He drinks alone every day. His cries for help are inaudible. Going unnoticed, even by his own dog. I see him on the waterfront some days, glaring bitterly at the bay, bottle tilted in his hand. I don't think things are working out the way he had planned.
Every time he turns around, the disapproving eyes are there. When he looks up, they look down, there doesn't seem to be an escape. He clutches the bottle in his pocket, unzips his coat to release the heat, and prays that his train pulls up soon. This prayer doesn't travel from his mouth to God's ear's, instead it drips feebly from his mind to the floor, mixing with the flotsam, the jetsam, the derelict tears of the worker bees and office zombies that drift like drones through these commuter tunnels. The upside of his soon to arrive chariot is that the worst seat possible is always available, and it's the one he loves most.
He likes to squeeze in as tribute to way the life has been squished out of him. Similar to the way they squeeze life's nectar out of those grapes they grow up north. Feeling crushed is an acquired taste.
He refilled his water bottle with blood red wine in his office before beating a hasty retreat. It was just enough to get him through another Muni experience, but not nearly enough to bolster his confidence before walking through the door to the house he still shares with his ex-wife. Drinking deeply, then staring at his feet, he runs through a mental list of bars & liquor stores that line the boulevard between his stop and his home, quickly deciding that the evening calls for a quick stop at The Eagles Drift Inn. A whiskey (neat) and a pint should set him right - just right. Good night.