Froth

Blair Cameron

For some reason we took the road down Market Street, and for some other reason we decided we take a dingy, dark alleyway shortcut to the cinema, in order to see the latest big-budget escapism. Its the kind of alleyway where you might get mugged, raped, stabbed or threatened. The kind of alleyway you might spill into legless and never come out of. All of your mothers paranoid fears might unfold in this narrow little shortcut. My mate and I are just leaving the shortcut when a figure stumbles from one of the fire exit doors; stumbles right in our path. He doesnt say anything he simply clenches the bottle in his right hand and pours the frothy, white remains straight onto the cobbled space between himself and us. The bottle he is holding is one of those seven percent, three litre bottles of foul-tasting cider. The kind of cider thats guaranteed to make you puke your breakfast, dinner and supper out.

The drunkard is wearing torn, dirty jeans that dont reach his ankles or fit around his waist properly. The top hes wearing is an old Aberdeen top from the late eighties; on top of that hes wearing a tracksuit top; the white stripes on them now brown and yellow. As he looks up from the frothy cider, flowing through the cracks in the cobbles we begin to see his face. Imagine an ancient bulldog, its face all sagging and depressed, its teeth all yellow and squint, the bags under its eyes hiding his pupils under layers of excess skin. Everything about its face is dropping and dangling. This is how the man looks. The hair on top of his head isnt really hair, its just dusty straw thats blown by him one day and stuck to all the sweat on his scalp; its been there so long that the straws gone silver and thin. His black little eyes go all squint when he sees us and the cracks on the edge of his mouth and the hundreds of wrinkles along his forehead and face all shake when he asks us, Alright pals? Couldnae spare us a few quid could yi? We try to shuffle by him, hoping he might just let us ignore him; but he doesnt. Shrugging he says, Okay boys, Im nae going tae lie to yis. Im an alcoholic. ... (continues)