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The hotel bar swirls and vibrates with the activity of the late-night cocktail crowd as I enter. The smell of perfume, alcohol and sweat permeates the air. I slip in, a tall, thin, unassuming shadow among the over-eager revelers; I find a vacant stool at the corner of the bar. Tiny halogen beams, like the columns of a Greek temple, descend from above spilling fluorescent blue puddles along the bar.
The dance music of a DJ fills my ears with its repetitive rhythm and I am pleased to find the day's newspaper within reach; it is not so much to read as a prop to hide myself behind and conceal my nervousness.
A pretty waitress suddenly appears at my elbow and greets me brightly.
"Hi!" she says.
"Hi there!" I answer and turn toward her, trying to mimic her enthusiasm. My hands wander absently over the newspaper, folding it and placing it on the bar.
"How are you tonight?" she asks and seems to mean it.
"I'm just great," I answer. I almost believe it. "How're you?"
"I'm fantastic!" she responds, smiling. I think I catch sight of a wink but I'm not certain. "What can I getcha?" She has nice, sandy brown hair that falls buoyantly to her shoulders.
"I'll have a bottle of Steamwhistle, please and thank you," I answer, trying to feed a little bit off of her bubbly spirit.
She grins broadly at me and turns toward the servers' station which is only an arm's length away from where I am seated.
She reaches out and her fingers begin to dance over the brightly coloured images of keys that appear on the screen. Her hands fly like exotic, fragile insects, illuminated in the column of blue light from above the bar. The jagged scars that stand out ghostly and pale white on the delicate flesh of her inner wrist cause my mouth to run dry.
I am startled and frightened by this vision of self-violence in the midst of the bar's atmosphere of obligatory festivity. I study her actions and expressions closely but manage to discern nothing. I see no look of sad desperation appear on her face as she stands idly a moment; she lifts a large plastic cup from beside the condiment tray and draws lightly on the straw. Her eyes are watchful, roaming over the groups of boisterous clientelle. The bartender pops the stainless steel door of a refrigerator and, in a single expert movement, retrieves a bottle of local beer, uncaps it, and passes it over the bar to her. She turns and places the bottle on a cardboard coaster before me saying 'Cheers!' and then moves off to work the tables.
My mind wanders to a quiet place in order to reflect on what I have just seen. The throb of music and the incomprehensible babble of voices and constantly jingling cell phones fade into the distance.
I try to consider how a pretty, extroverse, young girl would arrive at the decision to inflict on herself that sort of damage while accepting the possible outcome of that action. The scenes are, I suppose, too oft repeated and cliched; a combination of pills and booze to numb the senses and a hot bath. The sting of a blade should cause the body and mind to recoil in horror. How does that voice that should scream out to protect one's own life become quietly complicit in this action through it's own silence? I attempt to discover the driving forces behind such desperation; image issues, emotional stress caused by friends, family and peer groups. I find that there is nothing I can understand beyond the fact that I don't want it to happen anymore. I rail against my own impotence to reach out and hold back that inexorable tide of emptiness that threatens to engulf so many young people who simply do not yet have a sufficient sense of identity to stand on their own. There is almost nothing in life that cannot be resolved in a way that leaves people with more positive options. I frown, disconcerted and unhappy.
She materialises again at my elbow and comments, 'You haven't touched your beer'. I surface from my thoughts, stammering and disoriented.
"Sorry, I guess I was thinking," I answer, feeling self-consious of the fact that my mind had been fixed on her. My mood has become sombre and introspective.
She smiles at me, and I note a touch of emotion glide across her eyes; a sense of fleeting sadness and she looks away momentarily.
"Well, don't think too much," she says and adds, "your brain will explode!" She touches my shoulder and laughs a little and then darts away to serve a table.
'Don't think too much', I repeat to myself. I continue to sit at the bar while the bottle of beer, clenched tightly between my fingers, grows warm and wonder where this tragedy is going to finish. Nearby, someone breaks into peals of loud, raucous laughter.
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good to see you writing!! yay!! :)
this is a really good story, i like how it kind of plays into both's emotions, and how deep the guy is. kind of reminds me of a bar down the street, with the regular sitting at the bar, just thinking away. hehe
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Posted by pixierose
on 2008-06-22 13:01:56
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hey great post stickman ... you gave me an idea what's going inside a man's head. :)
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Posted by DreamingOfBruxelles
on 2008-06-26 18:53:15
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introspection at the cost of a cold beer? what a travesty :o !!
how deeply u feel things, stick. good work!!
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Posted by paperlily
on 2008-07-11 09:59:52
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| Views: 115
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