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Not only is James clumsy, he's also skinny, unlucky, and a bit of an alcoholic. He also has large hands with long fingers. And his hair has joined forces with his face to make him look like a girl.
This is the backstory of this picture:

James walked through the parking lot, over to the convenience store. He felt an unexpected catch on his shoe, and promptly fell. Not again. He thought, hopelessly. He couldn't believe how often he had tripped over things that week. It seemed to get worse every day. He heard a crash and felt much more pain then he had expected, and he had fallen on asphalt before. And he knew that asphalt didn't have smooth, metal bits. Or poky metal bits, for that matter.
He opened his eyes and saw what looked a bit like a motorcycle. Yet somehow, more broken. Yes, it was broken. That was definitely the problem. The metal bits looked very much like they were supposed to be a lot shinier then they were now. And he thought he had remembered something being smooth. That seemed to be missing as well.
He glanced around. Surely someone had heard him. What had apparently been a motorcycle looked like it had once been worth quite a lot, and probably owned by someone who cared for it very much, and possibly someone who didn't care for much else.
He decided the wisest course of action would be to depart as quickly as he could.
He ran. He didn't pay very much attention to where he was going, but ended up a few moments later by an alleyway. He slipped in, as quietly as he could.
“Hey!” Said a gruff voice. The voice didn't sound happy to see him.
“Um...Uh...Yes?” James replied, slowly backing up.
“We heard a crash. Was that you, kid? You tryin' to hide or somethin'?”
“Well, I...uh...”
“'Cause you best find someplace else. This is our turf, this is.”
“R-Right...Um...you wouldn't happen to...to own a...a motorcycle, would you?”
“Yeah, why?” There was a pause, then; “Oh no. You didn't. You better be kiddin' me, kid. You just better be.”
“Why, what ever could you mean?” James said, shrilly.
“You broke my bike, didn't you, kid?”
“No!” James yelled, the pitch of his voice rising even higher. “I would never break your motorcycle, and even if I did, I'm sure it would be an accident!”
“Hey, Bubba.” The voice said, sounding like it was straining to control it's anger. “I heard this kid sayin' bad things about your momma.”
“That's a lie!”
"Prove it, kid."
“I...I...”
“What'd you say about momma?” Yelled a new voice. This voice sounded very angry.
“I didn't say anything! I don't even know your mother!” Shrieked James.
“Oh yeah?” The voice didn't seem to have a very concrete argument.
“Really!”
“Well...I don't believe you.” The angry voice decided.
James was more bruised that night then he had been in a long time.

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Art, character and story are all © me, Eliza Schmidt.