You tube, you die...a little

I watched a man drag himself into a Hell of his own design and circumstance and heard someone say, 'we should shoot this for YouTube, it'll go viral'. The man crawled from an alcove of an alleyway in broad daylight, less than 50 metres from Grafton St, one of this city's busiest shopping thoroughfares. In his wake, he left the discarded remains of his 'works'; scorched foil and a throwaway syringe. He was a tall man, ruddy faced and once, considered 'well built'. Now he staggered, bleary eyed and nodding, an open, scabbed, scar over his left eye. He took two steps and then fell flat on his face. We could hear the loud splat where we stood, at the door of a pub, less than 25 metres from where he lay. Then there was silence. His clothes were dark and grimy with dirt. Now as he lay in the lane, his arse was exposed, his jeans having worked their way down his hips, not by design, but circumstance. His body blocked the laneway. It was mid-afternoon and the 'footfall', as the property agents like to say, of pedestrians was frequent. Taxis streamed around the block's one way traffic system to compete for the needs of shoppers and guests in the nearby five star, luxury hotel. Now, they stopped and watched, before completing a three point turn, to go back the way they came. Remarks were made. 'It's a fuckin' disgrace.' 'Someone should call the Guards.' 'He needs an ambulance, not the Guards.' 'I wouldn't touch him with yours.' Then, 'we should shoot this for YouTube. It'll go viral.'
The prone and obliviously half naked man, began to stir. He raised himself enough to crawl on his hands and knees, towards the footpath. One hand reached out to grasp the earthenware pot of an olive tree that stood outside an Italian restaurant in the lane. His other hand steadied him while he eased the pot towards the edge of the footpath. It looked as though he planned to use the plant pot for leverage, to get to his feet. He eased himself up so now he knelt, like a prayerful supplicant. One hand rested lightly on the plant pot. The other fumbled at his waist. Then he began to piss, loudly and copiously, into the plant pot. When he finished, he levered himself upright, until he was standing again. His audience were silent. Some of them turned away. He fixed his trousers and covered his paper white buttocks that looked like two half moons, kissing. He walked away, oblivious and unaware of the scene he'd set, the audience he gathered. His moment of infamy passed unrecorded; just another moment of destitution, forgotten.