2006-01-30

A drunk in a coffeeshop

I sit and watch this baby in the coffeeshop and I am filled with wonder. He behaves exactly like an obnoxious drunk. He shrieks for no apparent reason, throws objects, has food all over his face - in short, his behaviour is entirely unreliable. He might fall over or bite your arm from one moment to the next. Both outcomes are likely.

Now he squints at me, as if sizing me up; I could take him, he thinks, if I had to. What if I had to? What would I do first? Lead with the left, cross with the right, one kick to the shins or the junk and he's down. Down for good. Ah, but this line of thinking is abandoned. Privy, he hath become, to some unknown pleasure and so he smiles at me instead - the pleasure of the drink, no doubt.

The next couple of minutes bears witness to much of the same: he frowns, is about to cry, suddenly smiles, laughs, shrieks, and then, feeling somewhat content with his performance, leans back in his high chair and looks for all the world like he is finally ready to pass out. But it is not so. Instead, a green plastic spoon has caught his distracted eye and he proceeds to repeatedly stab himself in the mouth with it. The desired effect is achieved; he cries, then throws the object to the ground in apparent disgust. And, like a good drunk, he loves these two women who come to his rescue. They coddle him just so, stroke his hair and show him the way. He is pacified and so they return to their previous conversation, picking out words and thoughts left stranded in the air. But it is not enough - it never is - and he bangs the table, demanding more.

For all his outward appearances, this baby, this man, he could be me.

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