Unlike other drunkards in his village, Pius was a decent man – his fabric of character cut deep from decorum and etiquette – and with a way in disguise that made him easily feel one with people. He was tall, dark, very thin and he wore his worn-out brown overcoat and beaten boots every day – because he wore them every time he went to ‘The Pub of Pius’ – the pub that was named after him.
Not because he owned it, but because that was where he pegged his coat in the evening and unhung it in the morning. It was the only place where he felt much at home. In fact, he only needed to get there, and his heart would tell him he was home. where he felt tall like a mountain, stood at the top of the world, drink happiness from the fountain and laugh at the reflection of his wrinkled face at the bottom of the glass in his hand.
He was a villager all his life, living in the same land that his father was buried, the land that he (his father) had inherited from his grandfather and the grandfather from his father and so on. Cemented with composure, he greeted people with a bow and scrape, and his voice was deep and heavy with no pimples at all. When you listened him talk, you felt the love, the incantation of his clichés and the being there of him in the moment.
Many associated the cause of his actions as the result of his humbling lifetime tribulations, he had a balls kick from his granny’s calf and that had left him at social crossroads, limping and difficult for him when drunk to jump the ditch at his gate – the ditch that he was rained on and died in after a night of a few too many.
Even aged 64, expectations were still his death sentence.