Beginnings - "Rough Sunset"

Rough Sunset
George opened his eyes. "It must be morning," he thought. There was too much street traffic, morning buses, air brakes, horns trumpeting in a new day in the city. George rolled to his knees, not an easy task in that he was still slightly drunk and kneeling on a broken cardboard box and a full garbage bag. He put an inquiring hand skyward, pushing on the plastic cover of the dumpster, and peered through bloodshot eyes out into the alley.
The morning sun had not yet reached the tops of the city buildings, leaving long grey shadows and a prevailing darkness in the alley. George hooked an arm over the side of the navy blue city dumpster. He could sense the wetness, between his forearm and the metal, of rotten tomates and what smelled like canned soup. Leaning out away from the dumpster, he rolled forward and fell to his back in a cloud of dust and bits of old newspaper. The plastic lid slammed shut behind him with a dull thud. George gathered himself and slowly climbed to his feet before wobbling toward the rectangle of light indicating where the alley met the busy street.
The alleyway was a jumble of garbage bags dropped from the apartments above. An old rusted yellow bicycle, missing its wheels, had been thrown or propped to one side. George reached the end of the alley and stopped. The world, moving anxiously, passed by him on multiple conveyer belts. Cars moved rapidly, honking and squealing at one another. People, dressed for work, walked passed with purpose and direction. George stood and absorbed the city’s energy. He rocked slightly on his heels, back and forth and side to side, watching colors pass in front of his eyes.
He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. His right hand fumbled with his pants pocket. He had been given a five dollar bill the previous evening from a couple on a walk. He had been sitting there, leaning against the corner of the building, at the entrance to the alley. They had dropped the money into his lap without saying a word to him. They talked about him as they continued to walk. Dripping with self-righteousness, they complained about the city. With the poor cluttering the streets. "Why didn’t they clean themselves up and get a job. Laziness, that’s what it was, laziness. They just all live off the system." The couple turned the corner and were gone.... but not forgotten. Deep in the recesses of his brain, beyond the alcohol, the words were recorded.
George fished the bill from his pocket, studying it intently. He held it to his nose and smelled it. It smelled of expensive perfume and fish. The fish was probably from his pants. He looked down at himself. Tattered tennis shoes, that he had found on the steps of a nearby apartment building, jeans, which were once light blue denim but now had stains of dark reds, oranges and browns, mostly browns, and a shirt that seemed to match the pants. A coordinated pair, long sleeved, its cuffs and collar were frayed. Originally, a dark green, the shirt had long since taken on the same multi-stained pattern. The two top and two bottom buttons were missing, leaving a generally open ragged appearance.
George put the five dollar bill between his lips. Then, with both hands, he brushed down, straightening his shirt, and tucked the ends into his pants. Plucking the bill from his mouth, he stuffed it into his left breast pocket and took a deep breath. He then turned to his right and walked stiffly down the sidewalk toward a tiny corner cafe.