Episode 03: Abrasion Two

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 edging 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 b***h.’ 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 b***h 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 … This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit echofuturetruth.substack.com