As the acrid taste of whisky washes down my throat, I welcome the strange mixture of guttural nausea and chemical relaxation associated with straight booze. The warming glow of my fifth shot begins to mellow me out and calms the raging headache behind my eyes. I give a nod to the bartender for another round of gut shot to settle my nerves. I roll my shoulders trying to loosen the tension from my thirteen hour day. The bottle is almost empty. The bar-keep tops my shot glass off with an extra half pour that almost overflows the top. The over-pour is threatening to run down the sides, but I promise it won’t live that long.

He knocks the liquor license from the bottle with an ear shattering back hand whack of the bar key. The high pitched clack-clack adds fuel to the flame of my headache making me audibly groan. I call him an asshole under my breath and I hope he heard me. Mike is off today, and I don’t know this guy’s name. He doesn’t know to keep my shots coming until I’m done. I embrace that all too familiar feeling that I might not be driving out of here.

I maintain a God-like view on the people drinking behind me with the aid of large mirror hung cockeyed behind the bar. The glow of the neon light alters my neighbors and bestows on them alien-colored skin. There are two people in the corner behind me sitting awkwardly on the same side of the table in a booth. People in long term relationships never sit that close. I can read from their skittish body language that they are piecing together whispered conversations and the heavy handed flirtations of new lovers.

It makes me remember the fire of newly found love. The fear of the un-touched hand, the taste of bated breath. I barely remember what that feels like. It has been three years since I was in a relationship. Hell, moore than three years since I was involved with someone deeper than how my hand looks cupped on their ass. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I don’t even bother to look at it. I know who it is. Tami won’t get the message that what we had is not anything more that what it was. No amount of telephone calls will change a one night stand into a relationship. Hardest part to understand is that I was honest with her from the beginning.

In the back to the left, two semi-athletic college kids are giving the basics of pool 101 to two fresh-meat sorority girls. The guys must have coerced the girls away from the clubs downtown judging from the high heels and fake designer dresses. The girls are beyond overdressed for this hole in the wall bar. One girl is cute in that weird eastern European way, and the other is southern gaudy trash. But she has a great ass and I don’t mind looking as she lines up her next shot. The first college kid is a beast of a man. To see him completely in one glance you almost need a double take. The other guy is below average in all aspects, and judging from his overzealous mannerisms, he knows it.

The oldest man I have ever seen sits in a dark table to the left of the bathroom. I’m not sure if he chose the dark spot or if the light simply refuses to set upon him. His wind-cracked face only moves when he drinks his beer. The weathered leather jacket he wears is held together with a glue mixture made of sweat and dirt. In his hand he holds a broken drumstick that came off the impromptu stage in the front, and is turning it over in his hand. If this was the Wild West, substitute a bottle of whisky and 45 long Colt, he would be a gunslinger half in the bag and half in the grave.

Ten o’clock, according to the backward time on the wall behind me. My headache begins to slide away as a new crowd comes flooding in. This place gets pretty slammed on Thursdays. The Racecar bar gets a fair amount of foot traffic because it is sandwiched in between the main drag and the college campus. This place bridges the gap between active social college life and dull monotonous adulthood. There is a good mix of young and old men and women that trickle in throughout the night. Some come in trying to recapture misspent youth, at the same time others are misspending it.

I eyeball the bartender that I need another drink. He pretends not to see me. A move that tells me without words that he thinks my limit is near. He doesn’t know that I’ve not really even started. As I follow new comers from the door to the side bar for their turn in line, I notice a freckle faced boy. He leads a slightly older, but still too young, piece of arm candy to a table. He heads to the bar. She makes herself accustomed to new surroundings in that awkward mixture of fake confidence and fear that the underage have while drinking in bars. He can’t be older than 19 judging from his bathroom-practiced swagger. Her uneasiness sitting alone at the table puts her at barely 20. Their table is just out of arms reach of the jukebox, but I can see from the look on her face that she has begun to mentally pick her favorite songs.
Temperature outside is falling judging from the cool gusts banging in from the outside. Not extremely cold for the rest of the states, but pretty cold for Texas. I hear that it is going to be in the 40’s and not very surprising, these South Texans are obnoxiously over dressed for the elements. Wool caps, mittens, and scarves are overcrowding chairs and side tables like birds in a corn field. The cool wind that rides in from the open door is slightly muted by the whisky. A cool crisp chill slaps the back of my head causing my headache to push back from my temples for the moment. As my headache lessens, I begin to feel more optimistic about the night.
I overhear the bartenders name is Steven from his conversation with the minor. I guess they are friends and that’s why he is allowed to impress his date. Noise from the electric dart board stiffens my back as the first round of quarters roll into the slots. The bar springs to life and the place settles into a steady buzz of incomplete conversations and guitar riffs from the jukebox. The second bartender, Britani, shows up bundled for the cold and carrying dinner from the Mexican restaurant next door. She sets her tinfoil burrito on the bar top; I fake a grab at it, and she slaps my hand. Steven recognizes that I’m a regular and he loosens his grip on my whisky bottle. The shot warms my soul and muddles my brain. I think I may switch to beer, or my night might be over before it starts.
As my headache weakens my tongue is no longer stuck in my pocket. I strike up a conversation with the strangers around me. A traveling salesman sitting to my right is slumped over his beer in exhaustion. He is cut from the short-stocky man mold. In a bold northern accent he tells me of his wife and kids back home in Michigan. He loves the weather here, and together we share a causal laugh at the bundled snow bunnies of Texas. I fade out the conversation as I am not in the mood to talk about happy family relationships. A bitter middle age woman sits crumpled to my left. I judge from her broken spirit and sour demeanor that she has made many bad decisions. She started her young life with too many kids leading her into a disastrous divorce. She speaks to me like she is talking to herself, low and distant. She never looks up from her glass even to order a new gin and tonic.
Heater kicks on causing me to lose my jacket. My slender shoulders are visible through my V neck t-shirt while my below average arms practice 12oz curls. I keep mental notes on the prospects that come in behind me. There are two single women sitting at a table behind my right shoulder. One is a big healthy bitch, that won’t shut-up; her voice is like nails on a chalkboard. Her cute, but slightly homely, friend looks easy. If I play my cards right she might even be drunk-able. If I find myself at closing time wasted drunk and with no other options available, I wouldn’t feel too ashamed if I woke up in her bed. Eye contact with Britani scores me another shot with a cold beer chaser. My headache is a toppled foe that hasn’t been completely cleared from the battlefield.
An uneasy hand touches my shoulder. I turn to see red hair standing about five foot nothing. I instantly recognize it as a friend of my ex-girlfriend. Her name escapes me, but I don’t really bother to remember. I farm out a “Hey you” and a “How ya been” and she moves to the back of the room just out of sight from my mirror. Out of nostalgia or a momentary weakness, a desire flashes through my mind begging me to call my ex. She was another spark in my life that has faded. Life has taught me that the general memory of past loves and relationships, when remembered from a bar stool, are brighter and more vivid than it ever was in live action. Love lost is always better and stronger than the real thing. I lie to myself that I’m better off and that she wasn’t right for me. But deep down I know that it would have been a good life. A decent life. The loud crack of a pool stick shatters my thoughts as the last semi-warm swallow from my beer wets my tongue while drying it at the same time. My Michigan friend orders the next round of drinks and tells me not to worry about it. A drunken midnight haze settles in to the bar. People have started to pass the point of no return, talking louder and dancing with more fluidity. I confirm five after midnight with the backward clock, spinning into the future, instead of marking the past.
A fight at the pool table breaks the levity of the evening. Two smart mouth kids end the night with cold words and warm blood spilt on the hardwood. The party recovers well enough with only a few of the old timers throwing in their hats for the evening. The old dusty man in the shadows is as stoic as a wooden Indian outside a barbershop. If he didn’t move the bottle of beer from its resting position to his lips from time to time, I think the medics would be called to check for a pulse. Another bottle crashes to the floor and everyone ducks expecting another fight. The minor and his date freeze like two squirrels caught in headlights, not knowing whether to run to safety or stand strong in defiance of certain death. Steven grabs the broom behind the bar heading over to clean the shattered glass. The dart board drones on with endless beeps and burps of noise defining victory or defeat. I close my eyes as the night burns with familiarity.
She ordered a Paulaner to my right. I’m not sure how she managed to sneak in under my all-seeing rear view. A soft aroma settled around the bar top half a second after she spoke. A subtle flowery girl smell grabs my half-drunken memory banks, and sets them spinning to mark if I know it. Nothing registers. The drunken salesman leaves his seat and shuffles towards the door. She sidesteps his stagger to avoid a collision causing her elbow to glance off of mine. A spark of excitement is ignited. I gently acknowledge the contact by moving my arm closer to my chest to redefine my personal space. A gentle apology floats in my direction as she confirms the moment. The look I steal over my shoulder is so fast the gun-slinging drummer in the shadows would have been in a pine box. But she catches me. My breath stops and nearly chokes me as it trips over itself in my mouth. Her piercing eyes slow the backward clock and hold me in place. I absorb the classic beauty of her face as the pulse of the moment tightens awkwardly begging for the release of eye contact. My contacts dry forcing me to blink and break the spell. My forgiveness comes out in a breathy jumble of words that gets caught in my teeth. I don’t think even I could understand my words, so I say it again to clarify. Her eyes shine in that way that tells me she thinks I’m cute, but she is not up for anything else. I look back at my beer with an uncontrollable desire to see her face again. I trace the shape of her silhouette in my mind, and note all the flecks of colors that I saw in her eyes. Her heart shaped face strikes a perfect balance between being absolutely symmetrical and slightly askew. My fingers shred my beer napkin with nervous angst. I worry that all of the depression, fear and boredom in my eyes will keep her away. I look at my god’s eye view of the bar and see that she has taken the salesmen’s seat. I can feel every eye in my mirror looking at me demanding for me to do something. I’m frozen. Opening topics get edited and filtered a hundred times over. I’m left with nothing that is right; nothing that fits. I replay scenarios in my mind’s eye and every time I fail to say anything that makes any sense. I realize I’ve been holding my breath and I let out a sigh of frustration.
She’s halfway through her first drink when I decide to turn and smile, intending to goad her to talk first. She missed it. Instead she is looking at her amber colored beer, unknowingly wiping the condensation from the hardened glass. A few lazy hairs have fallen from her ear and hang in her downturned face. There is pain and confusion in her body language as her shoulders are stiff and slightly slumped back in her chair. Her milk colored fingers and hands are moist from tracing the water on the glass. Her neck is barely visible through her medium length hay-colored hair. I can see that from the faint outline of her ears that they are abnormally large. I can’t help but smile as I lock that piece of information away. A thin gold chain hangs around her neck and tucks gently into the top of her blouse. Her lips are pursed as she enjoys last sip of her drink. She feels me looking and her eyes move before her head turns. She cuts her eyes in my direction and can only see me out of the faintest of peripherals. The corners of her modestly shaped mouth move upward, unnoticed by god’s view, a smile only I can see. I feel it lifting my confusion, I speak. She slowly turns and sees me fully. My thoughts begin to cloud over again but I hold them by their rat-like tails. As she responds, her voice grabs my shoulders and demands that I adjust my posture. When she speaks her lips move in small subtle and foreign ways. I’m in a blur induced by a combination of a magic spell and strong bourbon whisky. I don’t know what I’m saying, but she likes it. She leans forward while I speak, and her head is cocked to the side as if confused by my words. Her eyes close when she laughs and she uncrosses her ankles on the bar stool. I can only hear her, even thought I notice her right hand taps rhythm to a song I’ve quieted to the background. Her slender fingers twirl her hair with gentle thoughtfulness as she waits patiently for me to order another round. I imagine the slow scratch of those blush-pink nails against my neck. Her hands are frail with an unknown hidden strength that I can only feel but can’t see. She carries herself as someone that knows what she wants she just doesn’t know how to find it. I hope she doesn’t see my sadness as I see hers. I’ve lose track of backward time.
I bought three beers before I realize I don’t know her name. Sarah. She tells me her name is Sarah. I taste the name in my mouth as I repeat it back to her and give her mine. It tastes sweet but has a touch of sourness. A sourness that arises from a life spent as a thirty-something perennial bachelor. A familiar name I love to hate. I say something that strikes her as funny and she unknowingly slaps my arm and tilts her head back in laughter. My arm burns under her skin even though her fingers are cold. My sixth sense knows how beautiful her body is even though she is completely covered with a coat and loose hanging scarf. I point to the restroom when she asks. She stands and I’m amazed that she is much smaller that I would have expected. She removes her jacket as I acknowledge the accuracy of my sixth sense. My view on the wall sees that hypnotic walk that all men crave. Her return is not soon enough as I wallow in the heat that has cooled since she left. My eyes are again closed when her smell attaches itself to the bar top. We talk of experiences gleaned during our college years and the warm nights of our childhood. The conversation holds tempo and pace with a walk on the beach.
She looks away to check her watch. In a moment the heat fades faster than the summer sun behind autumn’s first cloud. She faces me, bringing the sun back, only there is no warming heat. I know she is leaving before she speaks. Her eyes tell me they want to stay, but her mouth says it’s time to leave. I strategically show my sadness through my eyes trying to guilt her to stay for another beer. Her mouth shapes the words I refuse to hear. I let the bar noise drown her plastic excuse while I allow my lips to acknowledge the dismissal. Her muted pink lips naturally move in opposite directions when she speaks, but even more so when she lies. As if they too are fighting against the words she makes them form. I ask to see her again. All joy completely leaves her face and has been replaced by either confusion or depression. She answers my question but with hesitation. She says that she would like that, but I can tell she doesn’t want me to call her. I write my number on my nervous half-shredded napkin. I smile as I tell her to call when she loses her boyfriend. Her face washes with an uneasy smile of understanding. I watch her as she shoulders her coat and finds her keys. The door slams a loud crack as the wind pulls it from her hands and into the door jamb. The crack that punctuates my night.
The day late and dollar short curse that is my life, strikes again. My eyes have that swollen 1:30 in the morning feel as I hold back the memories that will never happen. I tell myself that I fall too fast and hurt too much without cause. I explain to my empty beer bottle that her glow was from the angelic place of novelty and new found excitement. An excitement that gradually fades as new faces become worn with constant viewing. Known shapes, angles and colors that are no longer new and don’t get the extra attention they once craved. In this way, knowledge curses my unrequited love. My mind tells me to shut up and enjoy what just happened. But the memory has cooled with the chill blowing outside.
My god’s eye view is limited, as I no longer know what I’m looking at behind me. Young lovers have left. New friends have been united by booze into single night sleepovers. Strangers are old friends elbowing and laughing with each other as they pay their tabs. Music dances along and holds a final drunk few waiting to get their money’s worth out of the jukebox. Pool sticks are stacked in a wood box in the back, with the final shot still left un-played on the red felt top. My tab is laid in front of me as the lights come up causing temporary blindness. My eyes are slow to adjust, waking my headache with their effort. The outside cold rushes over me as strangers and unnamed faces spill out the bar. The old man in the back sips his beer and as he waits patiently for the night air.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 02.03.2010

Alle Rechte vorbehalten

Widmung:
For Mom, may you never believe much of this.