Ironpots

"You ruined my sobriety, you fat pig!" I yelled and slapped him across the face. It didn't matter, the fucker was so drunk he didn't feel anything and Tralala - laughable, lovable, always salacious Tralala threw up into an old tramps lap.

The alley held that distinct pungent stench of old piss common to all bum hangouts all over the world. I took another swig of Old English and slurred, "The problem with ya fuckin' addicts is ya gotta one track mind."

The Indian - Native American, excuse me, you politically correct fucks - that I just tagged, focused on me with his blurred vision, smiled and rumbled in his baritone voice, "Now, let me learn ya something, white boy - for one, I am not an addict." He started in his distinct Chicago accent. Tralala rose up from her prone position next to the old past out tramp and wobbled across the length of the alley to the opposite side. Gabriel, the Native American, took the bottle from my hand and continued, "I just like the drink. And I must admit - a bit on the heavy side. But, as you probably heard - it is in our peoples genetics." He takes a big gulp - Adam's apple bobbing up and down his scarred and bristled throat.

Gabriel passes the bottle to me - side glances down the way for cops. Tralala squats against the wall, yanks down stained torn panties and discharges runny brown shit onto the cracked pavement. I take a big gulp from the bottle and belch into my fist, "Wattaya mean it's in your genes? Alcoholism ain't genetic. That's absurd!"

Tralala starts rummaging for newspaper to wipe her ass. Gabriel shakes his head, "Yeah it is. After generation upon generation of that shit - it is. And it's all your peoples fault."

I start turning red, "Aw c'mon! That's just fukkin stupid! If you're not going to have a realistic conversation - don't even bother opening your mouth!"

Silence. Well, the sound of Tralala on her hands and knees dry heaving -but, silence between Gabriel and I.

"Want to go hang out at Sante Fe? Get some two dollar pitchers?" Gabriel finally suggested.

"Sure." I sighed.

We left Tralala snuggled up under the fire escape with that filthy old tramp with half a bottle of Old English dreaming dreams of nostalgia.