Jerry The Drunk

The clock said 11:15, which meant it was 10:50, about time for Jerry the Drunk to walk through the back door, say his hellos, talk about how work went, and get down to work at his second job, the one he likes best, the job of getting blown away.
His hair is combed neatly, his entrance modest one. Work went fine, thank you. He doesn't need to order, of course. Just keep the pitchers coming and he'll let it be known when it's time to mix in a shot. One pitcher down. Two pitchers. A shot. Another pitcher. Now the stories are flowing almost as fast as the liquid escape from life and all its sucker punches. Some are told about him, some by him.
He's had his job flipping burgers for eight months now, which has to be some sort of record, he's certain. He's come a long way since that first night when he remembered to put all the fixings on the Western Special Hamburger. The Russian dressing, the pickles, the lettuce, the onions, the tomatoes, the mustard. It wasn't until the impatient wide-end at the drive-through window sent it back that Jerry learned he had forgotten to put the meat between the buns.
His laugh makes everybody in the place that was old the day it was built feel better. His eyes are on fire now. He doesn't have to be in until 3 the next afternoon. Life is great. One more pitcher. He's gotta go, but it can wait until he's finished. No it can't. He's halfway through the pitcher. He's wet himself. Again. The bartender grabs him by a couple of dry spots — the back of his belt and by the shirt behind the neck — kicks the back door open with his foot and tosses Jerry onto the pavement. Jerry will never learn, the other customers lament. They say they wish he'd find another watering hole, but they don't mean it. They keep tossing him out and letting him back in. He's as guilty a pleasure as the Neil Diamond tunes they select on the jukebox when nobody's watching them.