Roger is in his late fifties. He's young at heart and bounces around with an animated sugar-rush energy. (Six cups of tea a day, four sugars in each, will do that to you.) He's medium height and looks haggard yet healthy, with tanned, leathery skin covering his athletic frame. His usual greeting when entering a room is a loud and friendly, "Hello, groovers!"
The most striking thing about Roger's appearance is his wavy collar-length bleach-blonde hair, noticeably darker at the root. Only slightly less remarkable are his jewel-like blue eyes that seem to squint and shine with secrets. Below them, he wears a quasi-permanent crooked, toothy grin. At least one of those teeth has cracked completely in half and been superglued back in place by his own fair hand.
His wardrobe, like his record collection, is entirely from the seventies. All natural fabrics (as long as you consider velvet to be natural); he's never worn a piece of sportswear in his life (unless you consider white tennis pumps to be sportswear). His typical outfit is a low-necked buttonless linen shirt and tight (tight, tight) faded jeans. Everything smells of patchouli incense.
Roger is single with no children and lives in a one-bedroom flat. Except for a brief dalliance with a rock chick a few years back, he hasn't been in a romantic relationship for some time. He doesn't eat meat or drink alcohol, and he doesn't own a car. His preferred mode of transport is bicycle. Indeed, your best chance of catching a glimpse of him is when he's zooming bare-chested through the city in a pair of denim cutoffs so short and skimpy they're best described as hotpants, his golden mane dancing behind him.
He's (proudly) never had a job, yet he always has money, which he mainly uses to travel Europe for a few weeks each year. His rent is always paid six months in advance. Rumours abound; "he's from a rich family," "he has a trust fund." It's hard to know what's true. He does, however, collect Jobseeker's Allowance and runs a steady trade in repaired second-hand bicycles. Where he gets the bikes and customers are questions best left unasked. Approach the subject, and Roger becomes evasive, defensive, and occasionally hostile.
If you visit Roger at his home, he may casually offer you a beer from his fridge (left there by a previous guest). Should you accept, his flat upturned palm will appear not three inches from your chest the second you open the can, and he'll flash you his crooked, toothy grin before saying, "pound, please," in the manner of a playful joke. And you'll take it to be one until his hand lingers in front of you a tad too long, and you catch his blue eyes staring unblinkingly at you, and you realise he's being dead serious. Better cough up the dough unless you know how to reseal an opened beer can.
Still, Roger will tell you straight up that money is unimportant. The worst insult you can throw at him—or he at someone else—is "capitalist." But spend enough time around him and you'll notice another signature trait—one no less striking than his hair or eyes; he has a terrible habit of falling out with his friends. And it's only ever over one thing: Money.
—2023—