TBT #38: …Never Worn

It’s all so dimly lit that the sound of a sparse acoustic guitar is the only sort of music that would make any sense. The room is filled with a sort of stale smell that manages to be both inoffensive and objectionable, the kind of smell that isn’t bad but simply old. And I’m standing there at the door and thinking, as I’ve thought before, that I’ve never been in the same place for quite so long in all my life. I know what things will be before I see them. I know what sounds I’ll hear before they reach my ears. I know what I will feel before I do feel. It’s all coming together in a sort of moebius strip domino set up that falls over itself yet does not stop. It won’t stop. I’ve never been in the same place for quite so long before.

Is that a good thing thing? A bad thing? The Best Thing (April 18, 2005)?

Drifting in to the centre of the room, I’m joining the vague-faces of men that are the only other people in the place, and I’m letting my eyes fall on them, as they are, grouped about in twos and threes and fours. Sitting at tables, standing against walls, shooting pool, playing darts, living. It’s so easy to envelope yourself in the conversations coming from all corners, from all sides. It’s a kind of raw, enthusiastic storytelling that is puncuated with random bursts of laughter. It’s the kind of conversation peppered with profanities and euphemisms and broken language that inspires the sort of imagery that, once again, brings laughter. Brings joy. Brings friendship.

There’s a table in the back corner of the room that’s carved with so many different words and initials and phrases and songs. And I know all of them to the point where I could recite them, reproduce them and sing them on my deathbed. There are things I both like and hate about this place, and often I get confused. I don’t know why I am still here, save for the fact that I do not feel it would be a good idea to go home. I am not talking much tonight, though I have before, instead I just drift, like an empty row-boat on a downstream current, throughout the room. I observe. I watch. I listen.

There’s two men at the bar who are trying to remember the words to “Redemption Song.” They can’t do it, but one of the men starts telling a story of his younger days, when he made himself a tape of only covers of “Redemption Song” and played them in his car as he drove around town. “And?” asks the other man. “And that’s it,” says the first man. “I just drove around town listening to Redemption Song over and over again.”

I am shoved forward by some extremely drunk men who have immediately decided to rise from their table and head towards the door, all at once. I hear only parts of their conversation. “Yossarian!” says one. “He’s not a hero,” says the other. “He’s a hero to me!” says the first.

I smile and laugh and think of what that means, but can’t come up with anything concrete. “I have fallen in love!” says a man in front of me, seemingly talking to nobody. His eyes are focused on the ceiling, or, at least, they would be, were the ceiling visible in the dim light. And yet he keeps talking: “Love! I have fallen in love!”

I cough involuntarily and his eyes are on me.

“Do you know how I know I’ve fallen in love?” he says.

I do not want to talk tonight.

He doesn’t care. He continues regardless. “I I forgot to tie my shoes today. I left my house and forgot to tie my shoes! Who does that? I never do that! I have not done that since I was a child.” He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes, looking at mine, pointing weakly. “I have fallen in love.”

There’s a resounding crash as plates are dropped, crashing, shattering, splitting in half, somewhere far away.

“I have not met her yet.”

You’ll not meet her here, I think, and try not to smile. It doesn’t matter. His gaze is back on the ceiling.

“Sit down here!” comes a voice from behind me.

I whirl too quickly and elbow a man about my age in the stomach. Instantly I am doubled over in pain, along with him. Our eyes meet in a shared grimace and he asks why I feel pain. I shake my head and then my shoulders and right myself. he nods at me, points at the table where the call for me originated, and then leaves.

“Sit down here!” comes the voice again and I see it now, a collection of men, too varied in age to generalize as old or young. The oldest one gestures to an empty chair and I sit, hoping I won’t have to talk.

“You’ve been thinking about Hemingway!” he says.

“He has!” says another man, before I can answer. He’s right, of course. I have been thinking about Hemingway.

“Didn’t he write that story about that fish?” says another man.

“It wasn’t about a fish, really,” answers another man, and now I’m losing track.

“The fish was a big part of it!”

“It was more about an old man.”

“And the sea!” adds a voice.

They laugh that laugh. It carries with an undeserved level of enthusiasm, of volume, carrying and echoing far too much.

“You haven’t been thinking about that one, though,” says the old man, rightly. “You’ve been thinking about microstories. Six word stories.”

And I nod.

“You’re not good enough for that,” he says bluntly. “You’re not good enough! Look at this, you’re still here, still with us. Love, bars… this dingy setting. Not even any girls here! Sad Sad Sad!”

“Sad!” agree the other men at the table and then they laugh. The laughter doesn’t stop this time. Instead, it’s piercing, striking at my ears, speeding along my heart. I get up, I leave, I stumble to the bathroom. Two men are playing darts on the way there. One’s an aging and quirky man coming rapidly to a lonely and meaningless death. The other feels really bad about it. They both kind of suck at darts.

The bathroom door flies open and there’s a younger guy standing in front of the mirror. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt, his hair is short and closely cropped, his eyes are a bright blue. He practices gesturing as he talks. I stand at the door and watch him for a second.

“Hello,” he says. “Hello. My name is….” And then he sticks his hand out, shakes the air, gives a little acknowledging point, and then starts again.

“I just want to love you,” he says, putting on sad eyes. “I just want to be loved.” He looks impressed with himself, and smiles at the mirror. I cough involuntarily again and he turns and looks at me. I shrug my shoulders at the same time that he does, and he turns back to the mirror. I rest my back against the bathroom door and keep watching him.

“For Sale,” he starts saying, very seriously. “Baby Shoes…”

I shove backwards out of the bathroom. He’s too young to be here! He’s too young! I’m drifting through the crowd again. The two men have the words. They’ve got them! “Won’t you help to sing!” says one, “These songs of freedom!”

“’cause all I ever had,” continues the other. “Redemption Song!”

Redemption Song, I think, and whirl about, trying to find conversations I haven’t heard, characters I haven’t met. I try not to think about how crowded it is getting or how many different conversations are going on at once. I try not to think about Hemingway or six-word stories or how I have nothing to say to any of them.

I have never been in the same place for quite so long before.