Walking, if that’s what one would call it, was what he liked to do most when he was drunk. The animated chattering and amorous canoodling of the tavern culture carried much charm, but it was his walk to his flat, after his snoot was full, that gave him the most sublime joy. The magic in the bottle seemed unfailing; it numbed his aching, prematurely aged joints, and at the same time, provided air soles to his shabby shoes. Sidewalks became trampolines, curbs turned to starting blocks that would launch him into an intersection as if he were spring loaded. The restrictive grid of the city turned curvy and forgiving, very forgiving, with walls like billiard cushions, and soft green parkways like table felts. The world moved then too, but faster than his vision, which was on a slow watercolor delay. If it was windy he could push back against the breeze with his hands and the baggy arms of his greasy overcoat. If it was rainy his feet would become an entire percussion section. Often he’d sing along the way, his gait, propelling the rhythm as he seemingly traversed among the clouds. The cacophony of sounds were his arrangement, and yet he was generous in sharing its majesty, a remnant of an aria, a stomp, with the occasional passerby. There was no straining of the vocal chords, no pain at all. Odes to joy along the wet nighttime streets.
It was walking that was his favorite thing to do when he was drunk.
– Danny Grosso