Skinny Frank was drunk a hundred and eleven days on wine and gin, mission macaroni and not giving a shit. Wife gone, job lost. Drank the savings; pawned rings, watch, leather coat, fancy boots. Sold $500 suits for twenty bucks to drunks in forgotten cocktail lounges.
Flat on bare floor in jeans, t-shirt and barefeet, gray-stubbled Frank woke to sirens tearing uphill to Harborview. No phone, no radio, no grub. No coffee, not even a clock. Another unknown skidroad flop.
Following cracks on the peeling ceiling, came the daylight he was sobering and bruised joints needed oiling. Rose to his elbows like a bridge drawn. Crouched, and, standing, broke out hallucination. Fell. Got up and crouched higher; tottered, cursed tears; stood on queasy legs.
Downstairs, groped through hallway of trashed amnesia. Then down more stairs.
At the lobby candy machine, vomited bloody bile.
Early morning and the desk clerk hunched nextdoor sneaking rum in his coffee. A bare forty-watt bulb spat from the high ceiling down on vomit smeared candy choices in the moldy linoleum lobby.
Frank sleeved his mouth. Focused on the cigarette machine, empty pocket, fallow gut, vacant lung. Staggered into the dawn of 1st Avenue to see what the hell, bum a smoke and look like a sucker looking for succor. |
