Tod Hartman walks into the coffee shop wearing a black T-shirt over white long-sleeves and his usual green corduroys, worn in the knees. His dark hair is messy, but the look is intentional. It's a style. Hartman's not a frat boy—he's casual, has a foreign look about him. He slouches a bit, has alert eyes. He looks around, spots me and smiles, and walks to the counter. He orders, says hello to a girl who has approached him; something he says makes her laugh.