vague references to the stuff 'flying around his head'. It was just part of him, opposing the parts where he could draw exact lines from movies he hadn't watched for years, or details about what someone was wearing that one day in high school when that friend of theirs came and... Or how he was the most alright person I knew.
I think, if he saw me now, he'd be proud. But that's not hard to say. He'd be proud I was still alive, he'd be proud that my lungs could take in oxygen and ten times as proud that I still remembered how to breathe and moreso that I kept doing it. He'd be proud that you there are smiling right now, and that the person just over your shoulder has green eyes. He would appreciate every hair and pore on your body, every word that came out of your mouth, even if it was something that would make him want to kick you in the shins.
He'd love that we're standing here, remembering him, because that's all he ever wanted. For all his vibrancy, his ways with people, his looks and his attitude, all the things he was, he just wanted people to remember him, to know him, and talk to him once in a while so he didn't have to think about the stuff no one should have to think about. Not that he didn't mind silence, quiet, pure peace and being alone.
He could've done so much, but like he was always grateful for everything that existed around him, for the things everyone did, that should be us in return. Because he was here for us, instead of saving the world...
in other ways.