The Drunk Man

More of a flash fiction about a man my friends and I see sometimes.

How does a man become what he is? A man who staggers the streets at abnormal times of day arbitrarily.  A man whose Christian name isn’t how people acknowledge him. A man who doesn’t seem to have any structure to his life except buying alcohol, sitting on a curb and drinking.

“The drunk guy” wears a faded navy sweater, his unkempt appearance recognisable to everyone on the estate. He never enters the world from a house; rather he spawns on a street corner and stumbles like a wounded giant to the shop, leaving with Tesco bags filled with cans.

His drinking spot changes daily, varying between the dry asphalt of the road to the hollow shell of a black bin. No matter where he picks, the stench of a vomit riddled tavern found in the darkest alleys of London’s history follows him.

No one can imagine that he has a job because he allows the only hair that grows on his face to go untamed. So how can he afford to carry out this lifestyle? Some say he’s picked up and taken away at night, but no one ever sees him return. Do these people fund his anti-social ways? Are these people conducting an experiment on this alien? If so, what man agrees to being confined to such a cruel environment?

He asks more questions than he answers without saying a word.

So how does a man become what he is? He may have been stabbed emotionally by a tragic loss. It makes sense: the outrageous drinking and the lust to roam without returning to an empty building, that’s to say he even owns a house. Such a sad tale if that is the case. Tragic, but will anyone ever know for sure?

While he drinks the days away, trying to avoid the glancing stares of those with normal day to day routines, he must try his best to imagine himself somewhere else. A home, a family, a clean mind. Can drunken deliriums bring such things?

For his sake, I hope so.

Author's Note

Yet to be edited.