Guy Cracks a Beer on the 52.

A guy with torn Carhartts and a yellow hard hat gets on at the same stop I do. He’s got five days on his face and he staggers a bit with the whiskey weight. Reeks of cutting oil and poor direction. Carries a big canvas bag with stenciled lettering on the side. Rough. Sits at the front of the bus and watches the strorefronts trail by. After a minute or two of relaxation, he pulls a Canadian Ice out of his bag. Cracks it. I didn’t notice this until I heard the sound. That unmistakable snap of a beer car opening. That first hit of the snare. That 50 proof allegro.

The guy proceeds to down the beer without coming up for air. There are few patrons riding right now, and he’s being brave. The driver is oblivious. One down and a few to go. He crushes the first and in short order taps his second of the trip. That distant, dank, barroom smell of hops-laden alcohol drifts throughout the bus. The guy just sits and drinks. I admire the hell out of this guy. I regularly see plenty of people who are well in the bag, but its not every day that I see someone unafraid to get half-cut on the bus.

Buddy cans his third before pulling the rope. Just before he gets off, he opens number four. Sips it on his way out the front door of the bus. The driver says nothing. As the bus speeds off, I see the guy outside. He raises his beercan to me. I raise my empty hand like I’m holding a can of the good stuff. I give him a silent “cheers”.

I hope he made it home OK.