I don't want to be here

I am watching an elderly man try and piss into a urinal. He is so drunk that he is having to rest his head against the white ceramic tiles of the pub toilet to steady himself as he struggles with to open his heavy coat. His face starts to slide down the tiles, now he is bent almost double trying to get his trousers open. I know that he needs my help but I can't bring myself to do it. I stand at the door of the toilet, terrified that he will fall and hurt himself. It takes two minutes, but eventually he gets the zip open and begins to spray urine into the galvanised toilet, on the floor, and all over the right leg of his trousers. I can see the brown corduroy turning black as the urine sinks in and I know that I don't want to be here. I also know thatit's my fault because I chose to get involved.

It had started fifteen minutes previously. I had arrived at the pub early, waiting for my wife. It was the first time I have been home for nearly a week and we had arranged to go out and catch up with each other. I was excited to be back in my home town and to be going out. The pub was heaving, it being the week before the Christmas Holiday, and the only space available was a single seat at the bar. I seated myself, ordered a drink, and waited. The old man is seated next to me. He is seventy to eighty years old. His grey hair is slicked back with hair cream, and his face is heavily lined and I can see that his eyes are unable to focus on the beer pumps in front of him. He is resting his elbows on the bar, trying to keep himself erect. In his left hand he waves a ten pound note, trying to get the attention of the bar staff. I notice that they are ignoring him. The head bar man walks past and does not even look at him. The old man keeps opening his mouth, trying to form words, but he cannot do it. He waves his ten pound note for five minutes or so, oblivious to the staff's indifference. His next strategy is to tap the beer pump with his right hand. I am surprised that his hands are clean, the nails neatly trimmed, and I notice the quality of his clothes: a long woollen overcoat, and a well made brown corduroy suit, an old but smart silk tie. He has the battered face of a wino, but the clothes tell me that someone is looking after him. The tapping does not work. Another five minutes pass and then the head barman speaks.

"You've had enough. Where's your taxi?"

The old man looks up, his face blank and his eyes confused. He tries to speak, cannot, then shrugs his shoulders with the exaggerated movement of the totally drunk. He makes a move, trying to get off his stool. He falls and instinctively my arm catches him. He is a deadweight, and I struggle not to fall off my own stool, as I try and stop his head falling onto the terracotta tiles. His is in my arms, by default I am now involved and his is my responsibility. I turn to the bar staff and no-one seems desperate to step up to the mark and help me. I look outside and see the milky white frost on the windscreens of the parked cars and think about the compacted snow and ice on the pavements. This man is too old, too drunk, too frail to be allowed out there. I don't want to get involved, I want to have a nice evening with my wife, but I know that if he tries to go outside on his own and he will fall and injure himself

I prop him against the bar, and he begins to mutter, having got his lips to finally work. It take me a few seconds to realise that he's telling me that he needs to go to the toilet. He cannot support his own body weight, I am leaning against him to keep him standing against the bar. There is no way that he is going to make it to the toilet. A group of men are watching the sideshow, sniggering quietly as they nudge each other. I turn to the biggest.

"He needs the toilet, and I can't do it on my own. He's too heavy. You'll have to help me."

His is stunned, he does not want to get involved either, but I am relying on the fact that he won't be brave enough to say "no". We manhandle the pensioner through the crowd and manoeuvre him in front of the urinal. I step back, and by the time I have got to the door, my "assistant" has vanished back into the crowd. I watch the pensioner soil his clothes and feel a slight panic about what is going to happen next. What do I do with him now?

The head barman comes to my rescue.

"We've booked him another taxi. It will be here in ten minutes"I ask him to get me a chair so that we can sit the old man down outside the toilets rather than trying to get him back to the bar.

"I'll wait with him", I say. The old man turns from the toilet, swaying, and I know he is going to fall. I move towards him and he grabs at my hand to steady himself. His grip is surprisingly strong and his fingers are wet against my skin. I know my hand is now covered in his urine and want to pull my fingers away in disgust but he will not let go. I am just relieved that he is managed to get his tackle back in his trousers without my help. I help him to the chair and we wait for the cab to arrive.

It takes about fifteen minutes and I sit with this sad old man, who is completely reliant on a stranger to get him home. I can't be angry with him, and direct my frustration at the barman.

"You shouldn't allow him to get in this state." I say, my voice tight with anger.

"He was fine when he came in. He's only had one drink here. Besides, he's on medication, he shouldn't drink at all." he replies.

The taxi arrives, and the driver, barman and I get him across the pub, over the treacherous pavements, and into the vehicle. His head is about to bash the sill when I reach out and guide him in. His scalp is sweating profusely, melting the hair cream, and it smears across my palm. I want to run away, get my hands clean.

The drivers belts him into his seat.

"You are in a state, aren't you. Let's get you home to your sister." The old man smiles and so do I. I am released from my responsibility, knowing that someone will help him into the house. "Second time I have picked him up in this state this week." says the driver, as he eases himself into his taxi. Within in a moment they are gone, and I am standing on the icy pavement with the barman.

"Thanks for your help, come back to the bar and I'll get you a drink on the house."

I barely listen, rushing back to the toilet to scrub my hands under hot water, using too much soap, desperate to get the piss and Brylcream off my skin. I return to the bar.

"For your compassion." says the barman, drawing me a fresh pint of cider, and placing it in front of me.

I smile and thank him, sip at the cider, trying to ignore the chemical smell of strawberry soap in my nostrils and the nagging doubt that my fingers are still contaminated.