As I wander from one bar to another, until they are closed for the night, that is when I truly begin my Bar Crawl.
My legs turn into rock. My body loses any locomotion. I fold my legs and crawl into a ball of exhaustion.
The legs melt into jelly. I am always on the lookout for anywhere that might reduce the chances for some one to mess with me. I am not so drunk to not take my personal security seriously.
What's the worst that could happen? They kill me? I am basically dead already. And my suffering would be over--but I really don't want to leave this---whatever this is---my state of being.
Alleys are not safe places. Unless you want to be a bowling pin. Getting attacked by Bowling Ball Bully who smacks your pin-headed body with such force, you swiftly fly up, fall down and then some sweeper shoves you back into the oblivion with the other fallen pins.
A mess until some mechancial god assembles you for your next attack.
I've been there. I have the bruises to prove it. And the scars.
This morning as I awoke from my stupor, I unwound my stick legs to find a cup of coffee. My other addiction, but I included it in my Liquid Diet---even though it has no proof---except caffeine has documented proof that it is a great waker upper.
I hear coffee is a great way to slow down the process of dementia but that is not what drives ( or walks) me to a McDonald's or a Dunkin or a Tim Horton's---as I will not get to that age.
Even though, I guess all this Old Timer's Diseases---are moving rapidly from the 70's and 80's (and I mean our ages not the generations) to the 50's. Hey Rock N Roll into a life with a Brain of Rocks that don't Roll--no mo, no mo.
Yes, life is a journey and the road is a bowling alley---until we strike out.
With my legs upright, I Rose, not like Bette Midler or Jesus, but in a thorny way. Touching me can make anyone bleed. Internally.
The traffic was light and I never use cross walks---so my eyes were focused on a White Castle.
I have not looked both ways since first grade.
Some muther, hit me, tossed me up like a stromboli, and down I went on the street.
I was stunned, but then that is a constant feeling for me.
I layed there. Traffic passed me by. I heard a young woman's voice.
"Are you okay?"
"I am never okay," I muttered.
She offered to call an ambulance.
I tried to see her face but my eyes were having a hard time focusing.
There was a crowd in the street. They were not surrounding me, though. There must have been another person hit, I figured.
The woman stood over me.
Someone was talking with her.
"Is that his dog?" I heard some guy ask her and then he asked me.
"Is she okay?" I asked.
I didn't own a dog.
"I think she needs some medical attention, but she's alive," he responded.
I began to get up to get a view of the animal.
The woman dropped her over-sized green bag on the street, and placed her arms under my arm pits to lift me up. Talk about getting up and close with a stinky Streeter.
I needed the help, though.
"Thank you, whoever you are."
"Sheila," she replied.
Where did this angel come from? Telling a bum her name. Must not be from the city.
Must have grown up on a farm in the middle of Iowa and never heard any of those stories about traveling salesmen on country roads. You know the stories right? If not, here's the primer:
The sales guy walks upon the front porch and knocks on the Farmer's front door. He says something about how he had car trouble. Needs a place to stay for the night. His real motive, though, is to get himself in the house. And then with the hope, if there is a daughter--and these farmers grow children like they do cows, pigs and chickens--like lots of them to work the farm---his plan is to in the middle of the night, sneak into the virgin's bed---and makes his sales call. I think the underlying theme is that farm girl's are polite to strangers. It's what they are taught in church.
Yes, I judge people without a law degree.
This was a nice young lady. But telling me her name? I bet it wasn't her real name.
The guy picked up the dog. Sheila helped me cross the street. The crowd or was it a party ended, as people headed to work or wherever.
I have no recollection of the car. It came out of no where and then the party began.
What the vehicle looked like or anything, I have no idea.
The dog was a puppy. Ah, two sick puppies.
"You can't go into White Castle with a dog," she said to the guy, who had introduced himself to Sheila as Boyd.
Nice Boyd.
I wonder if he had a sister named Girld.
Boyd put the puppy under his suit jacket.
The three of us sat down. Sheila bought me a cup of coffee and an egg sandwich. So there are nice strangers still in the world. Nice.
