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.

He comes closer to us. When I worked at the restaurant I was often made to recycle all the empty bottles of alcohol. The big carts the bar staff threw these bottles into smell just like he does. Like the dregs of everyones drinks. He continues, Thats it. Thats just fit I am. He looks at us looking at each other, and all we want to do is to get to the cinema safe and to forget this man. He says, Theres nothing that can be din tae stop that. Im a bloody alcoholic. Thats just life boys.

After a pause to collect his thoughts he tells us, All Im asking for pals, is jist one pound. Or fifty pince. Or twenty pince tae help me towards buying anither bottle o cider.

We want him away and begin to rustle in our pockets as he continues to say, Im an alcoholic. Alcoholic.

From deep inside my pocket I pull out a cold, silver fifty pence piece; while my mate finds a golden pound. Just a pound, he tells us again, just needin a pound for cider.

We both outstretch our palms and offer him one pounds and fifty pence. He looks from the palm of our hands to our faces and the maze of wrinkles and cracks all lift up in unison. We try to get by him again, but he leans in closer and spits into my face with his foul breathe, Youre a good lad; yer both good lads!

We say, cheers, though we dont know if we mean it.

Nah really boys, the world would be a bra place if there were mair people like you twa.

Then he grabs my hand lightly, his head shaking as he does so, and raises the back of my hand towards his cracked, white lips; and kisses. It doesnt feel so much like Ive been kissed; more like Ive been marked for my generosity.

We say bye, and hope we never see him again. The man was an alcoholic, and I begin to think all sorts of things. Was this an act performed out of generosity or was this an act performed out of disgust towards another man? One pound fifty was what we gave him, and that one pound fifty will bring him three litres closer to his death. Its okay though because men like him keep the world moving. Its okay because this man is the ageing shadow of the drink loving, football fan that is the heart of not just Scotland but Britain. Its okay because there is part of this man in everyone. The difference between him and us is just one pound and fifty pince away.