The other day, I left work at my usual time was strolling home. I was listening to my ipod and minding my own business and a noticed a rather loud and obnoxious man wandering the sidewalk. Not all that out of the ordinary, I thought nothing of it and continued on, deciding to stop walking and wait for the T. This loud guy started crossing the street towards me, deciding to cross against the light on Comm. Ave., and flashing the honking drivers that devil-finger sign thing. Suddenly, he was next to me, ranting and raving, and asking me if Shaw's was down the street (he had already passed it, but whatever.) I didn't hear him because of my ipod and because he was babbling like a fool, so I said, "Okay."
"Don't okay me you fucking asshole. I'll beat the shit outta ya," he responded.
I removed my headphones and apologized for not hearing him. oddly, I wasn't afraid of his threat, but was afraid that he might throw up all over me.
"What you listening to? Slayer?"
"Uh, no."
"C'mon, you mother fucker! I been listening to a lotta Slayer, lotta, what's that fuckin' band? Pantera! Yeah. At least listen to sumpthin' good. U2. Sumpthin'! Dude, I been at The Avenue, you know that bar, The Avenue? I been there drinking beer and Jaeger and..."
At this point, I really lost him, but it appeared to be a litany of the alcohol units he had that day. It was 4:00 on a Tuesday, by the way.
"You're not gettin' any fucking pussy tonight listening to that shit," he noted. In fact, I was listening to a mix someone had made for me, and it was some obscure Canadian band. Thankfully, it wasn't Sarah MacLachlan or something.
"Don't worry. I ain't gettin' any, either," he said, and I had to agree. "Look at this bitch! She ain't fucking me tonight!" he screamed at a passer-by. At this point, I was praying for the train to come.
"Lemme tell ya, dude. Stay white," he advised. "I'm not bein' racist, but stay white, y'know. Segregation was right. Everybody's difr'ent, y'know. What's yer name?"
"Matt."
"Matt! I love Matt!" he yelled, high-fiving me. "I'm Dan! Nice, Matt! I got a cuzzin named Matt. He's inside for the next 25 years for dealing crack, but he's aw'ight. He robbed a bank, too, but that's okay. He's a good mother fucker!"
Eventually, he asked where Babcock St. was, and I sent him on his way (although I think I mistakenly sent him down Pleasant St. I was afraid he'd eventually figure it out and come after me.) But, yeah, so Drunk Dan at 4:00 on a Tuesday afternoon. Tuesdays at The Avenue. It really got me thinking what kind of life this guy must lead. Hey, I've been drunk before, and I've said and done some strange things, but this was off the page. Where was he going on Babcock St? (Tell me it wasn't home, because if he can afford a place on Babcock, then there's something wrong in the world.) And The Avenue? I have lived in Brighton for six months, and despite its proximity, I have yet to enter The Avenue and I hope never to do so. but maybe I'd run into my new friend Dan there, maybe get a few more pearls of wisdom.
Now, that is Dan in real life.
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