{May 1, 2013}   Wino

An invisible cloud of alcohol surrounded him always.
It was as if he doused himself in whatever liquor he could buy with the change he panhandled on the big bad streets of Manhattan.
The fall was long and hard but he ignored the reality of being homeless and he’d strut proud, everything he owned on his person.
He didn’t own much by then, but in his mind he still lived out his Glory Days. Back when he was King of President Park.
He’d turned his back on his family long before they turned their backs on him. It wasn’t ‘cool’ to be associated with family and he’d taken enough shit from his father to last a lifetime. His mother did nothing to protect him from his father’s beatings other than lock herself in her room and pray.
Praying never did a thing for him except get him thrown out of Catholic school for refusing to join in.
So he ruled his tiny Kingdom then took off for the Big City where he earned his rent money selling drugs on St Marks Place after selling off everything he owned.
He was a Rock Star in his own mind and had the power to make anyone believe anything he said which is how he wound up shooting dope with Axl Rose in the back of a limo.
Heroin and alcohol were the great equalizers. A junkie is a junkie regardless of the size of their bank account.
He’d call me from time to time, just to let me know he was still alive, and then he didn’t.
“Bobby’s dead.”
The inevitable phone-call came on a Sunday morning. There was something ironic about that.
When he visits me in the middle of the night the scent of alcohol lingers long after he’s gone


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