Atypicality

          The old rehearsed, sun-beat leathery face didn't fool anyone . There was no one for it to fool. Walking stupidly-- crookedly, clumsily-- a plump figure, the silhouette of a middle-aged, lonely alcoholic, appeared out of the ubiquitous darkness, slithering along in a drunken daze. The man waddled about; his thick gut, hanging free out of his desperately tight shirt, protruded over his pant line and rested comfortably in the cool breeze. In sobriety, he always had a heightened self conscious about that nuisance of fat-- it was a clear indication of his years of alcoholism. Every beer, every shot-- years of bar hopping, party-going, the awkwardness of drunken humping-- had accumulated into that flab of fat that now hung free for the vacancy of his apartment complex to see. He wasn't worried about that now, though.

          He stumbled up to his door, the one that he drunkenly remembered as his. After an unsuccessful bid to open the door without unlocking it, he gave in, and, with a fumble of idiocy, procured his key ring. The ring was-- like him-- without many companions; only a few keys dangled miserably from the cold metal-- those to his apartment, his car, his mailbox. The heavy door swung open boisterously and he appeared in its way, observing admiringly all 500 square-feet of his property with a foolish, drunken grin on his face. The rustic light fixtures sourly obliged to his command and illuminated the one bedroom with a conclusive sympathy. Stumbling forward a few steps, waving his arm in an uncoordinated, riotous desperation, the alcoholic closed the door, concealing himself in solitude. His thumbs gamboled around each other happily and he approached his refrigerator operating on an energy reserve unknown to his sober self. The refrigerator was desolate-- a soda bottle plagued the upper shelf alone and in expiration while clumps of tin foil were scattered around in nooks of the great machine, holding foul smelling food that didn't phase the alcoholic.
         
          Standing in his dimly-lit, quiet kitchen, he feasted upon the month-old food with fervent delight. He poked his free hand around, searching with impaired alacrity for a bottle of vodka and grunted approvingly at the delectability of the molding food in his mouth. The bottle, he remembered, he had bought after work the day before. Its whereabouts were now unknown to him and his desperate search concluded with a disappointing resignation as he landed his disproportional buttocks on the couch without warning. His eyes closed and his body language hinted towards the possibility of his passing-out. As his mind and thoughts drifted off into incoherence, his head fell backwards and his eyes opened with alert. After a brief survey of paranoia, he remembered that he was alone and stood up.

            An urge to urinate quickly oppressed him and he lumbered to his toilet; his steps were childlike and off balance, but the compactness of his apartment assured that he reached his destination in time. Not soon enough, he realized, after a few, repugnant droplets moved swiftly down his leg. He began the timeless, difficult, arduous-- but alleviating-- procedure of urinating in the limited space of his toilet. In between intervals that hinted at his fluid depletion, he noticed a condom in his toilet. It capered around as he nonchalantly tried to remember the instance in which it was used. Realistically, it could have been months old. The toilet erupted in a violent flush, and he stood, watching the condom rotate around indignantly.

          He turned off the light hovering above and proceeded to his bed without washing his hands. And, tearing off his clothes in a tantrum, he flopped on his bed lazily. The rusted springs beneath the mattress wheezed as they taxingly held up the fat, repulsive body of the alcoholic. He squeezed around for a comfortable position and belched loudly.  Frequent, perverse eructations were not anomalous to him; his claim held that such gaseous eruptions were the cause of his tremendous heartburn and that giving in to them constantly was his only choice for alleviation. He held the aftertaste in his mouth and tried to pin what exactly he had consumed earlier-- hints of rum, potato salad, beer and tuna were among the few, distinct tastes that he finally exhaled with approval. It had been a few days since his face was shaved and the sharp bristles of his beard scraped against his inexpensive bed covers loudly.

      The beady dark eyes opened to an effervescent gaze and a hopeful smile inherited the man's face. He remembered where he had placed his bottle of vodka. In an instant, the covers flew in the air, and, before they could replace themselves on the bed, the rotund figure negotiated the apartment obstacle course with masterful locomotion, presenting himself in front of the refrigerator. It was not inside, but above the machine that the bottle was hidden away. His sweaty paws clawed at the cabinet fractiously until its doors proceeded open. The bottle was nearly full, save a few shots that the alcoholic had snuck in before his rehabilitation meeting. The odorless substance never smelled so enticing to the alcoholic and he could have bathed himself with it had he had more of an abundant supply.

    Air bubbles rushed to the mouth of the bottle without hesitation as the alcoholic devoured the vodka. The bottle was half empty when the phone rang. Suspicion overcame the alcoholic who was unaccustomed to phone calls at night -- as well as any other time of the day--, and he approached the receiver cautiously. He turned the phone on mid-ring and grunted the unprepared babel of a "hello?". His son, Floyd, began speaking immediately. His voice hinted towards the fact that he might be smiling, and he held back his laughter as he formulated his words. "How much did you have tonight, you fat bastard?" The alcoholic responded with a belch. "Don't drink too much, you have to pick me up tomorrow so we can spend some quality time together," Floyd said with a hidden smirk. "Actually, drink however much you want. I find you more tolerable when you're hungover." The alcoholic sat down on his couch in silence as if the phone call was ritual.

    It wasn't, however, anything ordinary. He and his son seldom talked, exchanging only a few words during the two hours a week that they spent together. "What do you want?" The alcoholic queried. "Charles," his son began, "I just look forward to the further development of our fruitful father-son relationship." Charles met the remark with a belch. "If I wasn't in such a benevolent mood, I'd probably make report of your habitual relapses to the proper authorities. It is favorable to you that I am going out on a date tonight, with the most attractive and keen woman." Charles groaned, one which implied his curiosity about the date. Regardless, Floyd continued. "I met her at the library the other day, in the videos section. I sparked conversation with her on film and charmed her instantly. We're going to the theater and plan to see the new Reilly picture-- the one about the links between alcohol consumption and brain damage." Charles' attention had been lost early-on and he grunted with interest at his cue. "Anyway, it was wonderful talking to you, Charles. I feel every conversation we have is philosophically inspirational and I take every word you say and apply it to my way of life." Charles belched into the receiver which responded with a vexing tone of beeps. Charles didn't bother turning off the phone, for he had already passed out.