WHEN THE Mighty Sparrow sang “Drunk and Disorderly’ he must have had Harold in mind.
‘Drunk and Disorderly, always in custody. Me friend and me family, all them fed up wid me. Drunk and disorderly; every weekend I in de jail. Drunk and disorderly, nobody to stand me bail….’

Harold seemed to have patterned his life after this popular calypso. He drank every night. The only time that things changed was on the weekend. On these occasions he drank even more and got much drunker than two case of large El-Dorado Rum.
If he was not sleeping it off on the side of the street, he would be wallowing around in a gutter or raising such a din that forced residence to summon the police. At first, he would be arrested then released the next morning. No charges were laid against him. This was quite normal in the small rural community of Confluence, where everybody knew each other. But after a while they stopped locking Harold up.

Harold’s wife had tried to help him make a change. This was not successful. He continued on his merry ways chasing every bottle he could. One important feature about his drinking habits was that he did not spend a lot of money on liquor. His friends did most of the buying and he did most of the drinking.
Whenever he managed to walk home he could be seen weaving and wobbling all over the place. One night he entered the wrong house and was rudely ejected. Another evening he banged and hammered on the door of a police officer’s home. Angered by the disturbance, the irate cop handcuffed Harold and dragged him down to the station. When the veteran policeman saw them approaching, they quickly instructed the new officer to release him.
He did so reluctantly wondering why this old drunk had such a profound effect on his colleagues.
They had their reasons. He was once arrested and placed in the lockup for disorderly conduct and intoxication. He was seen urinating on parked cars. Half an hour after his incarceration the officers were assailed by a foul, pungent odour. On investigating the source of their discomfort they found the ‘drunk’ wallowing in his vomit and excretion. It took them close to a week to clean the station. He was never again arrested.

Harold bobbed and weaved, as he steered uncertainly for home. It had been a good binge and he was filled to overflowing with four brands of liquor; gin, vodka, whiskey and rum. He had put up a good showing in each category and now he was on the way home proud of his conquest. He had for company a half bottle of El-Dorado rum tucked awkwardly in his back pocket. Every now and then he reached for the bottle and took a mouthful.

He drifted merrily on his way. One problem Harold experienced every night was the urge to urine frequently. He made pit stops along the way to relieve his over taxed bladder. The source seemed unlimited because no sooner had he passed water than the urge was back again. So he weaved, wobbled and leaked, bobbed, weaved and gushed on his way home.
As he staggered around a dark corner, he tilted towards the bushes on the side of the mud road and fumbled for his troublesome fly. Soon he was smiling in relief. Then he was back on the road. Harold arrived home and took quite some time to open the door and enter. He stripped and fell into bed.

He dreamt that he was sitting on the Jetty watching the ships drift by. An old man in white approached him.
“Harold I want to speak to you”.
Harold looked up at him but did not recognize him as a friend, that is, someone who regularly sponsored him a drink.
“Sure old man”.
The man looked as though he was very angry and his voice left no doubt about this.
“You have no respect of other people”.

The accusation was sharp and directed at the puzzled man.
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
This was his best approach. He had offended so many people in the past that he had lost count. He wondered what he had done to this poor fellow.
“You are very disrespectful to me!”
“No way! I have never even meet you before!” Harold bellowed.
The man stormed off muttering angrily to himself.

Harold awoke in a slightly confused state but this too was nothing new.
The next night was a carbon copy of the previous. When he fell into bed his bottle of rum was empty. He began to snore before his head hit the pillow.
He dreamt that he was walking home drunk to the world. Every now and then he would stop and pass water. Halfway, home and just around the same dark corner, he headed to the side and began to urine.
Rassssssp!
Grrrrrrate!

A rasping and grating sound could be heard nearby. He looked over his shoulder but no one was there. As his head swung to the front he saw a man standing a short distance off. It was the same old man in white. He stood there glaring murderously at Harold. In his hand was a razor sharp cutlass and he was snarling with a ferocity that caused goosebumps to erupt on the drunk man’s skin. What horrified drunken Harold was the man’s stare. His vicious eyes were not looking Harold in the face. His focus was elsewhere.
“Tonight I gon stop you from peeing all over de place. You pee on me grave!”
With that the man advanced, a malicious sneer on his face. The cutlass was poised for action.

“Yeeaaaaah”
Harold screamed in terror and stumbled backwards. His clumsy finger struggled to fix his fly.
Zzzip!
With a might tog, Harold closed the zipper and screamed for a second time as a sharp jolt of pain shot through his belly. Quivering in pain he raced away from there heading for home and safety. Harold came awake howling and sweating in terror, He looked wildly around expecting to see the old terrorist hovering nearby but his bedroom was empty. He made a quick body check then sighed in relief. He would have one hell of a tale for his buddies tonight. One thing for sure, if he wanted to pee in future, he would find a car.