It’s all about perspective.  When I get down on myself for not doing enough with my life, all I have to is look around to find someone who, by comparison, makes me appear to be at the top of my game.  Since I spend a fair amount of time in a bar, such people are not hard to come by.

Saturday evening did not disappoint.  I got to the Argus around seven, having spent most of the day either napping or puttering around the apartment.  I didn’t need a drink.  I didn’t even especially want one, but boredom and cabin fever sent me on my way.

I’ve seen the man before.  He usually orders well bourbon neat and never leaves a tip.  Nor does he engage the bartender or any of the other customers in conversation.  He just drinks until he’s either had enough or run out of money, then heads off to wherever it is he goes.

At first, I made it a point not to stare.  I had noticed irregularities in the man’s complexion that under the dim bar lighting, I had mistaken scribed to burn scars.  When I referred to him as “Mister Crispy” to one of the bartenders, she set the record straight saying, “No, that’s the result of booze.  Lots and lots of booze.”

She was right.  Allowing myself to gawk, what I saw was not scar tissue but an assortment of blemishes and broken capillaries.  The damage was long term and self inflicted.