He carries himself like a well-worn suitcase with a busted zipper.  His posture is one of unrelenting self-reproach and abject apology.  He bows his head like one of those 1970s floor lamps whose domed chrome fixture is affixed to the base with a curved metal pole, but with none of the swagger. 

“I’m sorry” seeps from his pores more readily than sweat and reeks of preemptive self-deprecation.  He pokes endless fun at himself for things that are only apparent to him and that, when pointed out, leave the other person thinking, “I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”