The Drunk Man
I was 23 years old I think, and walking down Cambridge Street towards Harvard Square. Early that evening in the first week of June, I think I was going to meet a girl, although my memory on this point isn’t confident. I do remember the soft air of the diminishing day and the buoyancy of my mood. The walk from my apartment located a bit east of Inman Square down to Harvard Square was perhaps a mile and I was feeling a delightful energy for some reason. It should have been my date energizing me, but I don’t know now whether that was the source. I had reached the Cambridge Rindge and Latin School that flanks Cambridge Street on the north side when I saw the drunken man.
I was still at least a half block away from him, but the incongruities of his movements drew my attention away from my reveries. Although it was a warm evening, he wore an overcoat that, as I approached, I could see was old and worn. He was unkempt and hung from a signpost with one hand so his body was tilted away from vertical and his head tilted even more, as though gravity was exerting more force on him than the rest of us. He was a big man, maybe six foot two or three and dirty. His hair was a tangle of grey and dark brown and could not have been combed or cut for months. His cheeks and chin were covered by six or seven days of beard growth.
I was tempted to cross the street to avoid any contact with him. The sight of him had already disrupted my mood, the kind of mood I think looking back at it was the sort of romantic happiness during which you think the whole world is entirely wonderful. Such a state is vulnerable to the sight of a dirty drunk man hanging loosely from a signpost. I did not cross the street, however, and determined to simply walk speedily on as though stepping past dog waste; a distraction of no consequence. I was only ten feet away when I realized he was blind. His eyes had a whitish cast over his irises, and his head wandered on the stem of his neck partially because there was nothing for his vision to fix a gaze upon. I could tell he was aware of me, not from having seen me, but from the noise of my footfalls.
His hand reached so suddenly and surely out to me and clasped my arm so quickly that I was utterly unprepared. Almost simultaneously with gripping my upper arm, he said “Do you think you could help me out fella?” His voice smeared the words together leaving out most of the space that should have kept each word distinct, and his odor enveloped the area around him like a foul cloud. Even though I wanted to jerk away, I did not, but instead said something like “What do you need?” My fear of him dissipated quickly because the man was so obviously impaired far beyond the point of being a threat to me or anyone else.
“I’m trying to get down to Harvard Square,” he said. “Can you help me out, fella?” “Sure,” I told him. “You’re close.” I began to explain he only needed to walk another three blocks or so and he’d be there, but it was idiotic to tell this man to walk three blocks in any direction when it was unlikely he could walk a straight three steps in any direction. My good mood and diminished fear conspired and I said to him, “Listen, I’m going there myself. I’ll walk you down there.” He was filled with drunken and excessive appreciation; or perhaps it was not excessive. It seemed unlikely very many people had done much nice for this poor fellow for a long time. However real his appreciation was, I felt good about my gesture. Not entirely good. My previously energetic pace was now slowed to the pains-taking crawl of a toddler. He held onto my arm and emitted an odor that finally made me really understand why the French invented perfume before bathing was the fashion. I had some excitement about getting to my date and was now sure to be late. So I was torn. Could I somehow take my leave, explaining he simply had to follow the path straight (nearly) on down to the Square? But as we walked while he grasped my arm above the elbow, attracting questioning glances while we wandered, I began to feel good about our walk. He was telling me in a rambling way some of his story. The impersonal had started becoming personal; distance was diminishing and even a sense of intimacy evolved. Walking so close to this smelly, drunk, unkempt, blind man was drawing me into his world. I could feel the distance that must have nearly always surrounded him, the withdrawal that he provoked in others. And I could feel his craving for company. Some small part of his experience was now becoming my own experience as well.
We did finally arrive in Harvard Square. I parted company with him, leaving him to his lonely fate and myself to one far more gratifying. Yet now, forty five years later, I have no memory of the girl I spent that evening with while that drunken companion of twenty minutes or remains unforgettable to me.
