When I asked John if I could take his picture, he asked for cash.
When I said I didn’t have any, he said he’d take a beer instead; but, like most days, I wasn’t carrying one of those on me either.
But as I kept walking down the road and came across a small bar, I couldn’t let it go.
My moral compass went off in every direction. What are the consequences? Where is the empathy? I can’t say I don’t understand, but I don’t know this guy. How can I justify it? Is a picture reason enough?
And honestly, what’s the difference? If I gave cash instead, it seems probable that he would’ve gotten one anyways. So, did I just save on ATM fees, or is there more to this?
Oh, I know there’s more, and not just to John’s story, but our story – our companionship with alcohol. Undoubtedly weighted by my own complex relationship with it, I found myself projecting my fears onto the situation of someone I barely even knew at a surface level.
The fact of the matter, was that alcohol had been as much of my ‘coming of age’ as a young adult, as my struggle with self-confidence. They coexisted in a kind of fucked up harmony, and yet it was the thing I was ashamed of the least. Why?
Well, some nights, it was the closest friend I had. The one that made me laugh, cry, forge friendships with strangers, and find a sense of self-worth when I wasn’t sure where else to find it.
It was also the one that helped me cope with the seemingly inescapable circumstances of youth. I knew I could make more money being a waitress at a demeaning job, than taking classes for a degree based on a decision I hadn’t really made yet – and oddly, there was no real in-between. So, it became a way to tap into a part of me that felt deserved despite the status, feel appreciated despite the materialism.
Sometimes my thoughts were fast and loose, but sometimes I just needed to have that moment in the middle of finding out how to make it all work.
I’m don’t know how much John and I have in common, but at that moment I figured that, at least, we had a mutual friend.