One For My Shoe

Do you want a drink?

A gruff voice barked.

I looked up from my phone where I had been engrossed in some qualitysteeming.*
*_{not a euphemism for a long coiling shit, I might add}

Sitting across the table from me, was a fellow train traveller. In his outstretched hand he held a paper bag with the nozzle of a bottle poking furtively out of it like an Otter's penis.

He looked very very drunk.

Inwardly, I sighed.

There are few things worse than a random Scottish drunk. To engage with them is to dance with the devil himself.

No thanks.

I said like the polite schoolboy I had once been.

The drunk glared at me with baleful red-rimmed eyes.

What's the matter? You too good to take a drink?

He asked accusingly.

I shook my head.

I just don't want one.

I said carefully.

Better safe than sorry when dealing with an angry drunk after all.

The drunk took a deep breath, obviously teetering on the edge of psychotic apocalypse.

I held his gaze nice and steady waiting for the inevitable fighty madness that was welling up inside him.

Then he suddenly deflated, mumbling something about pricks who think they are aw that.

I presumed that to be me and went back to my phone.

Whit aboot you?? You want a drink?

He slurred again.

I put my phone away and looked up. This time he was asking the lady sitting across the aisle from us and waving his bottle menacingly at her.

She sniffed in disdain and ignored him.

Will this be the trigger? I wondered. Will this be the thing that sends him bat-shit crazy?

No. He just mumbled again.

Then his eyes caught mine and he pulled himself up to an almost erect sitting position.

Is nobody going to drink with me?

He half shouted.

I pondered asking him if it was a rhetorical question. Then decided I had better not.

The drunk swayed his head back and forth for a moment then stopped.

If nobody's drinking wi' me, I'll just fucking have a drink wi' ma shoe!?

He slurred challengingly at no one in particular.

He bent over and started wrestling with his foot under the table.

He won't really pull his shoe off?

I thought to myself with a giggle. That would just be insane. I mean, that just won't happen. Nobody gets that drunk and that stupid?

The drunk pulled himself upright with a victorious hooting noise. Clasped in his hand was an old and grotty looking brown leather shoe.

He caught my eye and grinned like a madman who had just discovered frozen peas.

There you are.

He hissed as he thumped his shoe down on the table between us.

I raised a questioning eyebrow.

The drunk ground his teeth together fiercely as if he were about make love to a large Welsh lady.

He lifted his bottle over the table until it hovered over his tatty old shoe which was almost trembling with fear or anticipation.

Mate, behave yourself. Put your shoe away?

Said a nearby gentleman, no doubt concerned for the state of this poor man who had seemingly lost his way in life.

The drunk hesitated. A million emotions flitting across his face.

It was time to end this.

I leaned forward, compassion writ large across my face and gently spoke.

Go on then, give yer shoe a fucking drink!?

I barked.

The drunk's eyes widened and with a snarl he poured a big glug of foul smelling whisky from his bottle into the shoe.

Around, I heard gasps of astonishment.

There was no way this was going to end well. Grinning, I grabbed my bag, my stop was approaching.

I tipped a cheery wink to my fellow travellers.

Enjoy!