Bitter white smoke dances around the ears of an older, tired woman. Her life is written in the dark lines on her face. A smiling man sits next to her with reddened cheeks, rheumy eyes and the ugly grin of false humor. In a darkened corner, where the light doesn’t quite penetrate, a young couple cuddle, him with a hard-on and her with a teasing, sadistic smile.
There’s a smell to the place, sweet like aged-spilt beer and too many smokes. But at the same time there’s service with a smile, and what’s your pleasure.
I have a comfy spot, not too light, just right. I start to feel good when my first round hits the table; quicker than shit. The busty waitress assures me I can pay later, she’ll be around again soon. I feel it now, the zone, where Hemingway was, an international barfly, with hang-outs in Venice, Miami and more. I get it. You can throw the dice and everyone’s your friend as long the green's good and the nights long.
There’s music playing too, and in another corner the popular games, just sit down and discuss your favorite player and the highlights of that last dandy-of-a-game and swoop-da-doop, you’re in, enjoying peanuts, beer nuts and chips with the gang. The shoulder claps and camaraderie abound. Happy Ernest again!
But something else is lurking under the smiles, sports and bosom. It’s waiting, mixing with the smoke, gathering when least expected and taking advantage of the moment. Growing with each, I could have done that, ramping-up on every distant delicious memory. The ones when smiley at the bar was lean, sweet sixteen and so damn clean. This is the ghost of the sad souls, those, who deep down, know they’re lost. Who’ve given up, who know life’s tough. Not just TV tough, but honey I want a divorce and our son is gay and HIV positive tough. Those are evil things moving with the smoke exhaled within the smug faked laughter.
I lean back now and notice I‘ve not even touched my beer, it’s still full, but the bar, the bar is overflowing with missed dreams, forgotten loves and forlorn relationships.
Blinking away the busy smoke, I have another look and see the older woman, now just a worried skull, a shade, and I quickly realize the ghosts are getting jiggy with their business. I get up quickly; those damn smoky swirls think they can lull me! The sports fan to my left asks, “Hey man, come on relax, I’ll get the next round.” Moving fast now, I throw my jacket over my shoulder just as he starts to get up. He simply shrugs and settles down again, accepting his fate, realizing that I’m just another goal missed or a pass not received. I feel a pang of loss and it becomes obvious to me then, too obvious.
To him I’m just another- almost.
