I do not like alcohol.

Of course, without physical form, I cannot actually feel the effects of alcohol on a body.  Because of this, my previous observations in regards to this substance have been based largely on speculation and what I perceived by the reactions of the humans.  I now know that my thoughts on the matter have been greatly understated.

Let me explain.  I was to meet with Don last night, and I came across him in a darkened, rather dirty bar named Sullivan’s (though I know for a fact there was no one named Sullivan in the place).  He was sitting alone, imbibing copious amounts of a kind of alcohol called vodka, which has a smell like a high-pitched whine.

My job was to get him out of the bar.  It sounds simple, yes?  It wasn’t.  Don in his bewildered state—“drunk”, the humans call it, as if the alcohol has consumed him—was not paying any attention to my suggestions, though I began to make them most forcefully as time went by.  Finally, afraid of missing our window of opportunity, I was forced to resort to direct contact.

As all of you know, physical contact with a human is to be avoided, as it will often give them a better ability to perceive heavenly interference.  It is, however, permitted for their own good.  An angel must, of course, be careful in deciding what is good for a human, and I will be discussing my decision in a review meeting with Danit soon.

I can assure you, however, that it was definitely for Don’s good to get him away from there.  As soon as I touched him, intending only to knock him from his stool, I was overcome with the sensations he was feeling.  Alcohol makes the head reel and the stomach churn, leaving an acidic taste in the mouth and scattering one’s thoughts.  I confess that I fell, too, when Don did, and very nearly dissipated in my surprise.  Why humans would willingly do such a thing to themselves, I do not know.

In any case, the action was successful.  In the fuss caused by the other patrons of the bar trying to help him up, Don realized that he had over-imbibed and left the bar.  He forgot to pay, but I found his wallet[1] and left it close to the bartender.  I am certain he will be able to return for it when he feels better.

I still felt somewhat shaky as I followed Don out of the bar, and so I very nearly missed the opportunity laid out for me.  Thankfully, little intervention was needed.  As Don was making his way down to where he could hail a taxi,[2] he fell right at her feet.

Her name is Charlotte, by the way—Charlotte Enderby.  She is a manager at a high-class hotel, and she had just gotten off of her shift.  In a way, she reminds me of the fire woman I encountered so briefly.  They do not resemble one another physically—Charlotte has graying blonde hair, a thin, lined face, and a tendency to paint her eyelids silver.  But Charlotte dresses in the same kind of clothing that the fire woman did—sleek, dark, and professional—and she has the same way of moving that encourages everyone else to make way for her.

When Don collapsed directly in her path, she didn’t jump or cry out.  She merely stopped and looked at him, her expression unchanged.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“That’s quite all right,” she said and made to step over him.

He confounded this maneuver—with a small prod from me—by pushing clumsily to his feet.  “No, really,” he said, his voice slurred.  “I’m really a very sorry person.”

Charlotte, well accustomed to dealing with drunk men—her hotel also has a bar, and she has been working there for several years—sniffed.  “I imagine so,” she said.

I stepped close and whispered in her ear that perhaps she should take a closer look at this man.  There was some coverage of him in the newspaper that Charlotte reads every morning, including a grainy picture.  It was not a good likeness, but good enough that she recognized him—with a bit of help from me.

“Then again, you may have an excellent excuse,” she murmured.  She had been intrigued by his story, impressed by the integrity he had shown in helping the young victim of his employers.  She held out her hand and introduced herself.

Don took a few tries to catch that hand, but when he did he shook it firmly, businesslike.  “Don Collins.  Yes,” he said before she could ask, “I am that guy from the newspaper.  The…the stupid guy.  The one who lost his job and broke his contract and ruined his life.  Nice to meet you.”

Charlotte dug in her large purse and pulled out a water bottle.  “Here, I think you’ll be needing that.  Why don’t you tell me a bit about it?”  She put a hand under his elbow and stepped towards the curb, signaling for a cab.

I followed, but the connection had been made and there was little left for me to do.  They shared a cab home, and Don spilled the whole story to that ladylike, competent woman, who didn’t flinch when he informed her that he needed the cabbie[3] to pull over.  She gave him a breath mint and tipped the cabbie extra.  Then she listened to Don’s woes about his job, his family, and himself.

“I just want to be a good guy, you know?” he mumbled, and he crumpled onto the seat, his head landing in her lap.

Rather than push him away, Charlotte gave him a bit of an awkward pat and let him be, her cheeks pink as she checked to see where they were.

Somehow, she got him up to his fifth floor apartment, supporting him most of the way, without losing a bit of her composure.  She removed his shoes for him and left water, painkillers, and a note next to the couch where he was snoring.  You are a good guy, the note said.  But if you have any further arguments, I’d be glad to hear them.  And she signed her name and wrote in her phone number.

It was a compassionate gesture more than anything else.  She could see, as I could, that he was struggling and lonely, and also like the fire woman, she is kind and wants to help.  But it is my hope, and the belief of my seniors, that something more will develop in time.  I am at least certain that Don will make a much better impression when he is sober.  It is my firm belief that most people do.

 

[1] An object in which the humans keep their money, or else, strange cards that seem to prove to others that they do have money and will give it to the proper people in the near future.  They call this “credit”.

[2] A car which can be hired to take people where they need to go in a city.

[3] Slang for the driver of the cab.