Terry is a man in his twenties. He is taller than average (say 5'10) and of average girth.
He would be good-looking, if it wasn't for his eyes, set too far apart on his face and slightly bulging. This gives him a vaguely toad-like aspect. The light in those eyes is however sharp and intelligent.

His nimble hands and long fingers are remarkable. People are often surprised that he is a quite talented pianist. His demeanour and aspect don't suggest that of a musician. He does not have the bravado and front stage swagger of certain performers, although his touch is fluent and confident. It is not unusual to see him absorbed in the music when he is at the keys, and especially when he is composing.

He dresses neatly, but his clothes are simple - and a little worn out. His tuxedo starts to look old, and he will soon have to invest in something new - and trendier. This is Harlem, where it's all happening - not Lafayette.

He speaks with a pronounced Southern accent, for his Louisiana origin. He only recently moved to Harlem (2 years roughly). He is a good listener and has a good sense of humor - and a loud laugh, occurring seldom, but noticeable when it is triggered. You laugh like the heavens thunder, Terry boy, his late Grandmother used to say.

He is one of those musicians that are a little awkward with people, but then transform in performance. His pianist persona is more confident than when he is not playing.

Terry had a tough time settling in Harlem, two years ago. His meagre finances could only secure him dingy rooms in overcrowded apartments, that were only good enough to get his bearing around town, but not for long term living. After three or four such accommodation arrangements inevitably failed (as tenants moved in and out or owners decided to sell the property) he managed to find something a little more spacious, with a room large enough to fit an upright piano, over Redding's catering hall.  As the first small jobs came in (piano lessons to the bored daughter of the landlords), he managed to get an old but serviceable piano for rent from a music shop.
Just as things were starting to go his way, his music actually drove away the other flat co-tenants. Nobody wants to hear a guy playing over and over an Art Tatum solo line on a Saturday or Sunday morning. Even with the Mute pedal on, a piano in an apartment block makes quite the racket. He tried to cover the expenses alone for a while, but quickly got into debt, despite starting to play in private parties (especially "rent parties", ironically).
He was facing the grim prospect of moving out again and renouncing having a piano at home, when the waitress in a cheap diner who knew of his predicament introduced him to Clayton Morris, an artist in search of accommodation in Harlem. Turned out that, just like pianists, artists have trouble finding flatmates, on account of the perennial smell of oil paint and turpentine their craft produces.
Clayton didn't mind the prospect of music at home, and the two tried to live and divide expenses for a while. The arrangement, luckily for both, worked well, and led to a close friendship. Later on, a pulp story writer, David Thompson, would join them in the apartment. The three got along famously.