When he was young, he was exceptional.

At the age of 12, he showed promise as a thespian, playing Huckleberry Finn in a local production. He was so mature, so believable, and so charismatic the town paper featured a half-page piece on the wunderkind.

He was a major player in three more local productions before he discovered British punk early in high school, and believed he was exceptionally different.

When he was middle-aged, he was chronically angry.

Before he became always angry, he had become always drunk, but his patient wife had finally given him an ultimatum and a car accident he committed that killed a dog changed his mind about drinking. In the dog he had briefly seen his 5 year-old daughter and fearfully accepted that the stuff was killing him.

He was always angry at God, but he was an atheist. He had never been a spiritual man, but A.A. had made him consider a giant watching shadow, and whatever it was, if it was real, was selfish and petulant. And he scoffed and railed at the non-existent Higher Power anytime anyone gave him an opening.

He was clever and quick and biting, the king of comebacks, and ragged on the same politicians and parties each day on social media, when not posting links to esoteric bands.

He took pride in his work as a claims examiner for a regional insurance company and was very good at appraising people and incidents, drawing quick conclusions from a brief survey of facts and photos.

He watched TV late into the night after his wife went to bed. Police procedurals were his favorite because he liked to guess the stories and endings before the shows were over, and to privately chide about the simplicity or silliness of the plots. He usually fell asleep on the couch next to his bowl of celery sticks or a bag of Funyuns.

His daughter had moved to Hollywood after high school to become a star, but she now lived in Lincoln Heights with her new boyfriend, and he missed her.