A Drunk Man's Honor (Definition)

This is another segment of the alcohol essays - the definition essay. In this essay I attempt define a mans character purely by the impression his peers hold of him; then adjust that perception to see how complex and difficult it is to hold someone to a

 

A Drunk Man’s Honor

There it lay, bindings broken, pages yellowed, and words almost illegible written, the old mans journal. I had never taken him to write; yet what sat in front of me was his words, his thoughts, his mind- I opened the pages and began to understand.

 

There’s a bleak sun on the horizon as the lovers break away. A shadow on their tear ridden faces reflected only in their hearts as they face their cruel reality. There is a ship- a horrid, terrible ship- which rips the two apart, forcing one into a world yet untried,

and the other to a world long forgotten.

 

            My mother always told me it was a sin to speak with a drunk. She would go on saying, “They’ve sold their soul to Satan in return for their drinks, leaving their demonic corpse to poison the Earth’s precious soil” motioning towards the window where a broken man lay- so I never spoke with him.  Often I found myself staring at the golden cross depicting my savior Jesus, and wonder how the frail man sitting below the protection of the tree, had lost the love of a man who is known to love and forgive all. What had he done to lose the love of a saint? 

 

I promised her I would not die for my country, I promised her I would fight, I intend not to disappoint her; my beautiful Annie.

 

 

 

            I don’t, for the life of me, know who started it. I just remember seeing him there; sitting in his usual spot, with his usual accompaniment- a bottle of sour mash whiskey perched in his left hand, watching us play baseball. He shouldn’t have looked, his weary eyes breaking into us; invasive; curious. He was wrong. He had no right to be curious in our lives, no right enjoy the entertainment of our game, no right to live through us. For he had nothing to live for, and it was our duty to remind him of that. We stopped our game almost immediately, and the rocks flew over him hitting the creased bark above his head. We could have gone on for hours, my friends and I; feeding on his misery, laughing as the small pebbles came within inches to his head; yelling in jubilation as his frail eyes winced in pain when we had successfully hit him; he was a slave to our pleasure. I never felt any remorse: he was below me.

 

 

 

The British’s drums have been beating a comatose resonance creating life in those unfortunate enough to hear it. It is a vile rhythm consequent from those wretchedly innocent soulless drums; hundreds of them pounding the same beat as they march. 

Surrounding me there lay a fellowship of hand and hearts all clinging together in beautiful resistance; combining strength; mimicking the power and faith of the sun. The reasons they fight have surpassed the simple pleasure of land, power and money- they fight with a force that creates such infatuation that they would be willing to risk the very reason they fight; it is a passion driven by love, a passion derived from the depths of their hearts- the area where their family dwelled- an area claimed in my heart by my Annie.

I am empty except for her memory, her love. Angel, I need just this one gift from you, please Angel, please pass on my message and give her hope for me. Please Angel, comfort her, and please help her with her troubles. Tell her I’m with her in her dreams, and she in mine. Please sweet Angel, tell her I love her.

When we found him, the tree’s malicious roots had sucked the last of the life out of him- for years he had called the tree his shelter and for years it had thrived full of blossoms for his pleasure alone. However, now lay there frozen to the memories of his past. I was told not to look, not to see his ridden face, but the swaying tree called to me. The rest of the town avoided him, choosing to go on with their lives as though he was no more than an ox used for mulling the soil. But I, I took a look before the pastor hauled him off. I saw the furrows in his face only made through year’s of remorse, his thin arms, stretched and shrunken from the recollection of countless memories, and the reflection of love in his eyes as, for the first time, they did not look downward from the hill of the tree onto the field below, but instead glanced upward toward the heavens. His drink no longer lay in his hand, but instead was thrown off to the side- replaced by the small book from which I read now. 

 

“Annie, I love you.”

 

The priest didn’t say his name at the funeral; he did not know it.  I had passed this man every day, assuming him a drunk, a sinner- I had refused to talk to him for my sake in the eyes of God. May God forgive me now? Neither was this man a sinner nor was he a drunk. He had not sold his soul to the Devil, but to love; he had not chosen alcohol, but instead relied on it. He had been falsely labeled for years, for he was no nuisance, no poison, but a hero and a lover. 

 

The tree only blossomed two white flowers that spring.