My Kind of Alcoholic : Friday Fictioneers

A dramatic image from Rochelle this morning begets a less dramatic story.



“Ask you another question?”

“As long as you’re buying.”

He motioned for two more shots. They came and we toasted.

“What’s the deal when you guys leave the fire truck in the street? No sirens, just the lights rolling.”

I sipped my beer. “Well, lots of folks die at home. Drunks, mostly. They tend die in their bathrooms. The EMTs call us to help extract them. It’s procedure.”

I did not mention that very morning.  Ferguson and I  had pried a two-day stiff out from where he had fallen, wedged in beside the toilet.

“This is how you’ll go, Ed,” Ferg had told me.