We are sitting on the grass field drinking tallboys of Coors Light after the annual Thanksgiving Day football game. I am smoking a cigarette and lying flat on my back, having taken a mighty beating in the hour's worth of my being there.
"I slept outside last night. It seems to be the thing to do when I'm drunk."
"Again?" I'm not terribly surprised anymore.
"Yea. I got my sleeping bag and my mat, took them outside, put my shoes nice and neat next to the bag, and went to sleep. I think I might have jumped off the deck. But then I fucking rolled down the hill at one point and woke up on that wall, and I kept trying to roll back over and go to sleep, and then I fell off it. I fucked myself up." He shows me the bruises that decorate his elbow and hands.
"I always wonder what the neighbors must think, the people on the left are new. I thought I woke up at like 8, but it was really noon."
"Oh yea. They're probably getting home from Church or something and they see you sleeping drunk half in the street with a sleeping bag twisted around you."
"We're the salt of the Earth dude."