Drinking is a serious thing. And some times you get reminded that there is a line you just don't cross.
On a Saturday afternoon, we encountered The Whale. We're not sure why we branded him with that moniker other than he was quite large and tended to squeak when he talked. Moe Beers, my partner in crime, and myself settled down for our usual Saturday soiree at Moes and Joes when this character showed up.
It's not like we aren't accustomed to strange people just appearing in our life. But The Whale was something else.
Early afternoon and we could smell him from ten feet away. Even professional drunkards like us know the stench. It's the rotten smell of sour grapes of the true alcoholic.
It was pretty obvious he had been drinking all night. It's not like we could say much, we had been there before. Wallowing in the doom of the new dawn. But we know that dawn does not mean one more bottle of three dollar wine. We instead opt for The Majestic. We are after all. Professionals.
The Whale sauntered next to us, began squeaking and drinking from the jug of wine he thought he had so carefully hidden in the brown paper sack. Even Moe was rendered speechless.
Soon the staff of Moes and Joes could no longer tolerate the smell and the illegal alcohol. The Whale was kicked to the curb. He wandered down the sidewalk and sat next to a planter. Continuing to pull from his paper bag.
He sat there most of the afternoon. Moe and I would occasionally raise our glasses and in the distance we could hear a squeak.