Episode 02 - Abrasion Two

Death

 

 

 

If it were possible to have a real conversation in this town, one in which a visitor – whatever that might mean – arrived as a kind of tourist and asked the woman to describe her life, she might say that it was normal. Normal like the morning news in a place where nothing bad ever happened.

But in her favorite bar, it wasn’t exactly like that. At the bar it wasn’t like the news: life in the bar was more like a rerun of an old sitcom where everybody knows your name, only none of those people go there anymore. Because, nobody goes there anymore.

Almost nobody: she was here after all. And at the end of a day like today (What made today different? she wondered) what she really wanted was to lose herself in some mindless interaction, maybe cheat the bartender out of a drink or two. It didn’t matter that she won all the bar bets too easily or that the prizes were just illusions. The room was familiar and she felt like she belonged. But on a day like today any good feelings were not likely to last.

The staring match at the bar continued for several minutes; a children’s game to see who would blink first. Was it childish? Today it seemed not, and she held her fierce eyes open long enough that she felt them drying out even as the tears pooled in her swollen lids. If anyone had witnessed it, they might say that it was just another bar bet, and another victory for the lady with the look of triumphant despair.

She had plenty to despair of. Of note: that staring harder did not mean seeing farther, or with more clarity; only that you might come to tears and lose your ability to focus for a period of time. This and many other things she despaired of, but today she chose to dedicate her bitterness to this bar, which in fact contained nothing at all that might help her forget her troubles, because every bottle in the place had failed to recall its own purpose, which was to intoxicate the miserable, so that they might have a little relief.

And though the place was only half-empty, there wasn’t a single person to witness the night’s competition, nor to share in the celebratory shot of forgetful spirits.

The bartender poured her a couple fingers of her favorite, and palming her red eyes with a feeble laugh, asked, ‘Find what you were looking for, dear?’

‘God. No. Not looking for anything. I just wanted a free drink.’

‘Glad to oblige.’ And then the old gal leaned back and manifested that subtle change in aspect that signaled one of those creepy moments of comfort, or support ... or surveillance. The customer thought, not going to happen. She liked the bartender too much to let such things get between them. Take evasive action ....

‘Life’s great. How can it not be? I have everything I need: fulfilling work, safe neighborhood, conversation over a drink at the end of the day. And a Bright Future, right?’ After a pause, ‘Sure, sometimes I wish there were a little more excitement in the day ...’

‘Shake it up a little bit.’

‘Yeah!’

‘A little break in the routine now and then; that’s not asking too much!’

‘Exactly.’

‘Wait,’ she thought ... ‘No.’ As much as she liked talking to the Old Gal, liked the way she felt understood by her, there were some conversations that had to be off-limits. Too much empathy of a certain kind and she might find her world changing in uncomfortable ways. Who knows but agreeing that life could be a little more exciting might lead to a parade, or worse. A largely artificial life was bad enough without artificial people dressed up in costumes clogging main street with floats and plastic happiness to celebrate an idea cooked up by a machine because of something overheard in a bar filled with artificial booze.

Once again, she was feeling tempted to over-share, which often led to excessive displays of emotion. And hard on the heels of an emotional outburst was the threat of a violent one. And that was never good. Might be time to dial it back a bit. Or ....

Maybe, it was time for something different. Maybe the problem was swallowing her feelings repeatedly until an eruption became unavoidable. Maybe she should be honest and to the point. Stop the pendulum swinging and drop it right in the center. Maybe she should tell it like it is.

‘Listen.’ She spoke to the bartender, but her tone had changed, each word carrying a bit more weight, as if she expected the bartender to hear the rest of the conversation in a different role. As if the patron were about to make a complaint to management about recent decisions regarding the opening and closing hours of the establishment. This was not far from the truth of it. ‘How long have we been at this?’

‘Been a long strange trip, hasn’t it?’

‘Oh, please.’ The customer made a face closer to familiarity than frustration, but creeping toward the latter.

‘OK, really? Are we going to go there? I don’t like living in the past hon. Look at where I work! I sell booze for a living. And, I’d offer to pour you another, but ...’

‘Give me a break. I don’t come in here to forget; I come in for conversation, and the conversation is starting to get ... a little old.’

Now, where the customer expected coldness, or worse, because she’d forced the issue, she perceived a change in tone to match her own, and something that sounded like honesty. ‘It has been a very, very long time.’ Now the woman thought, don’t drop your guard. Press on.

‘Right. For ever. And I’ve slept through most of it! I mean, I keep thinking that when I lie down, maybe I’ll wake up and it’ll be different: maybe I won’t be alone; you’ll have found someone; something will be different; or I’ll be dead. Honestly I don’t know which I hope for more.

‘Listen. Listen to me. Please. I don’t want to go to sleep. I don’t want to sleep this off.’ More strident, now. ‘I think ... something needs ... uhm ....’ She trailed off: too much. Careful. ‘I think that we need to have a conversation about a few things. I would like to figure some things out.’ She paused, worried that she was losing the thread, might have gone too far. But she couldn’t stop.

‘I’m so tired! And it’s not because I don’t get enough sleep, do you hear me?’ Her hand was back on her chest, where her fingers mindlessly worked, digging, as if to massage some hidden part of her, just out of reach. ‘No. I can’t. Everything is too neat, too clean, too good to be true. I’m dying from boredom. I can’t focus anymore. I have no fight left in me! Do you hear what I’m saying?’

The bartender, with affection now, offered up the kind of empathetic barroom vulgarity designed to end an embarrassing rant: ‘Yeah, honey. Life’s a bitch.’

This wounded her. She tried to brush it off; after all it’s just words. What did she object to? She was no feminist, nor moralist, that the bartender could offend her just by being crude. She might even have agreed with the sentiment. But, it hurt. Why? Maybe it hurt because she was the last bitch alive.

But she knew this was not the fight to pick. ... Keep it light, stay on your toes, she told herself. Keep the conversation going. She said, ‘It’s your fault. You don’t know how to mix a drink.’

The response came, softly but perfectly, ‘Touché.’

But the gentle reply did not have its desired effect: she was flooded with anticipation, and the bartender served up exactly what she did not need. Something broke loose, and what was left of her better judgment went to pieces.

‘No! I don’t want to win, I want to lose! You have to fight back! Don’t you get it? I need something worth fighting for, dammit, because I need a good fight! And I need to know that I can lose!’ Then, she spoke more quietly, but her attention had shifted, and she spoke as if to the room itself, ‘If you don’t let me fight to stay alive, I’m not going to survive, do you understand? I need to feel like anything can happen, not like this everything and nothing is happening all the time! This ... this is killing me.’

‘You know, honey, maybe you want to talk to a professional, I mean: I’m always up for intelligent conversation,’ (a joke without humor), ‘but I think you need to get some things off your chest.

‘No.’ She felt a surge of bitterness she could not suppress. ‘I do not want to talk to someone about my feelings. Not what I need right now, thank you. I’m not confused! I know what the problem is: it’s that there are no problems.’ She continued to speak to the bartender and also not to the bartender. Softly, with a slight tremble, ‘I know you know what I’m talking about.’

Concerned silence. Caring look. Comforting, maybe, at literally any other time in human history; the emphasis there being on the word, ‘human’.

‘If something doesn’t change soon ... I would rather not do this anymore.’ She spoke with firm resolve, her words riding a wave of emotion that left little doubt as to her meaning. Still the only response was the same brand of robotic empathy that she found in every building in town. She barked a carefully articulated profanity at the bar, at the bottles, and at the character behind the counter.

Alright, she thought. That’s it. The only threat that she’d felt in a long time was the threat of a long sleep and amnesia; but she was not going to live in fear of sleep anymore. She spoke now only to hear her own voice, to know that the words were real, that this was really happening. As she slowly backed away from the bar, she announced: ‘Alrighty! I’m ready to light some fires. Where can a girl get a little mortal danger around here? I’m all done wishing one of you creeps would attack me in a dark alley, but damn. Where are the earthquakes? The lightning strikes? Where are the wild animals? Why can’t I meet just one hungry jaguar? I would give anything to walk around the corner and meet something, anything, that could do me harm.’ The people in the room watched her, but their theatrical presentation of concern was eclipsed by the walls themselves, which seemed to be silently attending to her words, and waiting.

‘Hold on,’ she said to herself, working it out, ‘No predators, no danger .... Maybe I’m already dead. If that’s true, we don’t need a jaguar! What we need is a vulture. To finish the job.’

‘There hasn’t been a vulture here in three thousand years.’ She was surprised by the bartender, whom she had begun to ignore. But now, maybe she didn’t have to.

‘Well make me one! You know you can. I’d lie still. I’ll be a good corpse ... you make a vulture, I stop pretending to be alive, and the bird does its thing.’ The truth was, she doubted even this. If she were dead, would her parts even decay? Was it possible for her to decompose? She really didn’t know if she was made of meat anymore. ... ‘You have to do this for me. No? OK, how about an eagle to scratch my eyes out or eat my liver? What about a flood or a wildfire?! No? Well. I promise you that I will find out where you hide the fire in this God-damned town.’ She stripped off her heavy jacket, dropped it in the center of the room, and began to shift her weight in ways that could only be interpreted as a prelude to destruction.

‘I’m going to have to cut you off, love. And let me call you a cab.’ The bartender reached for the phone behind the bar, fingering the frayed list of numbers thumbtacked to the wall. Ridiculous. But effective. This damned place.

It was time to go. She knew she couldn’t go home, now. She was tired, but she couldn’t afford to sleep. It was time to make a change. She wasn’t sure what it all meant, but she knew now that she could not go home.

She tried to remind herself (usually around this time of night, most nights): be careful what you say to the bartender. She never remembered her own advice. And for this, she could not blame the alcohol.