I became aware of an extremely drunken man when my girlfriend introduced me (or rather insisted that I stand beside her) to him. He was a Jeff Bridges lookalike, with the hygiene of The Dude and the fashion sense of Rooster Cogburn.
“Jazz, man … Uh, the kids, they’re lookin’ for somethin’ fresh, y’know, and like, what you’re doin’, you’ve got it, it’s there, y’know”

This was the central message that took him roughly 2 minutes to articulate to us. It was flattering, albeit mainly incomprehensible, so we thanked him and parted ways. We had a laugh and didn’t think too much of it, until I was reminded of his presence throughout the rest of the evening as he yawped whatever bizarre sounds he felt the need to (the most frequent sounding like the call of an ill bird). He spent the majority of the performance that followed ours incoherently babbling to the lady on the door taking tickets, who ultimately was reduced to tears after having to put up with this guy for so long.

Who once was harmless; at worst an embarrassment, was eventually repulsive. He had made his way around the room, accumulating a trail of upset that elongated behind him until it couldn’t be ignored. His presence both filled and contaminated whichever space he entered. Oblivious and consumed by his inebriation, the man damaged an experience of which he wasn’t really present.