I Know What I'm Doing

As I walked down James Street on my way to the hardware store I passed the corner where Williams Street joins up. On this corner stood a man accompanied by a young woman who, by the way she was dressed, was a waitress. Just down the street is a pub, so I assumed they had come from there. I also came to this conclusion because the man was stone drunk.

It was about 1pm on Saturday, a beautiful day in October. This gentleman was very happy, with his feet glued to one spot while his body weaved every place else. As I approached, a taxi pulled up and the waitress said "Will you be okay now?" "Sure, I'm wonderful, I know what I'm doing" he slurred.

Lurching forward, he propelled himself toward the passenger door of the taxi. I saw the window was open about 6 inches wide. As he toppled forward he overbalanced. Putting out his right hand to lean on the roof of the taxi, he missed, and put his hand through the open window.

Falling forward, he ended up draped over the door with his shoulder resting on the roof. Meanwhile he grabbed the door handle with his left hand and tried to pull it open. Now, it doesn't take much to figure out that the door won't open. All the while he was mumbling, "I’m okay, I know what I’m doing, I'm intelligent."

He was in the kind of good humor that only fools and drunks can be in, and was oblivious to the disgusted looks of people passing by. The waitress looked concerned, and moved forward to help him.

I didn't see the rest because I entered the hardware store. Inside was a different world, one of sober people and orderly shelves filled with practical implements arranged in an attractive manner. I bought my stuff and exited out the same door I came in by.

The street was as it had been before, except the woman, the man and the taxi were gone. I was in the store for 5 minutes, and finding no evidence when I returned, I wondered, did it ever happen?

I was witness for a fleeting moment to the lives of three people, each touched for ever by the experience. The concern on the woman's face, the self-hatred and escapism of the drunk; and of the taxi driver, I know not what. This little drama touched me deeply, for at various times in my life, drunk or sober, happy or sad, I have spent time leaning on the door of life with one hand and pulling it open with the other.

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