Saturday, December 8, 2012

The Drunk Whisperer Off Duty

     It's damn near 4 a.m., closing time. I've worked four days in a row dealing with humanity at it's basest level. I stepped into the little cafe expecting to be turned away but the girl behind the counter seems to be a nice person.
     The Eggs Benedict is really good here and reasonably priced. Whenever I get a little extra money in my pocket and make it out of work in time, I like to indulge. Eggs Benedict, fried potatoes and coffee, a breakfast worthy of a British spy or an American bouncer.
     There's a couple sitting at a table by the window and an old man sleeping at a table in the corner. He looks like he could be homeless. The girl behind the counter doesn't look as if she has it in her to wake him up and push him out. If he's still there when I'm done maybe I'll do it for her. Captain Fucking America at your service, ma'am.
     He wakes up shortly after my food arrives. He says something incoherent that maybe sounds like a girls name. I think he's trying to summon the girl. A couple of bites later, he says it again. This time I make it out. Excuse me. He's talking to me. I look up and he asks me for the time. He has a thick lipped, Eastern European accent that's a little slurred. I tell him it's 3:50. 3:15? No, fifty, five zero. He's still confused. Ten minutes until four, I clarify. Good food, bad acoustics. The place is high ceilinged and all concrete and glass. The radio is at closing time level also.
     He mutters something about the minute hand on his watch as he resets the time. I smile and nod and go back to eating. I don't want to be rude but dealing with people in a similar state for the past four days, I just want to eat in peace.
     He starts talking again and I can only make out about every third word. Something about back home and family and community. I smile, nod and shovel hash browns into my face. I'll play the part of an attentive listener but not at the expense of warm food.
     Smile, nod, shovel. This goes on until the plate is empty. Luckily, he doesn't seem to be asking questions, just rambling on about something. I kind of wish I could make out what he's saying because I'm always interested to hear about life in other places, especially foreign countries, but I'm just too tired to care. This will probably be me in twenty years. Homeless, incoherent and prattling on to anyone who'll listen. Shit, I already do that now sometimes just out of boredom.
     He gets up and puts his coat on as I've finished my coffee. I want to beat him to the door before he gets a chance to ask me for a ride. Note to self-when you're homeless, don't be that guy that asks for rides.
     I take my plate and cup to the counter as he asks the girl to help him with the zipper on his coat. I guess he's a regular since she seems to be expecting it. She thanks me for coming in and I respond with have a good night (even though it's really morning). She says thanks and he says you too, sir. That always fucks with me when people older than me call me sir. I understand it in customer service situations, but on the street? I'll never get used to it.
   

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