It was his birthday.  Of all days, right?  When I see people out and about now after  meeting  him, I want to say, “don’t be so happy, don’t have so much fun on your birthday.”

Minutes before his birthday is when I met him.  He seemed sad, and his body jerked about in an unhinged manner; his walk seemed in control of a puppet master as he hitched along and into the coffee shop.

Though I’m alone in this world I’m careful.  I’m not one of those nut jobs who despair and do crazy things to herself.  My little job and a little apartment in a dingy part of Indianapolis keep me busy and mostly content. Indianapolis is better than Chicago, where I grew up.  Though I live in a dingy, cheap part of Indy, the city is a bright place where people live, rather than parade around.

The birthday man; he staggered into the little coffee shop I was working and he said he spilled bourbon on his trousers.  He used the word trousers, and I tried not to laugh.  His eyes were big and blue and his fading red hair looked blond.  I was certain that most of the bourbon he had that night had gone into him and not on his “trousers.”

It was 30 minutes until closing and I glanced over at Joe.  Correct, at the coffee shop, my boss’ name is Joe.  His actual name is Herbert Lloyd, but he likes Joe.  Joe shrugged at me and that was my signal to turn the “open,” sign off and pour this guy a cup of deep, dark, black coffee.  Joe swept the floor and clattered the dishes in the steel sink in the back.

“Listen,” I said to the guy who used the word trousers for the word pants, “listen, you are drunk and this is downtown Indianapolis.  You will get put away for public intoxication if you go out there again.”

“I realize that,” his voice sounded sort of choppy.  He was broad-shouldered, and he spread his arms across the black round table, lowering his chin almost to the tabletop.  “I came in here because I was afraid of just that.  I’m not from around here and I’ve heard of American jails.”

“Finish your coffee,” I said.

Joe rolled his eyes at me when I stepped behind the counter to wash the dishes.  “What are you going to do with the guy?  You gonna take him home?  He’ll puke all over the bus.  The guy smells like a Kentucky brewery.”

“Do you think he’s from Kentucky?  He sounds funny.”

“You’re hopeless.  He’s not from the US, okay.”

That fascinated me more.  An actual foreigner.  I finished cleaning the kitchen, and I swept the floor again because Joe doesn’t always do a good job.  Joe and I placed the chairs on the tables all around the man who stank like bourbon.  I thought when I was getting my purse from under the counter that the man in trousers looked as if he was in jail; all the chair legs serving as bars.

“Come on.  I’ll get you to where you need to be.”

“My hotel is somewhere near, I’m sure.” He looked about, his chin down and his eyes narrowed; “I’m getting better.” He stood and his reddish, thin eyebrows wrinkled into a worried look.

We walked toward the center of town and he faltered just beyond a well-lit parking lot, coughed and then heaved coffee and bourbon all over a good portion of Indianapolis.  He hung on to a lamppost, swaying in the still night as if a gale force wind was blowing.  After the initial launch he wretched, but heroically stretched his neck out to avoid splattering his suit.  I didn’t blame him.  That suit looked expensive.

After barfing for a long time he breathed steadily, clinging all the while to the light post, his nose red and his hair sort of flying about his head in a weird white-red halo.

“What is the time, please?” he asked in his clipped voice

“12:30 AM,” I replied

“Today is my birthday,” he informed me

“Happy Birthday.”  Thankfully, he stared down at the sidewalk because I was at a loss; he wasn’t overjoyed about the occasion.  Should I smile, pretending I didn’t understand?  Should I look grave, frown and nod?

“I’m 60 today.” He said it with a repressed belch, his face turning bright red, I thought he would start the dry heaves but he gained control of himself.    It was obvious he was too old to be vomiting bourbon and coffee in a foreign city, but I didn’t want to appear rude.

“I wanted to come to an out-of-the-way city, buy a prostitute, have incredible sex and get drunk.”

“Well, you seem to have done well.”

“No, I’ve only got sick-drunk.”

“I’m not a prostitute.”

He turned to face me. His eyes looked a bright blue, like a newborn baby’s bright blue eyes. “I would not mistake you for a prostitute.”  He seemed sincere.  He took a deep breath, “I guess I’m not one either.” He frowned, leaned over and puked again.

“Listen, it’s late, but people are still around.  This is Indianapolis and they will call the police.” I looked about for the slow-moving squad car and the frowning cop.

“People in Indianapolis don’t like drunks?”

“No.” I wanted to sound emphatic, but I sounded scared even to myself.

“Good.” He pushed himself off the lamppost and staggered backward.  I grabbed his arm and kept him steady.

“Is that your hotel?” I said pointing to the large squarish building where all rich people go when staying in Indianapolis.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“It’s the best one down here.”

“Oh, I see. That obvious am I?” I rolled my eyes, and he frowned at me.

“Don’t do that young woman, you have beautiful eyes, rolling them like that makes you appear haughty.”

I pulled him forward, and we walked into the side of the hotel where I hoped someone would help us.  I pushed open the heavy glass doors, concerned because the odor of vomit prevailed about his entire person.

“There you are, you bastard.”

She was beautiful.  She wore velvety black that shown silver when she moved.  Her heels were high and her hair was long and shiny.  “And with a prostitute, too.  You pathetic bastard.”

Hotel management gathered around us and asked the lady with the same choppy voice as the man who said “trousers,” to be quiet.

“Ha, I’ll be quiet.  After I take him for all he’s worth.”

“You can’t Mabel (Mable? I’m still shocked at such a name) you signed a prenuptial.”  He laughed into Mabel’s face.  She turned a little green.

“You pig, you stink!”

I backed away, but he grabbed my arm.  “Call this young girl a cab, she saved me from jail tonight.”

A small crowd of onlookers pooled in the far corner of the marble lobby, gazing at us.

I looked at Mabel, frightened; I wanted no one to think I was a prostitute.

“This young lady works at the coffee shop down the road and she saved me from the prying eyes of Indianapolis,” said the birthday man in a loud strident voice.

My heart drop, no one would believe I wasn’t a prostitute now.

“Please fetch her a cab,” said the man, pulling at my arm and leaning this way and that.

I pulled my arm free from his grasp and he staggered and fell.  I reached out for him, as did the night porter.  In helping him up, he looked at me, his eyes bleary and bloodshot.  “I’m so sorry, please forgive me, Mabel, but it’s my birthday, and I wanted, I wanted… something (I could see his little pink tongue as he lisped the word ‘something’).  “I don’t know anymore.  Five years ago I wanted you on my arm and next to me at dinner parties, but the money has changed you.  It’s not your fault, sweetheart.”

Pulling myself away, I left him to the porter and hotel management and Mabel.  He’d never find it, that “something,” I was certain of that.