The choices that define us

He appears to be drunk. He is sprawled on the stairway that leads to the basement. Where the bathrooms are. The fact that he is heavily intoxicated is not his only problem. He is crying like a child who has lost his parents in a busy Highstreet. The wailing echoes in long, drawn-out breaths against the walls. His eyes are closed, his lips look like rolled slices of ham, tears and snot are running down his chin. He is wearing a three-piece suit by Ralph Lauren.

It is four o'clock, Friday afternoon. I am early. We are going to have dinner with my family at the restaurant. But because it was not crowded in the city center, I arrived earlier. Dinner does not start until half past five. So, I use the time to go to the toilets. I have not included in my schedule to worry about a crying drunk.

Still, I stop as I walk past the alcoholic. There is something about him. His expensive clothes, the neat haircut. The high-priced bottle of whisky in his hand. What is wrong with this man, I ask myself. He’s bleating like a Berkshire pig about to be slaughtered.

Without thinking twice, I stride to the bathroom, grab a vase that’s on a side table in the narrow hallway, put the silk flowers back on the top, and fill the vase with cold water. Full to the brim.

I lean over the crying drinker and pour the liquid over his face as best I can. I must aim the stream carefully to make sure not too much water ends up in his gaping throat. At first, the moaning continues. But soon, it seems to feel that he’s soaking wet. He opens his eyes, stares at me. As if I’m the murderer from Psycho.

“Who? What? How?” he asks. He tries to get up. His hands keep sliding down the slippery steps. I help him up so that a moment later he’s standing next to me. Dripping, staggering, big. I estimate that he’s at least six feet tall. I lead him upstairs like a small child. We haven’t exchanged a word yet. How much time do I have before my family members arrive at the agreed diner?

The restaurant is so large that it has several dining rooms. In addition to the usual events, there are rooms where parties, celebrations and receptions are held. I look for a place where the two of us can sit. Without onlookers. Without busybodies.

“Do you have something to drink for me?” the tippler asks. But from the disapproving expression on my face he immediately realize that he has is asking the wrong question. He makes an apologetic gesture. We are silent. Droplets fall on the floor. To be honest, I have no idea what drives me to sit here with this boozer.

He puts a backpack between his legs. I hadn’t noticed that he was carrying it. He fixes his hair. The stench of alcohol wafts between us. He is older than I had initially thought. At least sixty, I estimate.

“Well, here we are,” the man says. He sounds like a castaway who has just discovered that he is stranded on an uninhabitable island. I have no clue what to reply to his statement. Does he want an explanation as to why I am sitting here with him?

“It is my own stupid fault,” says the sot. “I should have just had taken tea. Or coke. Coffee. Water. But in my arrogance, I thought a whisky would be good too. And not just a glass. A whole bottle! And actually, why not? It is a happy day. A very happy day.”

He falls silent. To be honest, I am now curious as to what makes this day so pleasant for him. But he presses his index finger on his left ear. There is water in it. Then he repeats the ritual with his right ear. I look at my mobile phone. It is a quarter past five. I have fifteen minutes left. Then my own dinner will begin.

“Today I am saying goodbye to my job. After more than forty years of service to the company,” says the toper. “Tomorrow I will be retired. A free man. A pensioner. Another life should present itself. An existence without fixed appointments, without pressure, without stress, without bosses breathing down your neck.”

What he mentions sounds positive. But he looks miserable. He looks as if he has just been sentenced to a heavy prison term.

The alky opens his backpack. To my surprise, he pulls out two solid pieces of stuff. A bottle of champagne. And a gun.

“I still have a choice,” he says. “In my farewell speech to my colleagues in this establishment this afternoon, I can emphasize the joy, the delight of my career. To substantiate this, I show full of pride the bottle of sparkling wine, shake it, and let the alcohol-rich liquid rain down on the talking heads of my lovely colleagues.”

He takes the green bottle in his hands and stares at the label. Champagne Deutz Brut Classic, he reads out loud. And smiles gently. As if all kinds of pleasant memories are coming to mind.

“On the other hand, if I choose to name the pain, the frustration, the rejections that I have known during my working life,” says the boozehound, “then I take the gun out of the bag. I point it at my managers, at my colleagues. Then I threaten to shoot them. A final act to let them know how deeply, how intensely I have hated them.”

I am shocked by the disgust, the loathing in his eyes. Besides, I cannot judge whether the weapon is real or fake. I expect the latter. But his eyes, his words, his frown betray that the tosspot doesn’t take it lightly. This farewell is not a game for him.

“Those are my options,” the rummy mutters. “But I am torn, I am ripped in two. I do not know what to choose. And I have felt that sharp tension, that deep anxiety my whole life. From the day I started working, I have had a love-hate relationship with my professional calling. With my so-called vocation.”

I know that I must now say goodbye to the soaker. I am expected at the dinner. The appointment has been postponed so often that I cannot afford to be late. On the other hand, this juicehead’s problem seems serious, very serious. Besides, I am not sure what he is going to do with that weapon. Suppose it is not a joke. Suppose he does have psychopathic tendencies and causes a bloodbath. Would I ever be able to forgive myself for that?

The alcoholic holds the bottle and the gun in his hands. It seems only a matter of time before he makes the final decision.

“When I was at home and took care of my family, when I was paying attention to my friends, I knew that there was still work waiting for me. New opportunities, new markets, new research,” says the drunk. “But when I was full of work, I saw the faces of my wife, my children, my friends. I felt their absence.”

Can I get up now? Should I put a hand on his wet shoulder, wish him luck with his decision and just walk away?

“During the day I tortured myself with my feelings of guilt and shame towards my loved ones,” says the drinker. “At night I lay awake because I had not met my business targets. Because I disappointed my colleagues, my managers, my shareholders.”

He puts the bottle of champagne back in the backpack. The gun is in his right hand. Until then I felt safe with the tippler. But now I am not so sure anymore. I can’t tell if he is about losing his mind. What if he believes I stand in the way to make the right decision?

“Always that feeling of wrongfulness. I never did it right. I always fell short, always the self-reproach,” says the dipsomaniac.

“Has it ever occurred to you that you did both right,” I ask him suddenly. I am surprised at where this question comes from.

He looks at me as if I am a panda with three eyes. He shakes his head in disbelief. He opens his mouth, but no words follow. Seemingly hunted by my suggestion, he taps with the shooting iron on his knee. I recoil. This could get out of hand.

“Both right? You mean, there is no need that I should make a choice?” the businessman wants to know. He seems dismayed, surprised. “Is there a chance that I have found the right balance in my life? Precisely because I was so aware of it. Of the tension between my personal life? And my professional work?”

He sits on the chair opposite me like a boxer who has been knocked out. Water drips from his face onto the linoleum.

Suddenly, he stands up, grabs his bag and disappears without a word. Relieved, I follow him. The gun is lying on his damp chair.