Of course he was sloshed and I would have let him stagger about his drunken way except for the guy’s wife.
She'd asked me to make sure he made it back to the hotel room. And I said sure, because I knew she’d kill him otherwise. After the scene he'd made at dinner, no one would question her sanity. That and I felt sorry for her, because a year earlier she’d said I do without knowing what he really is.
He’s a drunk. A rich one, if that makes any difference. But when you’re a public dolt--like he is--it really doesn’t. And so I said sure. I’d help the guy. Except I never made it. Not in time, anyway. I saw the guy fall. Saw him split his head open on the side of the building. I saw his blood spew from the gash like a hackneyed effect in a samurai film.
Drunks don't bleed like normal people. Good thing the rich ones don’t feel it as bad.
Matt got to him before I did. He had the guy sitting down and held a towel to his head. Kept the guy's skull intact with one hand and called 9-1-1 with the other. Pretty amazing, really. All I could do was stare at the blood on the ground and wonder if I should find a mop.
The paramedics came and the guy was a belligerent cock-knocker. First responders are underpaid. Rich drunks are an ungrateful lot.
I talked to the guy’s wife the Sunday after. She sent me a pic of his stitched head, said it was going to make a hell of an impression at the job interview the guy had coming up.