[ WP ] The elderly man who just saved your life , was the homeless man you gave your allowance to when you were younger .

There once was a time when I drank with a sense of dignity and a purpose. I drank to explore. Talisker 10, Lagavulin 16, Ardbeg 10; drinking scotch where the number didn ’ t represent how many shots I could get down. I never saw being who I am in a romantic sense, like I was Ernest Hemingway, writing and drinking and smoking cigars in some French city ’ s barroom. Before I had even taken a sip I had already seen this life for what it really was, and yet I couldn ’ t pull myself away from it. 
 
 The nurse pulls open the curtains and I cover my eyes. My head throbs and my throat feels like coal has been pushed down and forced back up, but I ’ ve gotten used to that dry, scratched feeling. 
 
 “ Hello, James. It was a close call last night. One of these times, you ’ re not going to wake up. ” She sounded exasperated and I wasn ’ t in the mood to fight with a nurse. “ A guy found you in a ditch under the 37th street bridge. You ’ re lucky he called the ambulance. He ’ s here you know. Out in the waiting room. You better go say something. ” 
 
 I don ’ t feel much guilt these days, but I suppose I owe this guy something. I ’ ll give him the airplane bottles that were left in my jacket. “ The waiting room is down the hall, second left? ” 
 She nods, “ Yea, and James. I love ya, but I ’ m tired of seeing you here. ” 
 
 “ The feeling is mutual. ” I walk out and start heading towards the waiting room, trying to get the feeling back in my legs. I see the lettering “ WAITING ROOM ”, open the double doors and see only a single ragged man facing away. He looks in rougher shape than I do, easing some of the apprehension in meeting my savior. 
 
 “ Hi. I think you ’ re the man who called the ambulance? I just wanted to say thanks. ” 
 
 My dad turns around, that familiar, permanent smell of alcohol moving with him. “ You always used your allowance to bail me out, I figured I owed you back. ” 

