1000 Characters, 7: Orwell. "Sir, please, we don't want to have to call the police," Orwell had said, wondering how someone could be this drunk at 8 pm? On a Tuesday? But he had to set that aside as the man causing the trouble had lunged past him into the dining room, where the patrons, already aware of this disturbance, had stopped eating and drinking to watch, discreetly from their peripheral vision or in the mirrors of compacts, or at least listen and wait for someone at the table to tell them what was happening. Orwell had been able to stop the man, barely, and pull him up by his jacket collar. Orwell was far stronger than he looked, the wiry muscles of a triathlete hidden underneath the slightly-too-large white shirt he wore at work. "PLEASE, SIR," he'd whisper-shouted. "I will call the police!" The man had shaken off Orwells' hand and turned on him, yelling "Dont you know who I am?" Orwell did, and had said so quietly. The man had suddenly looked shocked, and very sober.