The Brown Paper Bag
His hands trembled as he lifted the bottle in its brown bag to his lips. He toasted the bridge he lived under, and took another swig. Leaning back on the pilings of the bridge, he listened to the cars and trucks whooshing over his head. He raised his bottle and proposed a toast to the traffic. The bottle did not feel as full as it once did. “Shomebodyshbeendrinkin’mymechcine.” He hiccupped. He gave his bottle another shake, holding onto it tightly so it would not slip out of his hand, on to the rocks below. Through blood shot eyes, he followed the river as it flowed to the ocean. His hand shook as he lifted his bottle again. He didn’t toast anything this time. He chug-a-lugged his wine as he tried to quench his thirst. His Adam’s apple bopped as the red sweet liquid flowed down his throat. A chill wind blew under the bridge so he pulled the remains of his coat around him and flipped the collar up to give his ears a little more warmth. His matted, greasy dirty blonde hair fell around the collar like the spider webs under the bridge. `Ishneedanewcoat.` he muttered to the wind. Holding his bottle with both hands he rubbed the four-day growth on his chin. He wondered if he could walk to Sally Ann for a new coat. They might even give him a bit of food. On shaky, wobbly legs, he got to his feet. He looked at his feet. `Whershmyshoes?’ he thought. He wiggled his toes and rubbed his foot on the rocks. He looked at them as if they were not attached to his body but some dismembered parts that had washed ashore with the tide. The cold of the rocks slowly penetrated his soles and he involuntarily shivered, reminding him that those toes and feet were actually part of his broken inebriated body. He lifted the bag and bottle again – a little too quickly. Wine spilled over his chin, creating little red rivulets that twisted their way through his beard, and trickled down his dirty shirt, finally soaking into the rags of his tattered brown coat. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He tried to take a step but the unevenness of the ground and the wasted condition of his brain combined forces against him. He fell hard on the rocks a crumpled, twisted bit of broken humanity, his ugly dirty coat thrown over him.
Early morning sunrays reflected off the river and shimmered on the underside of the bridge. The dirty overcoat groaned in his agony. A family that had ventured down to the river’s edge looked up, startled to realize that they were not alone. He moved from under his dirty brown coat and noticed the youngest of the family. Looking through his bleary eyes, he saw only the gold of her hair. He could make out nothing else. His mind played tricks on him sometimes. He rubbed his eyes. His hands shook as he rubbed. His throat was dry. He needed something to drink real badly. He reached out a hand to free himself so that he could look for his bottle. He could not take his eyes off her as he felt around himself and under himself. He finally found the familiar shape and gripped it tightly. Lifting it to his chapped and bleeding lips, he tried to eke out just another drop.
He noticed movement around the yellow hair. Someone else was there. He felt someone was looking at him.
“Can ya spare a toonie, mate?” he asked of the golden hair.
“Come on, Jennifer. Leave the man alone.”
“He needs a toonie, Dad. Can’t we give him a toonie?”
“Jennifer, come on. Leave the man alone.”
“Yousureareanicegirl,” He slurred.
He could not take his eyes off the young girl. Something in his mind told him there was something about the gold hair that he should know about. He rubbed his face with a trembling hand. Whatwasithewashewassushposhedtoremember? He wondered.
Gold hair. Gold hair. He knew his mom had gold hair. But that was not it. Gold hair.
“Jennifer, we have to go. Come on.”
Jennifer, gold hair. Jennifer, gold hair. There was a connection there.
He tried to get a little more wine out of his bottle. It was empty. The brown paper bag it had been in, was damp and ripped. Useless. Both the bottle and the bag.
“But Dad, the man needs a toonie.”
“Jennifer. That’s enough. If we give him the toonie, he will just spend it on more booze.”
“Thashnottrue.” He said. “I’ll shpenditonfoodatShallyAnn.”
The words did not come out very clear but he hoped they would give him the toonie. He was getting desperate for a drink, now.
Jennifer, gold hair. He could not help thinking there had to be a connection. He wished he had a drink to clear his head a bit so he could think. He squeezed his eyes shut so he could think better. Besides the bright sun was hurting his eyes.
“Mister. Mister. My dad has a toonie for you.”
He opened his eyes and the shiny gold of the hair blended in with the sunlight. He could not tell which was which anymore. He leaned against the bridge piling and looked up into the face of the gold hair. He looked and he remembered. The cloudiness of his mind lifted like the fog on the river and he saw and remembered his own sweet girl, looking down at him so many years before.
She pressed the toonie into his hand. The touch of her hand and the gentleness in her voice was too much for him and he wept. Gold hair touched his face and he wept even harder. She turned and left him.
The brown paper bag lay flattened, damp and broken.
Assignment: WORK IN GROUPS OF THREE OR FOUR TO EDIT THIS PIECE
1. Read through the story, making corrections along the way.
2. Read through the story one paragraph at a time and edit it. Do not hesitate to cross out whole sections that you believe should not be in there.
3. Read through the story again. Is the title appropriate? What other changes would you make? How would your changes affect the theme of the story? Is there a theme?
4. Can you tell that the person who wrote this is a Christian? If you were going to make it so that it was a true slice of life, yet Christian, how would you change it?
