Paper Bag Man

You never want to be that guy. You know, the guy you see stumbling across the alleyway on Saturday mornings, paper bag tucked under his left arm and a bleary smile on his face. His face is tear-streaked, or maybe that’s just leftover grime or rainwater that has stuck in the unshaven hairs on his cheek. He is grizzled, like an old man, but something about him doesn’t scream AARP. He is oblivious, not just to the time of day, but to everything else, including where he is and where he’s going.

He might not even know you are there watching him, observing his mannerisms and lack of balance. He staggers directly in front of your car right when the light turns green, and he stares you down, head bobbing and weaving but eyes eerily focused on yours. Or at least they seem focused on yours. It’s more likely they’re focused on what he imagines is there, like a pink elephant or a three-toed sloth. His hazel eyes that were once full of such promise now have a thick film on them, testament to hard living and loose lips. They don’t just sink ships, you know. They sink people too.

He is toothless, you notice, as he smiles brightly, remnants of a former life, and you imagine his breath reeks of disappointment and bitter alcohol. You hope he’ll find his way to some 12-step program somewhere tonight, probably in some church, after mass, or before mass, or some other time, in the moldy basement before he completely loses his mostly tentative grip on sanity. He is prematurely balding so his age is indeterminate, and the hairs he does have are few and far between, some white, some grey, some brown, but all wiry.

He is wearing faded green khaki shorts in the cold February chill, the kind Old Navy used to sell 15 years ago, which is when he probably bought them, or stole them is more like it. Deep tracks on his right arm stare you in the face, and you just aren’t able to look away, before he continues to cross the street as you press hard on the steering wheel, your horn bleating helplessly at him, calling attention to the two of you and your mindless dance on a Saturday morning. You look away, eyes darting to the other pedestrians within earshot, knowing they’re watching, judging, waiting for something else to happen.

He shifts the paper bag from under his left arm, capturing it with his right hand quickly before it falls to the ground, surprisingly adept, taking a swig as his left foot hits the curb hard, stumbling before finally catching himself, just before slamming to the cold, hard ground. That guy curses loudly and grabs himself hard, as if his privates are able to balance him just that much better. You look away again, caught in a semi-intimate moment with a person you would never want to share something so private with. The people keep staring.

You waste no more time before driving along, still hearing him hurling expletives at the other pedestrians who pass him on this cold morning. In your rearview mirror you see him taking a big swig from the bag, and you thank god that you’re not that guy. You feel sorry for what he has become, but you keep on driving, intent on the road ahead, and not on the desperation behind.

Sam