My friend Jeanne goes to the gym

And turns it into a writing exercise over at The Master's Artist:

I call him the singing Marine. He always wears a tee shirt with a USMC logo or slogan, and a number of the shirts mention Viet Nam in a light that reveals fierce pride in his service there. I won't go into specifics, but let's just say a pacifist would cringe at some of the images and messages. He's clean cut with ramrod straight posture and walks with a swagger, but often appears to be wandering somewhat aimlessly. The impression is that he's boldly and deliberately going nowhere. He stops often to talk to other patrons, his body language one big gesticulation, like multiple exclamation marks punctuating his words. These conversations are almost completely one sided, and I usually can't tell if the person he's talking to is a friend or stranger.

Occasionally he wanders into the free weights area, and once or twice I've seen him attempt to bench press far too much weight. His arms shake then give out, and the barbell crashes back into the cradling frame, drawing attention from every corner of the room. He mumbles something, gets up, and moves on, maybe attempting a few chin ups before resuming his militant meander. Mostly he just walks, chin up, chest out, striding around the jogging path that corrals the exercise equipment into the center.

And that's when he sings.

I've never been able to make out the words, but the melodies and the gusto suggest something in the robust drinking song vein. It's a bit unnerving when one of these ditties erupts full volume as he's rounding the corner right behind me. But I don't think he means to startle. I'm not even sure he realizes he's doing it.

This is what I see. And this is where the questions begin, question leading to question, curiosity fueling them, and imagination filling in the blanks.