mississippi 1:2

My name is Jim Floor, said the very drunk man but not to us or anyone, ain't that a funny name? He rolled and looked like he would vomit again, like he'd done a minute before, between swallows of hot pink wine. We should help that man, Jill had said as we walked back to the car from a Chinese cafeteria. How? I said. He looked to me like he was helping himself to death. Talk to him, she said, show him someone cares. Who? Jim Floor ignored us for some time. Dutifully, I asked him did he need help. Could we call someone for him, even though he looked beyond destitute and well on the way toward the fortified Glory. He coughed like a wood chipper, hacking up gobs of something bloody, like lung tissue. I winced away in disgust. Between bouts of these body-racking convulsions, he'd tip the wine bottle up and swig, leaking the syrupy liquid along his throat. You're going to die, I said, caressing his side with my shoe. Do you understand that you are going to die? And then he stood up as if sober, brushed himself off and extended his hand. Jim Floor, he said. I did not shake.

move on...