Sunday, February 15, 2004
I caught a glimpse of his weathered face between the faded hearts and limp cardboard cupids taped to the mirror. He sat down at the long bar one stool away from me. We were the only people in the place. He may as well have been in my lap.
I didn't want company, but I didn't want to move, so I studied the TV as if intent on mastering the 10 Easy Steps to Fabulous Wealth through Real Estate. He took off his fedora, cleared his throat to get the bartender's attention, and ordered a Bushmills. "Ya know, why don't you make it a double, my good man."
I could feel him looking at me, and tried to appear oblivious. I hoped he'd get the hint. He didn't. "The TV helps, but not much," he said.
I met his reflected eye for a moment and turned pointedly back to watching step No. 2, Buying with No Money Down. He drank his double in one shot.
Gesturing for another, he pointed to my almost empty glass. "And another for my friend here." He knew the rules. Now I had to talk to him, at least while I was drinking on his dime.
I examined his face in the mirror. He was in his mid-60s. Clean shaven and well dressed, but with the slightly blurred appearance of a long-time drinker. He was a younger version of my father, or, maybe, an older version of me.
"What do you mean," I asked.
He paid the bartender for the drinks. "The TV only makes it less quiet; it doesn't change it," he explained.
I pondered his cryptic remark for a moment, and finished my beer. Reaching for the new one, I decided to play along, "change what, old timer?" The title seemed appropriate given his tone.
"The loneliness."
The word hung in the bar's sursurrus silence. A blasphemy uttered on the saint's day.
He obviously wasn't done, so I waited. Looking through the mirror at somewhere else, he whispered, "goddamn, she was beautiful."
He called for another drink. Smiling wryly, his eyes focused back on me, "we used to have nonsense pet names, stupid little things we'd call each other. I always tried to come up with new ones to make her laugh. She had an amazing laugh . . ." He trailed off and looked down into his glass shaking his head slightly.
I tried to think of something to say and took a long, vain drink to feed my inspiration. "Yeah, I know what you mean," was the best I could do. A hollow thing in the face of his emotion.
He looked up, his eyes hard at first, but then softening. "No you don't, son," he responded gently, "no you don't."
"I'm an old man," he sighed, "I've made my mistakes and there's not a damn thing I can do about them now. You're young, though, and can still get things right."
He downed the last of his drink and stood up. "But don't wait too long, my boy. Don't fuck it up. Otherwise, you'll find yourself still drinking alone on Valentine's Day 30 years from now. Not because you want to, mind you, but because you have to." He tapped the bar, put on his hat and walked out the door.
As I watched his reflection disappear among the pink and red decorations, my cell phone rang. I saw the name, but didn't answer. I looked at myself in the mirror.
"Oh well, I always did like drinking alone." I finished my beer, "plus, I think I'd look good in a hat."
I waived the bartender over and ordered a Bushmills. ""Ya know, why don't you make it a double, my good man," I said turning back to the TV.
I didn't want company, but I didn't want to move, so I studied the TV as if intent on mastering the 10 Easy Steps to Fabulous Wealth through Real Estate. He took off his fedora, cleared his throat to get the bartender's attention, and ordered a Bushmills. "Ya know, why don't you make it a double, my good man."
I could feel him looking at me, and tried to appear oblivious. I hoped he'd get the hint. He didn't. "The TV helps, but not much," he said.
I met his reflected eye for a moment and turned pointedly back to watching step No. 2, Buying with No Money Down. He drank his double in one shot.
Gesturing for another, he pointed to my almost empty glass. "And another for my friend here." He knew the rules. Now I had to talk to him, at least while I was drinking on his dime.
I examined his face in the mirror. He was in his mid-60s. Clean shaven and well dressed, but with the slightly blurred appearance of a long-time drinker. He was a younger version of my father, or, maybe, an older version of me.
"What do you mean," I asked.
He paid the bartender for the drinks. "The TV only makes it less quiet; it doesn't change it," he explained.
I pondered his cryptic remark for a moment, and finished my beer. Reaching for the new one, I decided to play along, "change what, old timer?" The title seemed appropriate given his tone.
"The loneliness."
The word hung in the bar's sursurrus silence. A blasphemy uttered on the saint's day.
He obviously wasn't done, so I waited. Looking through the mirror at somewhere else, he whispered, "goddamn, she was beautiful."
He called for another drink. Smiling wryly, his eyes focused back on me, "we used to have nonsense pet names, stupid little things we'd call each other. I always tried to come up with new ones to make her laugh. She had an amazing laugh . . ." He trailed off and looked down into his glass shaking his head slightly.
I tried to think of something to say and took a long, vain drink to feed my inspiration. "Yeah, I know what you mean," was the best I could do. A hollow thing in the face of his emotion.
He looked up, his eyes hard at first, but then softening. "No you don't, son," he responded gently, "no you don't."
"I'm an old man," he sighed, "I've made my mistakes and there's not a damn thing I can do about them now. You're young, though, and can still get things right."
He downed the last of his drink and stood up. "But don't wait too long, my boy. Don't fuck it up. Otherwise, you'll find yourself still drinking alone on Valentine's Day 30 years from now. Not because you want to, mind you, but because you have to." He tapped the bar, put on his hat and walked out the door.
As I watched his reflection disappear among the pink and red decorations, my cell phone rang. I saw the name, but didn't answer. I looked at myself in the mirror.
"Oh well, I always did like drinking alone." I finished my beer, "plus, I think I'd look good in a hat."
I waived the bartender over and ordered a Bushmills. ""Ya know, why don't you make it a double, my good man," I said turning back to the TV.
Thursday, February 05, 2004
This morning on NPR, Clifford May, in justifing the Iraq invasion, said (and I'm paraphrasing here): "If we were responsible for putting Saddam in power, we had the obligation to go in there and remove him."
That's beautiful. You see, we HAD to correct our earlier mistake. Bombing the hell out of Iraq, destroying what shreds of civilization it enjoyed and plunging it into civil was our way of discharging the immense debt we owed to the Iraqi people.
Man, if those are the actions of a contrite USA, beware any country that gets on our bad side.
That's beautiful. You see, we HAD to correct our earlier mistake. Bombing the hell out of Iraq, destroying what shreds of civilization it enjoyed and plunging it into civil was our way of discharging the immense debt we owed to the Iraqi people.
Man, if those are the actions of a contrite USA, beware any country that gets on our bad side.
