What Happened to the Newspaper Drunk?

WHEN I first met Eddie Irish (that's not his name but it'll pass), he was more or less suspended on one half of his hind end on a gilt ballroom chair in Manhattan Center on Thirty-fourth Street. The other reporters were taking notes--it was a big union meeting--and paying no attention to Eddie who was out cold. He must have passed out in mid-air because he had caught only half the chair which was tipped, in a sort of miraculous balancing act, on two legs. His head had fallen back; his mouth, under the scrubby mustache, was wide open; his arms hung down, giving him the appearance of a marvelously appealing helplessness.