That's A Wrap...

He was unable to feel the true temperature of his hands as he touched his rosy cheeks. The temperature of his hands and face cancelled each other out when he dug himself a grave within the bitter snow; he tripped off of the sidewalk. Maybe tripped isn’t the proper word… collapsed, sounds more appropriate. His jacket was obscenely depressing and his scarf of turmoil portrayed no such hope for the journey he was about to carry out. The alcohol on his breath could not fade away by the quantity of snow in his jaws. His groans of agitation could be heard from blocks away. This man was not well; he had to have arthritis- something that would cause him to be in so much pain. He knew he had to get back up and he was searching for the technique to do so. It was not the getting up that was wearing him down; not just yet. He might not be able to get up. He was persistently out of breath and every time he would scramble to his knees, they gave in as he plummeted into the snow once again. He had to overcome this obstacle; he must get up. Embarrassed, this meager old man peered in the region of the gawking audience who hesitated to help, and knew what had happened. He was disgusted by their reaction and expressed his sadistic emotion underneath his scarf, alone- as if he wasn’t there. No one knew who he was, not even me. He knew… he had to get up on his own.
The man looked out from his scarf a second time after what seemed like ten or so minutes. The wind set in motion; gave a good thrust across his face and lifted his thick beard upon his cheek. The sound was like sandpaper, but it was more pleasant than nails on a chalkboard, despite the bitter chill. He thought he was cold. The crowd knew he was cold. This man had enough of this shit. He needed to find his strength, and it could not be within the bottle of whiskey this time. He was excessively accustomed to that nature of help. His arthritis must really be kicking in because his screams wouldn’t be that loud if he was simply pleading for Jack Daniels; or would it?
This skimpy old fool conducted a little movement again, as the crowd still watched him, not knowing what to do.
“Help me, you idiot!” His pleads to the crowd, or Mr. Daniels, leaked from the layers of cloth around his neck.
There was no response. “Help me, damn it!”
No help. “I can’t yell anymore…”
No motivation. “Aghhh!”
As anger filled his heart and lungs, this man burned his throat with a voice so livid; he lifted his dead-weight body out of the mountain of snow and knelt down on his knees with such grave beauty. He was unable to feel the true temperature of his hands as he touched his rosy cheeks. The air was as bitter as the taste of aggravation in his mouth and the scarf of turmoil no longer kept him warm. His jacket was significantly wet and felt colder than the surrounding air. When he stood up with the assistance from a burst of wind, he stood with a fragile confidence that portrayed his old age. The frost that formed within the hairs of his beard slowly slid off the ends and the air blew his jacket open as the spectators began to saunter away. He knew he had to get up, with help or not. I seem to be the only one clapping because it was drop dead gorgeous. It was then that I called it a night.
“That’s a wrap, people,” I said, “Great job!” I proceeded with the applause as the lights came on and the crew collected the cords; it was drop dead gorgeous. The old man approached me and asked, “Was that good enough for the scene?”
I could still smell the whiskey on his breath; I don’t suppose I have ever smiled that hard prior to that moment. I could only walk away silently and as perfect as the scene was, I wanted that old man to act it out again just to experience it one more time… if that old man doesn’t drink too much.