HOW THE FUCK DID I GET HERE?

Was talking to S O’Bastard last night as we stood outside the bar we’d been playing. He was smoking, telling me about the new life was his in a few days.
‘I’ve got skills,’ he said. ‘Talents people want. That’s why they like me.’
;Is that right?’ I said.
‘Yeh, I get around,’ he said, ‘I travelled across Europe by singing songs and playing guitar.’
A young man walked over to us. He had a row of quarter inch red sores across his forehead, on his chin, and some more in a line down his neck. His hair was greased back at the sides like Elvis if he’d been a young street junky in Bristol.
The young man shook SO'B’s outstretched hand. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said. ‘What am I going to do?’
‘You’ll do what you think is best for you,’ said SO’B. ‘It’ll be your decision, whatever it is.’
‘I liked the way you spoke to him,’ I said after the young man had gone. ‘You were very gentle.’
He said, ‘I know what it’s like to find yourself somewhere and wonder, “how the fuck did I get here?”’