The Tippler

The tippler hiccuped as he swayed to and fro against an old oak tree. He had managed to stumble to the top of a hill, about a mile from the main road. His brain was foggy, and he could not remember how he had gotten there, but what he did remember was that he had been to this spot before. 

That relaxed him, and the poor drunk collapsed down against the tree and planted his bottom on the grass. The bottle of brandy clinked against his belt like a dinner bell, letting him know it was time for another drink. 

As he stared out at the vast fields of crops below, he wondered why he himself could not have been a farmer. Of course, it was never that simple. These things were taught, and passed down, and he was of course just a victim of circumstance like anyone else. 

“Woe is me!” he thought, as he took another deep draught of  his poison from the glass. 

As if it had heard his thoughts, a voice spoke above him, deep and rumbling, as if its words were rooted in the wisdom of a hundred years.

“My dear fellow,” said the voice, “are you not your own master?” The voice paused, but before the tippler could respond he continued. “A man is more than the sum of his parts; do what drives you forward and forget all the rest.” 

The tippler looked back at the tree, and he thought he saw a pair of gleaming yellow eyes just before they snapped shut, and the tree was a tree once more. Had it all been in his head? Was he seeing talking trees and pink elephants? The tippler pondered for a moment. He looked down through the mouth of his bottle, down into the sea of brown liquid sloshing around in the bottom. It seemed to call to him, giving him the easy way out. But it did not drive him. 

He looked back out at the field. Then he looked at his hands. The farmers’ hands were his hands, their hearts beat and their legs walked just like his. They also had lives, and hardships and worries. Who was he to say he had it any harder than the vast multitude of souls he had not met? As the tippler pondered these things, he became dissatisfied. He looked at the bottle once more, and for the first time in his life, he made a real choice. 

He got up and looked around, and spied a rock a few feet back from the tree. He picked up his bottle, and he threw it against the stone with all his might. The glass shattered, and liquor dripped down off the face and returned back to the earth. The tippler remembered his name. Richard. 

Richard got up, and began a long walk down the hill. At the bottom, he found a deep well, and he hoisted the bucket up from the bottom. He drank the cool water until his blood ran full, and poured the rest over his head. He shook himself dry, and he felt the drug slowly leave his mind. He stood for a second, turned, and headed toward the fields, on the road to the farmers house. 

That was the last time Richard ever walked up that hill, but every time he was out working in the field, he would look up at it. And if he looked really close, he thought he could see the eyes of the old oak tree, throwing him a smile, and a wink.