In late November of '00 in my senior english class we read The Canterbury Tales by Chaucer. The series of middle ages writing included many narratives, what is known as a frame story. In these tales several characters were described through their mannerisms, looks, etc. making them come alive to the reader. Our teacher assigned the class to write their own sort of narative, a character description on someone who we often observe and therefore can explain their behaviors in detail. Stumped on an idea I called up my best friend who thought I was practically an idiot for not thinking of the obvious. Taylor Hanson. Taylor Hanson? Well... and so I started writing...
From the moment the first note left his supple lips, the otherwise cacophonous coffee house silenced. A definite virtuoso of song, his smooth voice filled the room and bounced off the walls. He held the microphone close to his open mouth as he squinted his eyes and pushed out every high note with not only accuracy but also immense feeling. Even though it was only a small coffee house performance, he gave it his all. He always sang his heart out whether he was in front of 300 people or just 3. He gave so much of himself in each soulful word that slopped from his lips that the females swooned.
He stood nearly six feet tall, and although his body was slightly waif-like, he showed it much care. I knew he worked out at the gym nearly every day and that was evident in his toned body. His arm muscle tightened as he replaced the microphone to its stand. The crowd cheered, the girls screamed. He drove girls wild wherever he went to perform. With his charming smile and glittering white teeth, he could have been America’s poster boy. Well, except for the fact that he wore black leather pants most of the time and a pot-leaf sweater.
At the end of his four-song set, he gently dabbed the sweat from his pure peach skin and graciously thanked the crowd. He blushed severely as a cry of “take it off” rang loud over the cheering. He turned to the steps of the stage, flipped his rather long wavy blonde mane, and headed down the steps with one hand in his back pocket and the other hanging loosely at his side.
He graciously signed autographs for everyone who asked and even chatted with them for a while. Finally, he escaped the crowd and plopped down next to me, obviously exhausted from the overwhelming reaction from the crowd. He looked at me, his bold blue eyes beaming, and asked if I could believe the crowd’s response. It was unusual that a coffee house crowd react so exorbitantly to his performance, but I knew how much effort he put forth, and I knew he was gifted.
He was never the type to admit openly that he had done a great job. He’d be excited and pumped when a crowd would give him such a positive reaction as they did that night, but he was too shy and too much of a perfectionist to let it go to his head. He would point out something else that he could have done to make his performance even better. That night when he opened his mouth to suggest what he could have improved, I stopped him. I placed my hand on top of his smooth skin and told him he did great. He trailed off, looked pleadingly at me, then eased his tension and smiled warmly.
I received a 95% on this paper and an extra 5% for getting the guts to read it to my entire class. 100%. I did not share the name of the character in which I descriped so vividly and when asked a repled: a friend. My teacher's comments on the bottom read "Very nice portrait of your friend."
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