Boozehound
by Jamieson Wolf Villeneuve

I can smell the booze on him before I can see him. I look up to see this man, grey of hair with a go tee that has seen better days. His facial hair is as grey as the hair on his head, except for one blond patch in the middle of his mustache.

"I work here." he said.

"I'm sorry?"

"I work here! This building, I work here."

"Alright." I said. I wasn’t sure what else to say really.

"I've worked here for thirteen years. See?" He thrust his work pass at me.

"Ah," I said. I hate talking to drunks. My father was drunk for a lot of my childhood. You learn avoidance at an early age, let me tell you. It's a skill that helps you get through life. When you look at a drunk and see that they are no longer home, that their eyes have turned cold, you tred more carefully.

The man leaned forward and said "I cheat on my wife." and went to stand in the back corner or the bus shelter. I took this opportunity to exit the shelter and to go stand by the lamp post. I was better out in plain view than in a bus shelter with that guy.

"Did you hear me?" he called from inside. "I cheat on my wife!"

I didn’t look at him, refused to look at him. If you don’t look at the crazies, I thought, they leave you alone.

He came out of the bus shelter and walked toward me. "Did you hear me?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied.

"And now you’re judging me." He said. "I hate it when people judge each other; wouldn’t the world be a happier place if no one did any of that?"

"People judge people, it’s in our nature." I was breaking a cardinal rule. I was talking to a drunk; you didn’t talk to drunks unless you were asking for it. I had learnt that from my father too.

"We judge each other, doesn’t mean its right." The man said. He looked at me for a moment, saw the fear in my face and started crying.

If there was one thing I couldn’t take, it was a crying man.

"Ah, now." I said. "Come on, there’s no need to cry."

"Sure there is!" He said. "Haven’t you heard what I’ve said? I cheat on my wife!"

"Maybe you shouldn’t."

"Easier said than done."

"Why?" Wow, was I ever breaking that cardinal rule. But the man was in pain, emotional pain. That was something I could relate to, understand. "Because, it’s a compulsion, part of a cycle that I have no power over."

I was beginning to get wary of the man in front of me. I took a step back. "I hope you sort out your problems." I said, hoping to ignore him once more.

"Do you know what it’s like?" he called to me; "Loving someone so much and having them look at you with disgust?"

I looked at him. I said nothing but went over to where he was sitting. The least I could do was hear the guy out.

"I don’t like cheating on my wife." He said.

"Then why do you do it?" I asked.

"I don’t have a choice."

"Bullshit."

"I don’t. She won’t touch me anymore."

"Because you drink?"

He tapped the end of his nose. "Bingo."

"But why do you drink?"

"Because I’ve been at the same job for thirteen years."

"Is this part of the cycle you were talking about?"

"One and the same. We don’t like one thing, a job for instance, so we try to change another. I drink because I’m unhappy."

"You drink because you’re unhappy with yourself." It was what I had always wanted to say to my father but had never had the courage to do so. He would of beat me if I had said such a thing to his face. I found it odd, the boozehound and the victim of abuse, bonding together.

I took another look at the man and saw not a bum, not a reject but one who had lost touch with himself, with the world around him at the same time the world had lost touch with him.

"Can I buy you a coffee?" I said.