By the time I’d returned a crowd had gathered. They pointed and snickered and spoke in hushed voices. He was drunk again. I could smell it from where I stood at the perimeter. Some cheap bourbon. “Let he who is sinless cast the first stone. Am I not just you yourself?” Darrell was mumbling, eyes half closed, couldn’t focus on anything. The words were barely decipherable and a sting of drool was dangling from his bestubbled chin. “I used to be somebody! I was sombody! Coulda been…” he trailed off and looked to the sky, to God. The crowd fell silent as his eyes regained their focus. “Damn you. God damn you. Are you satisfied now? Have you taken what was yours that I stole from you? That I stole from your almighty Grace? Take this bourbon from me. Come and take it.” And he froze with his stare fixed on the heavens and he didn’t move for a long time. Not as the crowd thinned and went about its business—sending mail, picking up their children, off to the movies—and left him in the cold. Not as the wind picked up and blew old newspapers past him. He fell asleep, whimpering, with his chin skyward.
