He was already half in the bag when I tripped over him laying, spreaded out across the kitchen floor with a bottle of Brass Monkey wrapped in a brown paper bag sticking out his back pocket of his favorite faded blue jeans. (Come to think about it he only owned one pair). He was mumbling to himself, “bitch better have my money or (hiccup) a drink”. By midnight he could be found in a nearby alleyway roasted and toasted leaning sideways holding up someone’s cement or brick wall. He didn’t need a reason to play Santa Clause. Everyday to him was Christmas.
Half In The Bag
It wasn’t 7:30am yet. His lips had that discolored tri-color glow effect and he hadn’t shaved in months. By the smell of him it was hard to determine the last time he even washed. His foolish pathological and conditional behavior kept him a slush of a drunk on Saturday and Sunday, a non-functional alcoholic Monday through Thursday and who slept all day on Friday, just to play the same ole record again. Uncle Ricky’s inebriated state would cause him to throw up on himself, if he drank water. He said, H2O wasn’t good for his liver and kidneys and if I ever tricked him again he’d kick the living shit out of me. He said he was under tremendous pressure, like finding a job, coming up with some money, and needed just a little something to take the edge off, “so don’t mess with me kid”. I could tell he wasn’t in the mood.
Half In The Bag
Hiccup! “So what if I like a little taste every now and again”, he’d say. They called him Pissy Ricky. He rolled extra heavy on the sauce. He was known as a falling-down drunk. He had this maddening thirst for liquor that was extremely annoying. Uncle Ricky would curse at people in the street when they didn’t place a nickel or a dime in his hat. His pitch would be something like, “loan me a quarter please. Could you please help an old man get something to eat? A cheeseburger from McDonald’s will do.” I guess Ricky thought he deserved a tip. Everybody knew he wasn’t going to use the money for food. He was one who would black out during drunk texting or butt dialing people. The type of people, when and if ever sober, he’d never have a good enough reason call. Uncle Ricky was the piss in his pants kind of a drunk, the poor judgment type, who slurred his words while attempting to make a pointless fact or a sequelae; trauma of his pass which lead him to his foolish stupor. His life ruining love affair and folly of intoxication didn’t make any good sense.
Half In The Bag
One day, Uncle Ricky had gotten into an argument with a car and lost. The acceptance of being punch drunk of any sort is a symptom which shouldn’t be tolerated while in public. I’m sure everybody has a similar story to share about a family member. Or not.
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Harlem Inner City Blues: Random Thoughts 