remote cards

He is a rarity, an imprecise German. Folds of rmpled suit draped over him, white shirted belly drooping out over his pants. His tie, that small geometric expression of a man's personality, is bright purple with blue squiggles and yellow dots. His face is saggy too, full of age, crow feet in the corners of his eyes. And why oh why do men do this - long strands of tousled, dyed hair are combed from his ear over his balding pate, sorry hair, hair that has been dyed and frizzed and combed so often that it has reached the limit of its endurance and wishes only to fade to grey in dignity.
He needs almost the entire Café table for his elbows, his pokes and gestures and his ideas. He expounds his theories so animatedly that the tousled front strands begin their slide over his eyebrows towards his nose. He has 20 years of theory to expound. He says,
"...much better for them than to sit at home infront of the tv all day, watching...what's the word..."
"Talk shows?" I suggest.
"PORNOGRAPHY! That's the word" he shouts through the Café, delighted. "You make me say such things! Pornography. I suppose I trust you for the wrong reasons."
He continues his theories about car companies, Calvinist work ethic and the necessity of sunglasses for snow blind rescue dogs.