Drunk Frog

Billy Blackman

Published in

The Southern Voice

6 min readAug 15, 2024

I gave a drunk frog a ride to “The Corner Bar” on Monday.

Since it’s at the intersection of US 27 and Scotland Road, somebody did right when he or she named this cinder block shrine to 8-ball and Tom T. Hall.

Well, in truth, it wasn’t “a drunk frog.”

It was a drunk named Frog. At least, that’s what he told me his name was.

But I doubt he was telling me the whole truth. I mean, what self-respecting mama would name her son “Frog?” Even if he did kind’a look the part.

He had approached me in the dollar store as a neighborly gesture to pick off a piece of hay I had hanging from my beard, dangling down and pointing toward the Liberty logo on the bib of my overalls.

“Ya got sum’um hangin’ from there,” he slurred as he reached and pulled it away.

“There’s no tellin’ what it is,” I said. “I’ve been out trimming horses today.”

He gave me a half-way grin through teeth that looked like an old piano keyboard complete with white (well, more yellow than white) and black keys. They were rough looking, kind of like maybe someone had once tried to play “Chopsticks” on them using a hammer.

After throwing the piece of hay on the floor, he walked a little sideways and broke line in front of me to pay for his beer.

Turn the other cheek, my mind told me. It’s not worth it,

I watched him as he wobbled out the door and waved at an invisible car that he stepped out in front of, and hollered something at the driver.

Then, it was my turn to go out the door.

“Hey!” he said as he pointed in a swaying direction, first south, then east, then north, but an average of south. “Are you going that way?” He looked up as if to make sure he was pointing the right way. He was.

“Well, kind’a,” I almost whispered, hoping he was hard of hearing.

“I need a ride to the Corner Bar.”

I looked him over — didn’t see a gun, a knife, a bible, or a pamphlet, and judged him to be no threat.

Some drunks carry bibles and like to use constant scripture quoting as a chaser, hoping to water down their sins, I guess.

I couldn’t smell any alcohol on him, so I figured he had some pride left.

Maybe he was just letting off a little steam, even if it was a workday. Or maybe he was just trying to forget something that needed forgetting. Who am I to judge?

Whatever the reason, it was plain that he had turned over life’s responsibilities to fate.

“Sure, come on,” as I motioned to him. “I’m going that way. I’ll give you a ride.”

“I got money,” he said as he wandered my way, pulling two wadded-up $10 bills out of his shirt pocket, as if he needed to show me he had a source of income, that he was not a so-called “no-account.”

“That’s alright,” I said. “You don’t need to pay me. I’m going right by there. Come on, get in.”

“I got money,” he said again as he wobbled in the general direction of the truck, carrying a 6-pack under his arm in a yellow store bag, him looking for a lift just so he could cat around at a bar.

I also had a yellow bag under my arm. Mone contained a 6-pack of “9 Lives,” and I was on my way to feed cats at the barn.

After having a little trouble bending, coordinating and negotiating, he fell through the passenger side door opening, flopped onto the seat, and put his yellow bag on the floorboard between his feet.

All the while I watched, worried and wondered how many floorboards he’d thrown up in that day.

“I got money,” he said again as he showed me up close the two $10 bills again, both wrinkled like a year-old collard leaf. He held them close to my nose as if he wanted me to sniff what a bouquet of accomplishment smelled like.

“That’s okay,” I said as the truck starter caught and ground the engine a few times until it started up. “There’s no charge.”

“You say you been trim’n cow feet?” he asked. “I’ve milked a few but never given one a pedicure, not since I q-quit drink’n anyway.” He laughed and showed his piano keys again.

“No,” I said. “Trimming horses.”

“Oh,” he said. “I never milked one of them before.”

We both laughed!

The bar was only a mile or so away, so there wasn’t much time for much conversation.

“They call me Frog,” he volunteered.

I didn’t ask why.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

I looked over at him and said, “Billy.”

“As in ‘The Kid’,” he said and grinned.

As I looked over at him again, the truck veered to the right and I ran off the road, but only just a little.

“Whoa!” he said as he applied brakes to the yellow bag at his feet. “W-want me to drive?”

Well, I thought to myself. I’ve never had a drunk complain about my driving. Usually, it’s the other way around.

“I got it,” I said as I looked back toward the road.

We rode on, and I wondered if he was as old as he looked or if the alcohol had just robbed him of a few years.

I couldn’t tell if he was just down on his luck or just up on his blood-alcohol content.

If we’d had more time to talk, I might have found out that he was the stuff legends are made of and that he’d just gotten a little sideways with life. It happens.

After hearing his story, I might have concluded that he was a frog with wings and a halo. But I will never know. The trip to the Corner Bar and to life’s finish line is just too short.

And the way he was wobbling when he walked, he could have used a set of wings to steady himself just a little. Hell, sometimes, we could all use a set of wings to steady ourselves during life’s windstorms.

I’ve seen preachers turn into drunks, and drunks turn into preachers, where backsliding was just a dance step to get from the pulpit to the bar stool and vice versa. You just never know until you hear a person’s story and see life from where he stands.

But I would never find out because we had arrived at his destination. I pulled over to let him out.

And I wondered as he wandered toward the door with his yellow bag under his arm if anyone was wondering where he was, worried sick from not knowing if he was okay and not dying somewhere in a ditch after someone hit him over the head and taken his two $10 bills. You know, nowadays, some people will kill you over two $10 bills.

As he worked his way to that cinder block building, he stopped long enough to hide his yellow bag behind a trash drum near the door.

”They won’t let me bring in my own beer,” he told me. “And you know nowadays, some people will steal your beer if you don’t hide it.”

He invited me to go in with him. But I declined. I had responsibilities that fate would not take care of.

I had cats to feed!

Click here to buy Billy’s book, Seasons in Beulah Land

One reviewer said, “Reading this book is like going back to my childhood and young adult life. It brings cherished memories back, and the beautifully crafted words bring smell, taste, and the wonderful freedom of youth.”

Drunk Frog

I gave a drunk frog a ride to “The Corner Bar” on Monday.

Since it’s at the intersection of US 27 and Scotland Road, somebody did right when he or she named this cinder block shrine to 8-ball and Tom T. Hall.

Well, in truth, it wasn’t “a drunk frog.”

It was a drunk named Frog. At least, that’s what he told me his name was.

But I doubt he was telling me the whole truth. I mean, what self-respecting mama would name her son “Frog?” Even if he did kind’a look the part.

He had approached me in the dollar store as a neighborly gesture to pick off a piece of hay I had hanging from my beard, dangling down and pointing toward the Liberty logo on the bib of my overalls.

“Ya got sum’um hangin’ from there,” he slurred as he reached and pulled it away.

“There’s no tellin’ what it is,” I said. “I’ve been out trimming horses today.”

He gave me a half-way grin through teeth that looked like an old piano keyboard complete with white (well, more yellow than white) and black keys. They were rough looking, kind of like maybe someone had once tried to play “Chopsticks” on them using a hammer.

After throwing the piece of hay on the floor, he walked a little sideways and broke line in front of me to pay for his beer.

Turn the other cheek, my mind told me. It’s not worth it,

I watched him as he wobbled out the door and waved at an invisible car that he stepped out in front of, and hollered something at the driver.

Then, it was my turn to go out the door.

“Hey!” he said as he pointed in a swaying direction, first south, then east, then north, but an average of south. “Are you going that way?” He looked up as if to make sure he was pointing the right way. He was.

“Well, kind’a,” I almost whispered, hoping he was hard of hearing.

“I need a ride to the Corner Bar.”

I looked him over — didn’t see a gun, a knife, a bible, or a pamphlet, and judged him to be no threat.

Some drunks carry bibles and like to use constant scripture quoting as a chaser, hoping to water down their sins, I guess.

I couldn’t smell any alcohol on him, so I figured he had some pride left.

Maybe he was just letting off a little steam, even if it was a workday. Or maybe he was just trying to forget something that needed forgetting. Who am I to judge?

Whatever the reason, it was plain that he had turned over life’s responsibilities to fate.

“Sure, come on,” as I motioned to him. “I’m going that way. I’ll give you a ride.”

“I got money,” he said as he wandered my way, pulling two wadded-up $10 bills out of his shirt pocket, as if he needed to show me he had a source of income, that he was not a so-called “no-account.”

“That’s alright,” I said. “You don’t need to pay me. I’m going right by there. Come on, get in.”

“I got money,” he said again as he wobbled in the general direction of the truck, carrying a 6-pack under his arm in a yellow store bag, him looking for a lift just so he could cat around at a bar.

I also had a yellow bag under my arm. Mone contained a 6-pack of “9 Lives,” and I was on my way to feed cats at the barn.

After having a little trouble bending, coordinating and negotiating, he fell through the passenger side door opening, flopped onto the seat, and put his yellow bag on the floorboard between his feet.

All the while I watched, worried and wondered how many floorboards he’d thrown up in that day.

“I got money,” he said again as he showed me up close the two $10 bills again, both wrinkled like a year-old collard leaf. He held them close to my nose as if he wanted me to sniff what a bouquet of accomplishment smelled like.

“That’s okay,” I said as the truck starter caught and ground the engine a few times until it started up. “There’s no charge.”

“You say you been trim’n cow feet?” he asked. “I’ve milked a few but never given one a pedicure, not since I q-quit drink’n anyway.” He laughed and showed his piano keys again.

“No,” I said. “Trimming horses.”

“Oh,” he said. “I never milked one of them before.”

We both laughed!

The bar was only a mile or so away, so there wasn’t much time for much conversation.

“They call me Frog,” he volunteered.

I didn’t ask why.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

I looked over at him and said, “Billy.”

“As in ‘The Kid’,” he said and grinned.

As I looked over at him again, the truck veered to the right and I ran off the road, but only just a little.

“Whoa!” he said as he applied brakes to the yellow bag at his feet. “W-want me to drive?”

Well, I thought to myself. I’ve never had a drunk complain about my driving. Usually, it’s the other way around.

“I got it,” I said as I looked back toward the road.

We rode on, and I wondered if he was as old as he looked or if the alcohol had just robbed him of a few years.

I couldn’t tell if he was just down on his luck or just up on his blood-alcohol content.

If we’d had more time to talk, I might have found out that he was the stuff legends are made of and that he’d just gotten a little sideways with life. It happens.

After hearing his story, I might have concluded that he was a frog with wings and a halo. But I will never know. The trip to the Corner Bar and to life’s finish line is just too short.

And the way he was wobbling when he walked, he could have used a set of wings to steady himself just a little. Hell, sometimes, we could all use a set of wings to steady ourselves during life’s windstorms.

I’ve seen preachers turn into drunks, and drunks turn into preachers, where backsliding was just a dance step to get from the pulpit to the bar stool and vice versa. You just never know until you hear a person’s story and see life from where he stands.

But I would never find out because we had arrived at his destination. I pulled over to let him out.

As he worked his way to that cinder block building, he stopped long enough to hide his yellow bag behind a trash drum near the door.

”They won’t let me bring in my own beer,” he told me. “And you know nowadays, some people will steal your beer if you don’t hide it.”

He invited me to go in with him. But I declined. I had responsibilities that fate would not take care of.

I had cats to feed!

Click here to buy Billy’s book, Seasons in Beulah Land

One reviewer said, “Reading this book is like going back to my childhood and young adult life. It brings cherished memories back, and the beautifully crafted words bring smell, taste, and the wonderful freedom of youth.”

Written by Billy Blackman