The first time I saw him was on an afternoon in late August. He'd staggered through the door and shuffled slowly to the counter, a dirty black trucker's cap balanced haphazardly on his greasy hair. A strong aroma of alcohol wafted over to me. My alarm bell went off: he was clearly drunk and I braced myself for some inappropriate behavior and even some belligerence. But I'd had nothing to fear. Raising his right hand shakily, he managed to adjust the cap on his head and mumbled something at me, his grey-green eyes all bloodshot and bleary through his thick, black rimmed glasses :
"Peter Jaaackson, red. Smmmall paaack, if you haave it."
His voice was slightly nasal, and I had to watch his mouth carefully in order to understand what he was saying. There was grey stubble on his face.
I nodded and reached for the pack of cigarettes. I told him the price and waited patiently as he fumbled in his pockets for the money. His shaking hands reached deeply into his pants pocket and emerged with a crumpled 10 dollar bill and some loose change. He slowly placed the money on the counter, the coins rattling onto the glass.
After taking his change, I watched as he shuffled slowly back to the door, pausing beside the garbage can to tear off the wrapper and placing a cigarette in his mouth. He mumbled a "Thanks" and pushed on the wrong side of the door, his face confused. Correcting himself, he managed to open the door and left.
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The bells jangled and I looked up just as the door closed.
There he stood again, the same dirty black trucker's cap balanced on his greying hair, the same dirty checkered shirt, open at the chest to reveal a mound of greying chest hair. The same thick black frames, the same sprout of grey stubble on his face. He smelled strongly again of alcohol.
The only thing that was different was the huge gash on his forehead.
My alarm bells went off again: What happened to him? I was suddenly afraid, not just because of him, but for the dark red blood running down his forehead. I felt tense and rooted on the spot. I always hated the sight of blood.
"Caaan you call me a taaaxi?", he slurred, one hand pushing at the hat on his head.
I sprang into action and in a few moments a green and white taxi arrived to take him away.
The next time I saw him I never mentioned the gash. But I was relieved to see it healed and after a while the scab on his forehead went away.
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He'd come in many more times after that, but the one time I saw him next I was completely unprepared:
Striding through the door came a completely different man, his posture straight and his steps swift and sure. There was no trucker's cap on his head, and his greying hair was combed, the sides all trim and clean looking. Clean-shaven and dressed in faded designer jeans and a clean white shirt, this brand new man made his way to the pop cooler and extracted a bottle, pausing along the way by the magazine aisle. I watched as he perused the magazines, finally settling on one. He came to the counter and placed the items on top: One bottle of ginger ale and a Psychology Today magazine.
"How are you?" I asked, wondering if he'd recognized me from all the other times he'd come into the store, each time asking for cigarettes and a packet of matches in his slurred speech.
He looked at me with the clearest eyes and answered lucidly, "Fine. How about you?"
"Oh good. Anything else for you today?"
I wondered if he still wanted his Peter Jacksons.
"No thank you." he replied.
I watched as he left the store, walking away so much differently than all the other times I'd seen him shuffling and staggering along the sidewalk. I was proud of him, this stranger who had finally found the strength to defeat his weakness. I watched him walk away with his back straight and tall, his steps quick and measured. I hoped he would remain that way--steady, calm, and sober.
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It was in the first few weeks of January when I saw him again. The weather was particularly nasty, a cold biting wind that cut right through you. The snow lay heavily on the roads, and underneath the mounds of snow lay a treacherous sheet of ice.
He'd come in through the door, dressed in an army green parka with a fur-trimmed hood and a sweater reminiscent of Bill Cosby. The collar was stained with grease and the familiar trucker's cap was back on his head.
When he came near me I could smell the liquor on his breath. His cheeks were red from the cold. Looking into his face I was shocked to see a tear streaming down. The grey stubble was back. A smell of unwashed skin and hair drifted over to my nostrils.
"Hi, how are you?" I asked, saddened to see what had become of the clean-shaven, well-dressed man with the lucid speech and intelligent face.
He looked at me with watery eyes and mumbled, "Not gooood.''
A moment passed and then he said, "Peter Jaaackson, red. Smmall paack if you haaave it. Aand some maatches."
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Since then I have seen him sober only once. Today he came in with his track jacket all twisted up, with no shirt on underneath. I watched him stagger in with his hairy chest and slight pot belly sticking out, his track pants pulled down a little bit, revealing a part of his backside. I watched as he struggled to get the bottle of ginger ale out of the cooler and place it on the counter only to discover that he had left his money at home.
"Sssshit. I...I don't haaave it. Caaan I come baack?"
My heart goes out to this man. Everytime I see him--whether drunk or sober--I ask him how he's doing. I wonder so much about him. Does he live alone? What happened to him to become this way? Who is that lady I've seen waiting outside in the car while he comes in all clean-shaven and sober? But I never ask him these things, because it is simply none of my business. I can only hope for the best and that the next few times I see him he will be alright.
Please let him be alright.
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