He’s downed a few, staring at the bar TV. Ads are on advertising pills for illnesses of the bowel, skin and not ever being able to sleep. Everyone has a smile on their face. Why has everyone got a smile on their face? asks the drunk man looking at America. We switch to baseball. Not much is happening. The drunk man stares at nothing happening. He eats a pretzel, a jumbo one, washing it down in beer. He chokes, splutters. The slugger strikes out at the diamond. We switch to a soap opera and the drunk man orders a cocktail and stirs it with a short straw watching a man in a suit get together with a woman in a suit, and have a close up shot of good thick lips. Those are TV lips, says the drunk man, who has thin strafed reeds surrounding his mouth. We switch to the news and it’s the guy Wolf Blitzer, and the drunk man looking at America, says, he looks like a ghost. But Wolf Blitzer doesn’t look like a ghost, and I start to count what he has drunk, 4 beers, a tequila, 2 rum and cokes, a confused picture. I switch to NASCAR, and we watch lap on lap on lap on lap and the drunk man looking at America drops his head on the bar, hypnotized. I can let him sleep for five minutes before he goes to work as a pilot, a test pilot for consumer surveys, that’s how he makes money, giving his opinion to testers of products sold to the public for all kinds of things like cars and cures. He wakes up from his coma and leaves. The drunk man who looks at America will have his opinions heard soon.
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