“No.”
“Well,
why
didn’t
you
say
so,
brother?”
He
laughed.
I
had
hoped
he
would
tell
me
to
piss
off.
Normally,
I
couldn’t
give
one
metric
shit
about
a
guy
like
him,
but
I
was
in
the
AA
program,
and
my
asshole
sponsor
had
said
to
find
drunks
and
try
to
sober
them
up.
He
had
said
my
choices,
if
I
“truly
had
a
problem
with
booze,”
were
to
help
drunks
sober
up—or
drink.
No
“ifs,”
“ands,”
or
“buts.”
I
really
didn’t
want
to
drink.
And
Norman
was
a
certainly
drunk,
so
I
figured
what
the
hell.
“O.K.,”
I
said,
“How
about
the
food-‐carts?”
“Whatever,”
Norman
said,
his
legs
knocking
together
as
he
pulled
himself
up
from
the
sidewalk.
His
breath
hit
me.
It
smelled
like
week-‐old
newspaper
peeled
from
the
bottom
of
a
hamster
cage.
I
tried
not
to
gag
as
I
led
Norman
to
my
Cadillac.
I
thought
about
the
twenty
dollars
I
had
paid
a
man
the
day
before
to
give
her
a
full
interior
detail.
I
gritted
my
teeth,
spying
the
mud
and
shit
and
God-‐knows-‐what
on
the
bottom
of
Norman’s
tattered
boots.
I
unlocked
the
passenger
door
and
swung
its
weight
out,
barely
missing
Norman,
who
had
lost
his
balance
as
he
approached
the
car.
He
fell
into
the
passenger
seat,
his
exposed
back
squealing
against
the
leather
seat.
“Watch
the
rug,
would
ya?”
I
said.
“Watch
it
do
what?”
I
mumbled
something
and
swung
the
steel
door
closed.
33