The Village Drunk

I really wish I lived in East Village, a lively neighborhood brimming with off-beat inhabitants and strange occurrences. As soon as I arrived in Astor Place last Friday, I noticed a man sitting on the sidewalk at a desk with an old fashioned typewriter. His sign read, "Poetry in process", yet, the solemn, young man was not typing.

As I walked eastward, I passed a scraggly, drunk man who could barely stand up straight. He later confronted a wide-eyed, fearful couple and asked them, "Are you from around HERE?!" The speechless couple turned their noses as the man's foul, eye-watering body odor floated by.

"Well, I didn't commit the MURDER!" said the drunk man. "You don't believe me? I didn't DO IT!"

I think we all found it hard to believe...

Then, I ended my weekend with another village visit on Sunday. My day-long escapade of Bloody Mary's in outdoor cafes was rudely interrupted by an older, drunk man. He swayed back and forth, grinning big at me and my friend. "I sold myyyyyy guitarrrr..." he gurgled drunkenly with a strong Spanish accent.

"I love youuu!" he continued while looking at my friend, "I....y'knoww...Puerto Ricans are CRAZY, ha ha! I sing too y'knoow." The bar staff shooed him away, but before he clumsily departed, I wished him luck with buying a new guitar one day.

And now, I realize what would have driven that quiet poet in Astor Place to pluck passionately on his dusty typewriter--a big bottle of rum.