Michael

I met a man last night.

A tragic man.

A tragic scene.

Partly because I saw in him many aspects of myself in him. Especially the drinking part.

You see, I can drink seven pints of high-grade lager and, depending on how I feel that day, sometimes I won’t even get drunk.

So when I see a drunk old man like the man last night I see myself. How I could become in the future if I don’t watch out.

A warning.

Big style.

Which is why I really watch what I drink now.

Sometimes.

I am getting off the night bus, on my way home.

Suddenly he jumps up from a drunken early morning night bus pass-out.

“Stop the bus,” he yells at the driver.

“Stop the bus.” He looks around. “Where the hell am I?”

Someone says Kingsbury.

Where do you need to be? I ask.

“Wembley.”

Get out here, I say, this is as close as you’re going to get on this bus.

He leaves the bus with me.

I point to the main road.

You need to be on that road, I say, there’s a bus stop.

He is really drunk. The alcohol is seeping through his pores, in sweat, soaking his clothes.

The smell of wino. Hard drinker.

I have smelt like that on occasions.

Some of my close friends too.

It’s sad. Real sad way to smell.

The man is really upset, tears in his eyes.

“I can’t go on,” he says. “These thoughts keep filling my head.”

He has a heavy Irish accent.

What thoughts? I ask.

He pauses, pulls out a pack of cigarettes and sniffs, sucking snot back up his nose.

“Topping myself,” he finally says.

“I’ve lost my family,” he says. “My wife threw me out.”

When?

“Last month.”

He starts to cry.

He is over fifty.

“I can’t go on,” he says.

Where you got to get to? I ask. I’ll walk you to the main road. Show you where to go.

“I have a friend in Wembley,” he says. “He’s putting me up for the night.”

We walk for a minute and he gives me a cigarette. We smoke.

“I escaped from Northern Ireland,” he says as we walk.

Escaped?

“Yeah,” he says. “IRA,” he says. “Political asylum.”

He pulls up the left sleeve of his jacket. His arm is covered in prison tattoos. On his wrist, a beautifully engraved thick silver bracelet.

“You see that?” he says. “The sign of the Roman Catholic empire.”

Then I notice the huge swollen, bulging deformity half way up his left arm. The kind of deformity you only get when your bones are broken, you receive no medical attention and the bone sets incorrectly by themselves.

Jesus, what happened to your arm, I ask.

“The law,” he sniffs.

“Here.” He points to his bulging left arm.

“Here.” He points to his left knee.

I notice he is limping.

“Here.” He points and bares his teeth.

All the front ones are missing.

“Here.” He points to his head.

I see a large lump protruding through his thin grey hair.

It reminds me of the head wounds from some of the Diaz victims.

“The fucking law,” he says.

“The fucking IRA,” he sniffs.

He pulls up his left sleeve again, baring the silver bracelet.

“The fucking Roman Catholic empire,” he yells.

I give him directions to Wembley Stadium, where he has a sofa to sleep on for the night.

I tell him I too lost my family, many years before. And I too felt like killing myself. And I too felt like my life was over.

But it does get better, I tell him. You’ve just got to hang on in there. Keep going.

La vida es una lucha siempre, I say.

“What’s that?” he sniffs.

Spanish. Life is always a fight, I say. Someone told me that once.

He walks off up the hill towards Asda and Wembley Stadium.

I stand and watch him for a while, getting smaller in the darkness.

Yes. He reminded me of myself. In several ways. I could easily become that if I really let go and let the drink take hold.

He had lost his family.

I lost mine. Twice.

He wanted to die.

So did I back then.

The drink was poisoning him, killing him.

As it did with me for a while. And could again.

A warning.

You can smell death from alcohol on a person, even before it kills them.

I watch him walk away. Then I turn and walk home.

His name is Michael.