He’s drunk again, blathering and stammering and yelling and gesticulating. He’s drunk and he’s trying to use his crutches. At first it’s mildly entertaining as he plants his crutches and takes a giant leaping step, his whole body momentarily suspended in mid air as he arc towards a landing. But what’s entertaining at first becomes tiring the fifth or sixth time and downright droll the tenth or eleventh time. He, being drunk of course, doesn’t immediately notice the loss of levity that spreads among his companions, eventually fanning out to the periphery of the room.
He’s oblivious to the pallor he’s cast up all that watch him with horror and pity as he wobbles and flails and curses and falls and cries. There, lying on the beer-soaked floor, half of his shirt untucked, his glasses barely clinging to his nose, his cast dented and dirty, he cries, at first modestly, and then with each sob releasing another grain of self-loathing into his beer-soaked brain, the cries rise, head hanging, shoulders heaving, chest hyperventilating.
“Someone help this poor man up.”
He’s oblivious to the pallor he’s cast up all that watch him with horror and pity as he wobbles and flails and curses and falls and cries. There, lying on the beer-soaked floor, half of his shirt untucked, his glasses barely clinging to his nose, his cast dented and dirty, he cries, at first modestly, and then with each sob releasing another grain of self-loathing into his beer-soaked brain, the cries rise, head hanging, shoulders heaving, chest hyperventilating.
“Someone help this poor man up.”
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