From the call it as you see (hear?) it (which is always a little wrongly) files: everybody in this particular bar is a little nasal. Wednesday night, and what would Thoreau do? Things to do in Walden (when you aren’t dead). Ah, well. I’ve never been metaphysical enough to go Zen. Two (particularly nasal) women several seats away, going hard against the corn chips. The men beside them aren’t necessarily interested, but it’s Wednesday night, and what else is there to do? Be where you are. Pay attention to who is before (beside) you. I think one of the women makes fun of me. Maybe it’s the laptop. The men go very quiet. I’m wearing an Easton shirt and they assume I train. Lucky for them. I don’t fight fair. I’d hit them with my Apple. First one and then the other. Uppercut type motion and then a backhand. Visualize and then perform. Really, there aren’t many people in the place. The night has got an AFTER HOURS vibe to it. The adventure is no good if you’re ready for it. And then it happens: my mug is slick (or is it my fingers?); the beer slips back onto the bar and the glass breaks with almost no provocation! Beer runs out, onto my lap, onto my laptop. I’m sopping it up and feeling like everything will be all right, something people claim all the time (“Everything happens for a reason!”—and don’t you believe it). I don’t even get cut. Where is my luck? In this world where people break their arms—their upper-arms, nastiest x-ray I’ve seen—armwrangling with bartenders, where is my gravy train? Ah, well. The bartenderess is kind. Fresh beer. It’s better if I get cut than if you do, she tell me. Yes, I say . Workman’s comp. I suppose I’m on this whole FIGHT CLUB/AMERICAN BEAUTY thing, where you get out of labor through some kind of severance fraud so you can have the time to go find yourself. Geez. Would I really want to? Better to do that in Walden. Better to do that well into your middle ages, when your access to the stuff of the world is different than it was for you as a young person. Then I’m off to the restroom to check the damages. Maybe there will be a small cut. Maybe it’ll get infected. Maybe a lawyer will take the case. Persistence in all things about which you are serious. But as I pass, one of the (most) nasal women (who might have made fun of me for having a laptop at a bar, which seems reasonable [the having, not the making fun of], especially on a Wednesday night) says, “Psst.” I thought they’d gone, but they haven’t. They’re by the machine with the claw with which you try to grab rubber balls and TOY STORY aliens. This woman stands (wavers) with her friend. “Psstttt!” Eventually, I’ll find out she’s looking for fifty cents. Not the singer, if you call that singing, but two quarters. (Cheap puns are part of the fodder of Wednesday night bar patrons). “What are you,” I say, “outtava Sommerset Maugham novel?” It’s the wrong reference, but I know she won’t know that, so the hell with it. I just like the sound: Sommerset Maugham. When you say that in bars, people pretty much hush up. You’re some kind of crazy. Or maybe you’re speaking a texxoxist language. They’ve got a long haired guy with glasses with them. He’s bouncing a ball. He must have won it. I’ll be he’s not a bad sort. I’ll bet he’s read WALDEN at least twice. But he’s short on the Sommerset Maugham thing. If only I’d said, Charles Bukowski. Or: Chuck Palahniuk. Then he’d be in on it. The best nights aren’t manufactured. So the heck with Friday and Saturday, because you plan for those. People are sort of filtering in. A girl searching a cigarette. She’s too brash. Nobody will give her one. Her friend wants to know what I’m writing. She’s taught in Egypt. I ask her about the daily news, which, if its worth the paper (on which it should be written), has something to say about Egypt. She sees it differently than most people do. That’s good. We should all live abroad. She’s going to Guatemala in five days. I’m going to start teaching again. Exoticas. Summer break is almost over. No more Wednesday nights. Well, there will be Wednesdays. And they’ll have nights. But still. Not many here seem mission oriented, and that’s the difference between midweek and weekend. Three girls and a guy arguing about something. I should want to know what. They are so serious. Sometimes, I want to be one of those people that listen. That people watch. What writers are supposed to do. But, at the end of the day, I’m too self involved. I’m not even supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be in bed trying to sleep. But here I am. The I-lived-in-Egypt-and-will-soon-live-in-Guatemala-young-women (I’ve already used girl but know better) wants to know: are you a published author. I think. “No,” I say. Because what difference would it make? If she bought a copy of a book, I’d have to buy her a drink, and I’d come out on the bottom side of the transaction. This—or something like it—means it is time to go.
Posted on: Thu, 15 Aug 2013 06:05:12 +0000
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