The Company of Drunks

The guitar player comes stumbling and weaving into the bar, braying obscenity riddled greetings like a constipated mule and finally crashing into a chair and falling flat on his face. Before he hauls himself up, I quietly pick up my camera and move to a different table. When it comes to the company of drunks, I'm in favor of distance. The farther away I am, the better I like it.

There's no getting away from his obnoxiousness though. Someone buys him a beer and he launches into a loud tale of the night before when, in his own words, he was “wasted like a white boy”. This is said with high pride and met with humor – tinged brightly with envy – and a sort of grudging admiration and it sets the stage for the next round of drinks and several competing stories. I'm put off by people who brag about getting drunk and sloppy and stupid and though it's relatively early, I decide to call it a night. Someone puts a hand on my arm and asks me to stay long enough to hear the drunk sing.

He's real good, I'm told.

One song, I agree and reluctantly pull my trusty Nikon back out.

It goes about as I expected. He staggers on stage then can't quite find the key or the microphone, drops the pic, forgets the lyrics, changes songs in midtream. He finds it uproariously funny. I find it too painful to watch.

I suspect it'll just make one more good drunk story tomorrow but I don't want to be around for the ending.  Everyone's attention is on him and I slip out unnoticed.