The Bottle and the Drunk

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By Fathi Afifi

The man shuffled through the line, dragging his feet, a bottle still in his hand. He looked down at it, a cloud of uncertainty passing across his eyes, as if wondering why it was still so faithful, clutched there in the cradle of his palm. Throughout the many long days and nights—he’d lost count of how many—since the storm had broken out, since the banks had gone bankrupt, since the house had been targeted and half had gone up in flames, since they’d lost almost everything, his friend was this bottle.

He shuffled further ahead, suffocating between two men who looked the same to him. Same uniform, same shoes, same world-weary expression that a few days’ scruff could not veil. Clarissa didn’t even say goodbye, he mused, his fingers instinctively tightening around the neck of the bottle as it slipped a little in his sweating hand. She just took their daughter Leila and left. She didn’t leave a note saying where she’d gone. She didn’t call. She took the car, the suitcase, the little girl, and the little dog, but she didn’t go far. He’d seen that car parked outside her mother’s, a few long blocks away. He’d seen it during one of his late-night meanderings, and he was a little drunk, but a red Cadillac was hard to miss.

What was he doing here now? He forgot. He took a swig from the bottle, hoping to remember. The men around him grumbled impatiently. They looked lean, rugged, tired, hungry—they looked as he felt. A few people in the front of the line dispersed, steaming bowls cupped in their hands. The man looked down at his own hands. Full of the bottle, they probably couldn’t afford to hold a bowl, too. He stepped out of line.

As he took another swig, he noted the shiny red bicycles outside the bike repair shop which was right next to the shelter. There was one in particular that had pink tassles and violet handlebars. Leila’s favorite colors were pink and purple.  The man looked at the bike, his body wavering in the air as he stood. He didn’t notice he was shivering from the cold because the alcohol was still warm in his belly. He looked at the bike, then the bottle, then the bike again.

“Hey,” he hiccupped to the man in the green uniform. The guy looked up, pushing back his cap, and his eyes narrowed. His hands stilled on the bike wheel that he was filling with air.

“Would you—hic—I’d give you a shoe for this bike,” the man slurred. “You want me shirt? Hic! I give you my shirt. My hat? I give you—“ He fished in his pocket and found a dime, offered it. The youth looked unimpressed, but his eyes softened now with something that—had he not been quite so thirsty—the other man would have recognized as pity. The man looked at the bottle, looked at the bike, looked at the bottle.  He took a deep breath. “I give you my bottle…”

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