Bar Journal, 2006

:All drunk and solitary on a stool, indulging in far too many $2 baby pitchers of PBR that taste uncomfortably like hot dog water.
:Unluckily the low levels in the bank account dictate that I have limited choices of the nation’s brews on this fine and crooked night.
:Luckily after 2 pitchers the taste buds retract into some heretofore unnamed sheath system to escape the hideous flavor, the cheap and potentially carcinogenic carbonation.
All of my energy is concentrated on avoiding looking at the TVs that hang on either side of the bar. The screen to the right is playing some absurd and stereotypically homoerotic sport, and the one to the left is subjecting us to some cur’sed Sam Neil movie that, under normal circumstances, would compel me to go and do something else, like turn the channel, walk away, or shave my kneecaps off with a planer.
But those are not viable options, and the dual assault of the Cyclopean beasts are proving to be more than I can handle. The left TV is muted and in spite of that, or thanks to it, I am getting into the plot of the film, and to the right, with no idea which teams are playing, where they are, and what their motivations are, I am rooting for the maroon uniforms. My attention is broken only to order another beer or look towards the jukebox and nod approvingly when Neil Diamond comes on (did I put that in? Maybe. Probably. Jesus, gotta ease up on the drinks. What am punishing myself for?).
Give me any room in the world with 15 people in it and I bet $10 that if you play "Sweet Caroline" at LEAST 6 of them will drop whatever it is they are doing or saying and sing the "BAH, BAH, BAH" part (Sweet Caroline, BAH, BAH, BAH, Good times never seemed so good!). I stand by that. Go ahead, challenge me.
It’s a slow night at the bar. It’s always a slow night here. That’s why I like this place. No matter what is going on in town, no matter how packed all the other bars are, this one can always be counted on to be quiet. The bartender leans lazily behind the counter smoking a cigarette, watching the TV with about as much energy as I am.
What is she thinking?
Does she hate everyone here?
She seems nice enough. This is the point of intoxication when I have to make a concentrated effort to not end up unconsciously gazing at a woman who has caught my eye. It’s not that I’m particularly lecherous, I just take a glance and then my mind wanders to related or ridiculously unrelated subjects leaving my eyes and face pointed in such a direction that I’m surprised it hasn’t been kicked sideways and inside-out yet.
This lady, the provider of my drinks, the collector of my $1 tips, she has got maybe 3 good years left in her if she leaves tonight... right this instant.
10 minutes ago under optimum circumstances.
She is attractive, but she was hot, and you can see the rapidly forming age lines becoming deeper with every drag, with every beer served up. She’s got 30 years under her black studded belt, but spending her nights in this hermetically sealed chamber of smoke, alcohol, gamblers (the lotto machines are never empty) and alcoholics will push her up to 65 by the time she’s 35. The clock is spinning faster for her than for other people that work in places that see sunlight, fresh air, hope, and dreams. I want to grab her by the arm and guide her forcefully, carefully out the door and send her to a place where whatever verve she was born with can sync back up with her for her remaining years. Because she is cute in a "capable of kicking my ass" kind of way and no one likes to see a rose covered in shit.
Christ, here we go. Look, here’s how it is:
Men, when drunk, think of only one or two things (self-pity isn’t a thought but an involuntary program like blood circulation and REM sleep, so it doesn’t qualify as a thought). Mainly, they think about sex, which is funny because the only thing sadder, sexually speaking, than a drunk man trying to perform is... well, nothing. That is actually the saddest thing in the world. Granted, that is a coming from the POV of a man, but I think a lot of women would agree with me, as would all men, when I say that it would be easier to laugh at a baby cocker spaniel being beaten to death with a claw hammer than it would be to watch a drunk man pull off half the shit his brain tells him he can do.
But there goes my brain, not planning anything, just wondering things.
How is she in bed? Loud? Bored? Violent? Tender?
No, not tender.
She might be verbally abusive, in a challenging way. It all ends with a sigh and a cigarette. I have a plan to never be with a person who smokes in bed. The slothful, lazy cunt in me considers the bed a sacred placed and stinking it up with cigarettes seems sacrilegious. It’s probably the only thing I consider holy, a bed. Draw your own conclusions from that bit of Royale trivia if you are so inclined.
I wonder these things about a lot of random people, what they are like during the sex act. People on the bus... well, mainly people on the bus since that’s where I spend a lot of my time going to or from work. Excitement is my middle name. I wonder this about some friends as well, but not all of them (don’t freak out, you’re not one of them, unless you feel slighted by the exclusion, then I know all about that thing with the knitting needles and the dog biscuits, I know you make a high pitched trilling noise during orgasm and are unbelievably ticklish for the first 20 seconds post-love explosion).
So I sit and wander through hazy, sometimes sexual, but usually idiotic and cluttered hallways of my mind so very thankful of the fact that no matter how under the influence I get I know better than to stray outside of basic pleasantries that relate to ordering beers or saying, "Sorry, I don’t smoke." Don’t try to be charming or funny or engaging. Just sit there and keep on drinking, dwelling on the void, looking at some fixed anonymous point until that silent alarm goes off inside the brain that tells you to up and go home, the night is done. Unfortunately that alarm hasn’t worked for me, ever, so last call is announced and I drink up, leave another $2 tip for good measure, zip up the sweatshirt against the harsh Portland night and head home.