Charles Baker was an enigma, gloriously ignorant and completely unapologetic. He seldom knew what was going on around him. On the occasion that he was made aware of the political climate, the weather, or his mismatched clothing he would become angrier and angrier until in a fit of rage he would collapse to the floor and only communicate in growls. He would not stop until brought a slab of raw meat, pouncing on it like a couple of hyenas let loose in a daycare. When he spoke candidly, however, it was easy to forget his idiosyncrasies. It was in these moments that I realized that above all, Charles Baker was my friend.
This was a sentiment he did not share; Charles did not have friends. He said so, loudly, to anyone who would listen and expressed his preference for his pets. Charles rarely had the same pet two weeks in a row. They seemed to perish in his care faster than if they were simply poisoned and left alone. One day Charles approached me with the request to feed his animals and water his plants while he was on vacation to Nepal. After I skirted the various clandestine security measures in and around his front door- which was locked in triplicate, though he had only given me one key- I found that his hamsters had escaped through the wide-open back door. I managed fortunately to recover all but three by the time he and his raft were located by the coast guard, and I still suspect that one of the missing hamsters was part of his limited food supply for the voyage, but he never forgave me and did not ask that favor of me again.