A Matter of Grace

Walter was a customer of mine. I guess you could call him a regular, based on the number of appearances he made at the store every week. He didn't spend a lot of money, though. In fact, when he did grace us with a few dollars, I think it was borne more out of guilt he felt for hanging around so much, than a true desire for what we were peddling. All in all, he was fairly harmless. Usually, he would amble in the front door to share a witty anecdote or toss some heavy-handed opinions around. In his wake, he almost always left the latest issue of the New York Observer and a comment about a particular article that simply could not go unread. He was a fiercely intelligent man with a scathing sense of humor, and when coherent, he could be fascinating. He was rarely coherent, though. And as the years went by, he would enter wobbly and spew forth something inappropriate--sometimes to the dismay of my partner and I, but often to various customers whose comfort in our little shop was fairly integral to our livelihoods. Walter, you see, was an alcoholic.