Back Issue  Fall 2004

She Decks the Drunk (for George Morgan)

April 18, 2003

 

On Sunday Atlanta’s busses are rare:

Transportation for church-goers;

The lost; visitors returning home

In the afternoon’s reclining light.

I sit in the back.

The MARTA is half full

Of tired congregants,

Drowsy from six long hours

Striving for the attention of God.

Two rows in front of me to my left,

A huge grandmother is in repose,

Her lacey granddaughter napping

Among the flowers on her generous bosom.

 

In the middle of nowhere, we stop:

He is six-feet tall, very thin, has gaunt cheeks,

Blood-shot eyes, is overly courtly

and especially unsteady on his feet.

‘Sick?’ I wonder; but

Grandmother sees the to-go cup

Filled with strong, clear liquid before I do.

"How’d ya do, ma’am?"

"Fine, thank you. I think

You’d better sit down."

The bus accelerates up a hill;

He totters.

"I think you better sit down now."

"Thank you, ma’am," a lubricious smile,

"But I’m gonna stand;

Leave the seats for the other passengers."

A long unblinking stare from her,

Then silence.

 

The bus jerks to a sudden stop.

He spins, loses his balance

Throws his arms out to steady himself and

Splashes the vodka on the child who,

eyes still closed, shrieks with the instincts of a newborn.

Her grandmother rises,

Places her joy gently in the seat, then

Spins around, shouting,

"I told you to sit down!"

And she decks the drunk in the aisle.

She bends over,

grabs his shirt collar in her massive hands,

Slams him like a limp doll

Into an empty seat,

And returns

(solicitous)

To her inconsolate dearling.

 

All, of course, in the blink of an eye.

 

The driver pulls the bus

To the side of the road and stops.

We see his tired eyes, reflected

In the rearview mirror over his head.

"Is everything alright back there?"

The grandmother stops purring

To her grandbaby and

Lifts her voice (powerful, respectful)

"Yes. Yes, sir. Everything’s alright.

Thank you for your concern."

 

The bus pulls back out into traffic.

All the other passengers stare straight ahead.

She then daubs the tears of vodka

From the child’s face

With the white linen ‘kerchief

She scented with rosewater and folded that morning,

Before she tucked it safely into her bra,

just in case.

 

 

John lives in the Seacoast Region of New Hampshire. He gently MCs the Portsmouth Poetry Hoot without the use of a shepherd’s crook.