He was listing like a sinking battleship, trying to look normal as he walked diagonally home. He stopped, but not all at once. Only one leg stopped. The other one kept going then struggled to get back making him lean even further. He was fumbling in his pockets, bent double, trying to find a cigarette. Then in and out of every pocket. Hips; inside; shirt; back; jacket all the while shrugging like a Parisian mime artist. Then he saw me. Glimpsed, then squinting, pulls up his trousers and walks semi-towards me. He’s right next to me before he can get his mouth to work.
“You alright buddy?”
“Aye mate.”
“You alright?”
“Aye.”
“I’m…” he sniggers, “I’m a wee bit,” and he does that action, lifting an imaginary glass to his lips, then laughs, “Aye. A wee bit drunk.”
“Really?”
He winks, points at me as he waltzes backwards.
“Heh! You’re alright buddy.” and he shakes my hand. Then he remembers the cigarette, stares at it as if it’s surprised him.
“Want a light?” I say with lighter in hand. He puts the cigarette behind his ear, hands on his hips, puzzled, then slaps my shoulder. “I was just gonna ask you that. Are you a vaircloy, a calaiv, a clairvoyant?”
I hold the light out to him as he sucks at his cigarette like a straw. It’s half lit before he says: “You’re alright big man.” He waves, walks a dozen steps then turns round. Hands in the air, cigarette in mouth he attempts to bow, staggers then walks away, sideways.
And instead of jumping off that bridge I went home.
It’s true that helping someone else helps you.
