Bottle
Man
By Randal
Graves - Staff Writer : 03.18.02
He
is a large, smelly man with nigh a care in the world.
His odor reeks of stale pretzels and cheap, tasteless
beer. He comments upon the state of the bottle
machines outside, proclaiming their fullness and how
it impacts on his life.
The
glaze over his eyes explains it all. He asks for the
manager, in a tone not quite angry, but yet still far
from content. His bag of empty bottles, mostly stolen
from garbage cans around the town, hangs over his
shoulder, in a jolly fashion. This time of year, one
could say he looks like a broken Santa Claus: he has
had his hard times, but he remains jolly nonetheless.
Many
know of the Bottle Man, yet none know him. It is
assumed he is a Yankee fan, as he sports a Yankee
insignia on a weather-beaten sports cap. His
brand of beer is of the imported, Polish variety. It
is doubtful he could have afforded Heineken, and if he
could have, he still might not have bought it.
His beer reflects his personality: boring, lifeless.
He
drags himself into the grocery store, preparing
himself for another day of scrounging through garbage
cans for his lifeblood. He knows that the people
stare. He knows the faces they make. But, he does not
let that stop him. He is but a man, a Bottle Man, one
of many in this small suburban town.
Sometimes,
he remembers the past. Times when all he cared about
was passing his math test and driving fast cars. Times
before the alcohol. Before the drugs, sucking his life
away, one snort at a time. Before the tragedy
happened, the tragedy that is now his life, the
tragedy he deals with everyday with something as
simple as bottles. It's no wonder he cries every
night, amongst his plastic bags and aluminum cans.
The
first time I saw him, he was screaming out, "I
know myself, but that is all--". It was the
truest statement I had ever heard.
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