And this is all due to the whiskey. The ration bought for the incoming blizzard. For a weekend spent wrapped in blankets in front of a book or favorite movie. Or to simply pass the time.
But we're throwin' back the bottle and rattling off tales of misfortune and tales of great mirth. Everything just seems to be flowing.
Then the gentleman suggests a walk in the snow. A walk to maybe get some food. Maybe more spirits. A walk to keep things flowing.
So, out we go. And the storm has only just begun. An inch or two coats the pavement and we kick through it with our boots like children. We stomp and slide and keep moving forward. The conversation dwindles as we laugh and play.
Soon though, I realize I'm gaining distance from the man. I turn back and he's stumbling into lamp posts and parked cars. Falling onto the cobblestones of Fells Point, rising, then falling again.
So, I grab his arms and hoist him up. I wrap one around my back and tell him to grab, place my hand behind his hips and start pushing towards home. Towards the end of our journey. Play time is over.
And this works for a few blocks. Till we get to this stretch by the waterfront when his legs turn to complete jello. When he just wants to wrestle in the snow. Like a child. As we were before.
But I'm growing and sobering fast, and all I can think of is having some warm apple cider when I return to my apartment. So, I try to grab him again. Pull upwards. But he just wants to roll in the snow. To just spin and turn on the ground.
So I take a stand. I back a few steps away, shout to him. "I'm going this way," and point to my apartment. Then I watch. Try to see if any of this is registering. Try to see if there's still a person in there.
After a moment or two there's vertical movement; he begins to rise. And I feel a rush of hope; time to go home. But it doesn't take much time, one may even describe it as the blink of an eye, before he stumbles. After his hips are in the air above his legs, when he's pushing his upper body up from the ground, he stumbles. Crossing one foot over the other over the other. And I see it so clearly. If only my muscles would spring into action. Be more efficient. But he goes in. Almost like a child on the first day the pool opens. In a flash. He's in.
And I'm on the edge of the stone boardwalk, yelling and screaming like a parent. Clapping my hands and searching the gentleman's face for recognition. For an acknowledgement of the situation. For anything, really. But there's no one there. Blank. Like that of a child. And I'm cursing. I'm cursing so much. As he treads water. As he treads less and less water. I curse so much. Then my boots come off. Through curses and blasphemies the jacket comes off. The workman's overalls. The sweaters. The gloves. The socks.
Then I'm in the water. It's cold. And dark. And nothing like a comforter, but I'm swimming better than I ever remembered, and I have an arm around his limp body in an instant. When we get back to the edge, a newly arrived officer shouts down basic questions and bits of encouragement. She tells me how great I'm doing. Help is on the way. I thank her.
Then there's flashing lights and ladders and ropes tied round rubber hoops and rods equipped with hooks. And we're getting pulled and tugged and wrapped in blankets and all I'm thinking about is that warm apple cider.
