He is a man of many names and a citizen of the world, your recluse neighbour.

He wakes up from his slumber, decides that it isn't worth it and goes back to sleep.

He wakes up a few hours later feeling the familiar "I've had enough sleep", any further sleep would be counter-productive. He is not ready for the world, so after spending nearly an hour in bed on his phone he decides it's time for a beer.


The fridge door is full of sauce bottles, at least he thinks they are sauce bottles, they never get used or looked at. Inside the fridge is a lemon, a two week old cucumber and beer. He counts the beers that are left from the day before... ten, he inadvertently nods, 14 beers last night and no hangover, he chuckles to himself about a joke he heard about American beer.

Q: How is American beer like making love in a canoe?
A: It's fucking close to water.

There is a throwing knife hanging on the wall next to the fridge, how else do you open a beer? It stays on the wall, these are twist-tops, he doesn't usually drink these, so he hasn't developed a callus on his middle finger (from opening beers) like some of his drinking buddies, so he uses his t-shirt to help him twist off the cap and expertly flings it into the bin.

It's Miller, not his beer of choice, but he likes to mix it up once in a while, he bought a slab yesterday and it doesn't even look like it'll last him two days. "No wonder I'm broke" is the recurring thought.

He takes a sip and goes to inspect his backyard, it's sunny and beautiful and one of very few things makes him feel that he's like other people. He admires his handiwork from the day before, even with the 14 beers, he still managed to prune the trees and do some gardening. "A functioning alcoholic" comes to mind, and this reminds him of a Robin William's comedy sketch "it's like being a paraplegic lap dancer, you CAN do it, just not as well as the others"

It's 3 hours later, no longer morning, and he is drunk again.