deepundergroundpoetry.com
Film Gris
"She loves me, she loves me not. She loves me, she loves me not. She loves me, she loves me n-"
The muttered cadence was cut off as I slammed a glass down in front of him. He flinched upwards to meet my gaze - brown eyes under a ragged mop of dark hair met mine with no small degree of nervousness. I nodded towards the whisky, sitting on the scuffed counter.
"For you, man - if you give the madness mantra a rest."
He nodded jerkily and gingerly sipped the fiery alcohol. I raised my glass to him and did likewise.
"For what it's worth? Spending that long in your own head won't help. You're scared of the answer - I get that - but the more you sink into the question the more you'll forget why the answer is important." I regarded him steadily, sitting hunched over the bar, clutching his drink with both hands. "Go home, boy. Dream about her, and make tomorrow better."
"I just wish I knew. Why does it have to be so complicated?"
I shook my head at the staggered mass of shotglasses, lime segments, chewed straws and shredded napkins on the bar in front of him. It was another variation on the same line, one that anyone who's been around relationships knows all too well. The man sitting beside me couldn't have been more than 20 - an inexperienced 20 at that - and right now he was feeling like the only man in the world who'd ever had, or ever would have, this problem. It would be funny if I didn't feel so sorry for him.
"Uncertainty is a funny thing" I said. The unexpected vocalization made him jump slightly. "Uncertainty is complicated, because it doesn't have any kind of form. It's mutable, constantly changing. It doesn't sit in your stomach like hopelessness, it doesn't course through you like anger, it doesn't freeze you like depression. Uncertainty is just that - uncertain. You can't deal with it, because it shifts all the time." I paused, sipped the dark alcohol in my glass. "It's not always a bad thing, though."
He shifted his gaze a little. Nobody expects answers in bars - that's not why they go. He drew in his breath, but I beat him to it.
"It's not always bad, because it thrills us as well as crashes. Anticipation is one of the most intense feelings you can have - think about the last few minutes of a game, your team up by 1. That feeling, the increased heart rate, the rapid breathing, the excitement? That's uncertainty too, my friend. Don't discount it." I shook my head and continued. "Uncertainty is the most intensely personal drug the human race can experience. Everybody rides it at one time or another, but nobody gets the same reaction - and in our own way, we are all addicts. That's what makes it feel so bad, you know?"
He nodded vaguely. The alcohol was clearly affecting him, his shoulders swaying ever so slightly as he slumped on his stool.
"It's hope" I uttered, quietly. I bit back on the words as I said them, and lifted my glass to my lips again, the sting of the whisky rolling like liquid gravel along the back of my throat. "Uncertainty gets us every time because it taps into the most powerful emotion we're capable of feeling. Hope."
I drained my glass and turned back to the bar. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my new friend rise and make his way to the bathrooms at the back of the room. He stumbled slightly - his feet dragging across the use-roughened floor. I shrugged internally. It doesn't really do to start examining people in bars too closely, especially not those people having personal problems. Some things just can't end well.
I raised my eyeline a little and found myself looking into the mirror at the back of the bar. No surprising revelations jumped out at me - the same grey eyes, same short dark hair, same eyebrows - expressive and mobile. My lip had a roughened, almost scarred look at one side - the perils of biting ones lower lip during conversation, and I'd been doing that a lot recently. I saw the same lips quirk up at one side as I remembered why, and a brief chuckle welled up in my chest before fading. I ran one hand across the stubble coating my jawline - the short goatee I cultivated now was softened, the edges blurring into the shorter stubble around my cheeks and jaw. I needed a shave - more accurately, I had needed a shave a few days ago. Now I needed to get a grip on myself and slice the damn hair off.
I quirked an eyebrow at my reflection - a curious tic of mine, and the most versatile expression in the world. One eyebrow, a whole world of contempt, pride, anger, indifference, and everything in between. "Wonder what you're looking at" I murmured - so too, I suppose, did my reflection, though I can't say I heard it very well.
The bartender was busying himself with the music system, feeding a new playlist into the screen behind the bar. I tapped the counter to get his attention.
"Play 'As Time Goes By'." He looked around and made a noise that I got the impression was supposed to indicate a lack of comprehension, squinting at me like a myopic gremlin. I leaned forward. "If she can stand it, I can. Play it!" The blankness of his expression did not diminish in the slightest. I shrugged and settled back on my seat. Dead horse, flogger, and never the twain shall meet. The glass in my hand felt oddly light as lifted it - empty. I sighed. For all my amazing attributes, I am not a smart man sometimes. I caught the bartenders attention and ordered another drink. Vodka this time - the clear liquid trickled into the glass like liquid diamond, catching and refracting the dim lights. I would cut myself off after this, I decided. Drinking isn't weakness, and even getting drunk once in a long while isn't - everyone needs to let loose - but being drunk habitually, or even regularly, is a grave weakness indeed. I swiped the glass he slid across the bar, and sipped, a rawer, lighter burn than the whiskey. The liquid swirled in the glass as I set it
PAUSE
...the most gorgeous woman I'd ever seen, and I couldn't explain why. I mean, she was undeniably attractive, but I'd seen women who, objectively, were more attractive. If I'd seen a picture of her, I wouldn't have thought all this - but seeing her in the flesh, dancing and talking, hearing that laugh - I felt like I'd caught the edge of a concussion grenade. She was that rarest of all things - interesting. She could hold my attention for hours without doing or saying anything - hell, I could sit and stare into space with just her name in mind - doing nothing, saying nothing, focusing on nothing. Just her.
We'd danced together, drunk together, laughed and argued and just sat together. She was someone I'd sell half the world to spend more time with, and I'd conquer the other half to trade for her smile. Any time she walked in somewhere, a circuit tripped inside me, current running through each and every nerve, and sparks flying from my fingertips. That girl...that fucking girl. She was the only one who could do that to me - nobody else could even compare.
We talked long and low, people around us dancing and talking, and we ignored them all. I wouldn't have been capable of registering them anyway. Her eyes held me like a prisoner in ethereal chains, green like emeralds, hypnotizing and ensnaring. I quoted something I'd written for her, the unfamiliar language grating rough and unsteady against my tongue - her laughter at my attempt both sweet and frustrating to my ear. No matter what, though, she had me hook line and sinker.
Does she know?
She had to. She must know by now. Any excuse to see her, any excuse to spend more time with her or talk to her. She had to know.
But...does she know? Does she care? Is she trying to forget she knows, or are we just really bad at giving signals?
I mean, if she knows, I should at....
PLAY
"I said, you spilled my drink."
My new friend appeared to be having some problems. Still swaying, still looking lost, he stood hemmed in by some four gentlemen of an apparently irascible disposition. The one who had spoken had his hand resting on Romeo-lite's shoulder, and didn't appear to be incline to remove it, despite the stammered apologies.
"That wasn't very nice, was it? Being all clumsy like that." The utterance was punctuated with pushes to the chest of the poor bastard. I rolled my eyes at the sight. This was just sad - bad film mooks start bar fights like this, not real people. The morons doing the hassling were clearly out to prove they were the big men around here. People - what a bunch of bastards. I turned back to my drink. What was the damn point?
"I'd say you owe us some drinks. Cash - hand it over then." I looked back. This seemed excessive - proving you're the biggest swinging dick in the place is one thing, but the robbery was pointless - and malicious. I stood up as the quartet approached the bar.
"'Scuse me, mate..." I tapped the ringleader on the shoulder. He turned to face me, chest puffed out like a peacock, with his cronies fanned out like bodyguards.
"What?"
"I don't want any trouble around here. You might be best giving back the money, and buying your own drink." I kept my voice low. Shouting doesn't help - it just makes for more violence, and I wasn't set on that, yet.
"None of your business what we do. Piss off." I mean really. This was like listening to a bad rendition of Streets of Fire. What was next, was he going to tell me I was in his seat, then hit me?
"Maybe not - I'm just giving you some friendly advice. I'll even buy you your first if you just give back what you took, how's that?"
His neck bulged and he flared his nostrils out. I felt the familiar feeling stealing over me - this guy didn't care what I said, he saw a challenge, and he wanted to fight. I stretched my shoulders, one arm on the bar, the other on the stool. All I'd wanted was a drink and some peace.
I saw the push coming a mile away. He shoved me in the chest, trying to make me stumble backwards, show off for the rest of the bar. If I'd been in a better frame of mind, I would have let him - after all, I didn't care to save face. But like I told the kid - uncertainty is a powerful drug, and I had entirely too much uncertainty already in my mind to be at 100% clarity now.
I stood my ground, and the shove rebounded off my torso. I looked him dead in the eyes. "Don't start, friend. You leave it out, I will too, we forget this happened and call it a night." He ground his teeth and sucked in breath, so I forestalled the coming argument. "But, if you do try...be warned, you'll lose."
That was it. That was the tipping point, the thing I shouldn't have said. Fuck uncertainty, man. He lowered his brow and flexed his hands - clear signs. Here we go again.
"Fuck. You." he ground out. "There's four of us. You're screwed now." The lot of them moved forward, ready to join in.
I was so done with this. "Aye, OK. Square go, pal."
He reared .back, fist cocked, a sledgehammer waiting to land. His friends...
PAUSE
One of the things you'll notice, if you ever see old men fighting - and I mean the tough, grizzled old bastards who have been in more fights than any professional soldier - they don't bounce backwards. Young men, full of bravado and idiocy, bounce back like springloaded toys, giving themselves room to show off to the audience they want. Old men don't, they move forward from a standing start and pit the heid in.
PLAY
As the wrecking-ball fist came round, so did my left hand. The salt I'd raked together on the countertop sprayed into his eyes, and the shotglass cupped in my fist smashed right after it. The grunt of rage turned into a shriek as his view turned into a field of blood, glass and salt. My forehead impacted on the bridge of his nose with a crunch - blood sprayed into the air as he staggered backwards.
One of the goon squad, rushing in to blindside me, collected the stool I had braced in my right arm across the legs and crotch. He went down in a tangle of wood and flesh. My hands free, I stepped inside the rush of the second palooka, planting a low elbow strike with my right into his gut, the edge of my left hand cracking under his jaw as I rose. His head snapped back and he dropped like a stone.
The leader, trying to recover, threw a long, looping haymaker at my head - his knuckles smashed against an upraised elbow, drawing a howl of pain. I kicked at his kneecap and watched his leg buckle as he fell. I saw the last one - the one who hadn't rushed me, take a tentative step forward. I lost sight of him as the first to rush me bounced to his feet and tackled me.
His rush drove me back into the bar, spine striking the wood. I grunted, and threw short punches into his ribs and the sides of his stomach. His arm came up to block the strikes, and I grabbed it, tossing him over my hip to slam into the ground. I locked out his arm at the elbow and braced the heel of my hand against it.
"Anyone takes one more step, I break his arm!"
The rest of them froze - the smart one at the back tugging the other away slightly. Bravado drains pretty quickly when you're staring at an arm about to get bent the wrong way. I glowered at them all.
"Good lads. Now, I'm going to let him go, and you're going to give back the money, turn around, and walk away. You deviate from that, I'll take his arm again and break it - then I'll damage the rest of you. You try and rush me? Arm goes. You try and keep the money? Arm goes, and I'll take it off you. You don't leave immediately? ARM. FUCKING. GOES. Any questions?"
Heads shook all around. I eased the pressure off and stood back as the money was returned. Bar staff came rushing up, full of fire now the violence was done. I stepped back and raised my hands.
"What the fuck was that?!"
I looked at the source of the noise, one of the bartenders. Shrugging, I slid back onto my stool, rejoining my vodka. "There was a problem. Now, no problem. I'm ok with the outcome."
She jabbed me in the chest. "Any more ruckus from you tonight, you're barred. You get it? You get that through your fucking skull? NO MORE!"
I raised my hands again, submitting. Fair enough, I guess.
I rested my elbows on the bar, letting out a long, drawn-out breath. I felt the tension of the fight drain somewhat as I calmed my heart rate down, letting my muscles relax and loosen. I looked at my eyes in the mirror again. I could never see the differences day-to-day, but over the course of time I saw the change. Not the eyes themselves, but something behind them. Something added? Something missing? I could never tell. All I knew is they were different.
I studied them as I sat there, trying to melt the ice in my stomach with another sip of vodka. They looked back at me impassively, nothing given away. I indulged myself for a few seconds, wondering if the me in the reflection was the same as the me sitting there. Everyone does it sometimes - we look in the mirror and try to tell if the person we see looking back at us feels how we feel, thinks how we think. If my reflection knew, he wasn't telling.
I rolled my head back and looked at the ceiling. Was that what she saw when she looked into my eyes? Was there nothing given away there as well? It could be a self-fulfilling prophecy - I know what's behind my eyes, so I see it when I look. Can you see it without knowing it's there?
My head was starting to hurt. Prolonged uncertainty - that shit'll get you, man, I tell you that right now.
"Hey...hey."
I looked round. Every-high-school-tv-drama-protagonist was back on his stool.
"I just wanted to say thanks, man. You didn't have to do that for me."
"I know." It came out harsher than I expected, and he recoiled slightly. I sighed. "Go home, boy. Go home, drink some water and eat something before you sleep. Then get a decent night's sleep, dream about your girl, and in the morning..." I rubbed the bridge of my nose - my father's old tic, lying somewhere inside me, rearing its head once more - "in the morning, do what you want to do. Tell the girl. Ask the girl. Kiss the girl. Leave the girl, if that's what you want. Just don't let this take you over. If reality becomes unbearable....change reality."
He bowed his head slightly, half-nodding. His canvas jacked slid hung from his hand as he started heading for the door. I clapped him on the shoulder, almost sending him down to the floor. "And, bud," I finished, almost calling after him, "she must mean a lot for you to get like this. Don't shut that emotion out - admit it, accept it, and use it. You got this."
The door slammed behind him, and I turned back to my drink. Not much left now - I would be following the young lad's example soon. But for now...
I just couldn't stop thinking about her. I felt like a man dreaming, reaching for a prize only for it to drift out of reach. I thought of standing with her in the cold, talking and laughing more, veiled feelings and half-formed thoughts drifting between us. I'd had her wrapped in my arms...and I hadn't kissed her. Why hadn't I kissed her? What kind of idiot was I?
If I met myself, sometimes, I'd kick myself in the teeth.
Was I an idiot? Or was I being smart? I didn't want to lose her, I wanted the opposite, if anything. I didn't want to wreck this by making a move she didn't want.
I cradled my head in my hands for a brief moment. It was the perpetual catch-22 - I want to ask a question. The positive answer is unimaginably positive. The negative, overwhelmingly so. How can you ask a question when you're scared of finding out the truth?
Get a grip on yourself, I thought. I let my mind drift a little further - imagined her here beside me, looking at me with that little head tilt she often made. That little smile on her lips, the one that could just undo me completely...
I imagined kissing her.
My hand tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, my arms wrapping around her as our lips pressed together, stars exploding in my mind. I imagined the warmth of her against my chest, her heartbeat fast against me. I thought of the way she'd look as we pulled apart, flushed, her hand brushing across the skin of my jaw, my neck, my chest, my arms.
I thought about everything.
Then, of course, I resisted the urge to slap myself. What would she say if she knew what I was thinking? Would she be flattered? Would she think it romantic? Would she....I cut myself off. I could feel myself getting trapped in a recursive cycle, thinking of what she felt, and wondering how she would feel that I thought that, and how she would feel about THAT...Like a dog chasing its tail, you don't know if it'll catch it, but if it does it's not going to be comfortable for the dog.
I knocked back the last of my vodka. Two drinks, done, finished, out. Not a rule I was going to break tonight. I nodded to the bartender as I stood up, getting a slightly shorter and colder nod in return. Reasonable enough I supposed - I'd made a bit of a mess, even with good intentions.
I shrugged on my jacket, the heavy leather settling across my shoulders. I took a last look in the mirror behind the bar, running a hand through my hair. I'd looked worse, that was for sure. No new scars or bruises, at least.
The door closed behind me, and the cold wind whipped around me for a few moments, seeking to chill me and make me shiver. I rolled my shoulders under my coat, looking up at the moon as I lingered on the threshold for a few seconds, then stepped forwards, out of the shadow of the door and into the faint yellow glow of the lights, the misty rain drifting down.
I took a last look back at the bar. I hope the boy took my advice. Hypocritical, perhaps, but still good. Nobody's perfect.
I walked away down the street, my voice echoing off the walls as I ground out a tune. Behind me, the rain-slicked granite glowed in the streetlights, the whole world melting into a painting as the colours around me flowed together across the wet stone. There was a surreal kind of beauty to the scene, a feeling like the closing scene of a film, or like at any moment I would melt into the surroundings, merging with the midnight blue of the sky, the silver-grey of the stone or the yellow lamplight, running together like oils on a slate.
I stopped, and turned. Blowing a breath of steam into the air, I looked back at where the camera would sit for this closing scene, and cocked my eyebrow. Hey, I still had tomorrow, right? And the rest of my life after that.
I resumed my swagger homeward - this was the start of something.
The muttered cadence was cut off as I slammed a glass down in front of him. He flinched upwards to meet my gaze - brown eyes under a ragged mop of dark hair met mine with no small degree of nervousness. I nodded towards the whisky, sitting on the scuffed counter.
"For you, man - if you give the madness mantra a rest."
He nodded jerkily and gingerly sipped the fiery alcohol. I raised my glass to him and did likewise.
"For what it's worth? Spending that long in your own head won't help. You're scared of the answer - I get that - but the more you sink into the question the more you'll forget why the answer is important." I regarded him steadily, sitting hunched over the bar, clutching his drink with both hands. "Go home, boy. Dream about her, and make tomorrow better."
"I just wish I knew. Why does it have to be so complicated?"
I shook my head at the staggered mass of shotglasses, lime segments, chewed straws and shredded napkins on the bar in front of him. It was another variation on the same line, one that anyone who's been around relationships knows all too well. The man sitting beside me couldn't have been more than 20 - an inexperienced 20 at that - and right now he was feeling like the only man in the world who'd ever had, or ever would have, this problem. It would be funny if I didn't feel so sorry for him.
"Uncertainty is a funny thing" I said. The unexpected vocalization made him jump slightly. "Uncertainty is complicated, because it doesn't have any kind of form. It's mutable, constantly changing. It doesn't sit in your stomach like hopelessness, it doesn't course through you like anger, it doesn't freeze you like depression. Uncertainty is just that - uncertain. You can't deal with it, because it shifts all the time." I paused, sipped the dark alcohol in my glass. "It's not always a bad thing, though."
He shifted his gaze a little. Nobody expects answers in bars - that's not why they go. He drew in his breath, but I beat him to it.
"It's not always bad, because it thrills us as well as crashes. Anticipation is one of the most intense feelings you can have - think about the last few minutes of a game, your team up by 1. That feeling, the increased heart rate, the rapid breathing, the excitement? That's uncertainty too, my friend. Don't discount it." I shook my head and continued. "Uncertainty is the most intensely personal drug the human race can experience. Everybody rides it at one time or another, but nobody gets the same reaction - and in our own way, we are all addicts. That's what makes it feel so bad, you know?"
He nodded vaguely. The alcohol was clearly affecting him, his shoulders swaying ever so slightly as he slumped on his stool.
"It's hope" I uttered, quietly. I bit back on the words as I said them, and lifted my glass to my lips again, the sting of the whisky rolling like liquid gravel along the back of my throat. "Uncertainty gets us every time because it taps into the most powerful emotion we're capable of feeling. Hope."
I drained my glass and turned back to the bar. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my new friend rise and make his way to the bathrooms at the back of the room. He stumbled slightly - his feet dragging across the use-roughened floor. I shrugged internally. It doesn't really do to start examining people in bars too closely, especially not those people having personal problems. Some things just can't end well.
I raised my eyeline a little and found myself looking into the mirror at the back of the bar. No surprising revelations jumped out at me - the same grey eyes, same short dark hair, same eyebrows - expressive and mobile. My lip had a roughened, almost scarred look at one side - the perils of biting ones lower lip during conversation, and I'd been doing that a lot recently. I saw the same lips quirk up at one side as I remembered why, and a brief chuckle welled up in my chest before fading. I ran one hand across the stubble coating my jawline - the short goatee I cultivated now was softened, the edges blurring into the shorter stubble around my cheeks and jaw. I needed a shave - more accurately, I had needed a shave a few days ago. Now I needed to get a grip on myself and slice the damn hair off.
I quirked an eyebrow at my reflection - a curious tic of mine, and the most versatile expression in the world. One eyebrow, a whole world of contempt, pride, anger, indifference, and everything in between. "Wonder what you're looking at" I murmured - so too, I suppose, did my reflection, though I can't say I heard it very well.
The bartender was busying himself with the music system, feeding a new playlist into the screen behind the bar. I tapped the counter to get his attention.
"Play 'As Time Goes By'." He looked around and made a noise that I got the impression was supposed to indicate a lack of comprehension, squinting at me like a myopic gremlin. I leaned forward. "If she can stand it, I can. Play it!" The blankness of his expression did not diminish in the slightest. I shrugged and settled back on my seat. Dead horse, flogger, and never the twain shall meet. The glass in my hand felt oddly light as lifted it - empty. I sighed. For all my amazing attributes, I am not a smart man sometimes. I caught the bartenders attention and ordered another drink. Vodka this time - the clear liquid trickled into the glass like liquid diamond, catching and refracting the dim lights. I would cut myself off after this, I decided. Drinking isn't weakness, and even getting drunk once in a long while isn't - everyone needs to let loose - but being drunk habitually, or even regularly, is a grave weakness indeed. I swiped the glass he slid across the bar, and sipped, a rawer, lighter burn than the whiskey. The liquid swirled in the glass as I set it
PAUSE
...the most gorgeous woman I'd ever seen, and I couldn't explain why. I mean, she was undeniably attractive, but I'd seen women who, objectively, were more attractive. If I'd seen a picture of her, I wouldn't have thought all this - but seeing her in the flesh, dancing and talking, hearing that laugh - I felt like I'd caught the edge of a concussion grenade. She was that rarest of all things - interesting. She could hold my attention for hours without doing or saying anything - hell, I could sit and stare into space with just her name in mind - doing nothing, saying nothing, focusing on nothing. Just her.
We'd danced together, drunk together, laughed and argued and just sat together. She was someone I'd sell half the world to spend more time with, and I'd conquer the other half to trade for her smile. Any time she walked in somewhere, a circuit tripped inside me, current running through each and every nerve, and sparks flying from my fingertips. That girl...that fucking girl. She was the only one who could do that to me - nobody else could even compare.
We talked long and low, people around us dancing and talking, and we ignored them all. I wouldn't have been capable of registering them anyway. Her eyes held me like a prisoner in ethereal chains, green like emeralds, hypnotizing and ensnaring. I quoted something I'd written for her, the unfamiliar language grating rough and unsteady against my tongue - her laughter at my attempt both sweet and frustrating to my ear. No matter what, though, she had me hook line and sinker.
Does she know?
She had to. She must know by now. Any excuse to see her, any excuse to spend more time with her or talk to her. She had to know.
But...does she know? Does she care? Is she trying to forget she knows, or are we just really bad at giving signals?
I mean, if she knows, I should at....
PLAY
"I said, you spilled my drink."
My new friend appeared to be having some problems. Still swaying, still looking lost, he stood hemmed in by some four gentlemen of an apparently irascible disposition. The one who had spoken had his hand resting on Romeo-lite's shoulder, and didn't appear to be incline to remove it, despite the stammered apologies.
"That wasn't very nice, was it? Being all clumsy like that." The utterance was punctuated with pushes to the chest of the poor bastard. I rolled my eyes at the sight. This was just sad - bad film mooks start bar fights like this, not real people. The morons doing the hassling were clearly out to prove they were the big men around here. People - what a bunch of bastards. I turned back to my drink. What was the damn point?
"I'd say you owe us some drinks. Cash - hand it over then." I looked back. This seemed excessive - proving you're the biggest swinging dick in the place is one thing, but the robbery was pointless - and malicious. I stood up as the quartet approached the bar.
"'Scuse me, mate..." I tapped the ringleader on the shoulder. He turned to face me, chest puffed out like a peacock, with his cronies fanned out like bodyguards.
"What?"
"I don't want any trouble around here. You might be best giving back the money, and buying your own drink." I kept my voice low. Shouting doesn't help - it just makes for more violence, and I wasn't set on that, yet.
"None of your business what we do. Piss off." I mean really. This was like listening to a bad rendition of Streets of Fire. What was next, was he going to tell me I was in his seat, then hit me?
"Maybe not - I'm just giving you some friendly advice. I'll even buy you your first if you just give back what you took, how's that?"
His neck bulged and he flared his nostrils out. I felt the familiar feeling stealing over me - this guy didn't care what I said, he saw a challenge, and he wanted to fight. I stretched my shoulders, one arm on the bar, the other on the stool. All I'd wanted was a drink and some peace.
I saw the push coming a mile away. He shoved me in the chest, trying to make me stumble backwards, show off for the rest of the bar. If I'd been in a better frame of mind, I would have let him - after all, I didn't care to save face. But like I told the kid - uncertainty is a powerful drug, and I had entirely too much uncertainty already in my mind to be at 100% clarity now.
I stood my ground, and the shove rebounded off my torso. I looked him dead in the eyes. "Don't start, friend. You leave it out, I will too, we forget this happened and call it a night." He ground his teeth and sucked in breath, so I forestalled the coming argument. "But, if you do try...be warned, you'll lose."
That was it. That was the tipping point, the thing I shouldn't have said. Fuck uncertainty, man. He lowered his brow and flexed his hands - clear signs. Here we go again.
"Fuck. You." he ground out. "There's four of us. You're screwed now." The lot of them moved forward, ready to join in.
I was so done with this. "Aye, OK. Square go, pal."
He reared .back, fist cocked, a sledgehammer waiting to land. His friends...
PAUSE
One of the things you'll notice, if you ever see old men fighting - and I mean the tough, grizzled old bastards who have been in more fights than any professional soldier - they don't bounce backwards. Young men, full of bravado and idiocy, bounce back like springloaded toys, giving themselves room to show off to the audience they want. Old men don't, they move forward from a standing start and pit the heid in.
PLAY
As the wrecking-ball fist came round, so did my left hand. The salt I'd raked together on the countertop sprayed into his eyes, and the shotglass cupped in my fist smashed right after it. The grunt of rage turned into a shriek as his view turned into a field of blood, glass and salt. My forehead impacted on the bridge of his nose with a crunch - blood sprayed into the air as he staggered backwards.
One of the goon squad, rushing in to blindside me, collected the stool I had braced in my right arm across the legs and crotch. He went down in a tangle of wood and flesh. My hands free, I stepped inside the rush of the second palooka, planting a low elbow strike with my right into his gut, the edge of my left hand cracking under his jaw as I rose. His head snapped back and he dropped like a stone.
The leader, trying to recover, threw a long, looping haymaker at my head - his knuckles smashed against an upraised elbow, drawing a howl of pain. I kicked at his kneecap and watched his leg buckle as he fell. I saw the last one - the one who hadn't rushed me, take a tentative step forward. I lost sight of him as the first to rush me bounced to his feet and tackled me.
His rush drove me back into the bar, spine striking the wood. I grunted, and threw short punches into his ribs and the sides of his stomach. His arm came up to block the strikes, and I grabbed it, tossing him over my hip to slam into the ground. I locked out his arm at the elbow and braced the heel of my hand against it.
"Anyone takes one more step, I break his arm!"
The rest of them froze - the smart one at the back tugging the other away slightly. Bravado drains pretty quickly when you're staring at an arm about to get bent the wrong way. I glowered at them all.
"Good lads. Now, I'm going to let him go, and you're going to give back the money, turn around, and walk away. You deviate from that, I'll take his arm again and break it - then I'll damage the rest of you. You try and rush me? Arm goes. You try and keep the money? Arm goes, and I'll take it off you. You don't leave immediately? ARM. FUCKING. GOES. Any questions?"
Heads shook all around. I eased the pressure off and stood back as the money was returned. Bar staff came rushing up, full of fire now the violence was done. I stepped back and raised my hands.
"What the fuck was that?!"
I looked at the source of the noise, one of the bartenders. Shrugging, I slid back onto my stool, rejoining my vodka. "There was a problem. Now, no problem. I'm ok with the outcome."
She jabbed me in the chest. "Any more ruckus from you tonight, you're barred. You get it? You get that through your fucking skull? NO MORE!"
I raised my hands again, submitting. Fair enough, I guess.
I rested my elbows on the bar, letting out a long, drawn-out breath. I felt the tension of the fight drain somewhat as I calmed my heart rate down, letting my muscles relax and loosen. I looked at my eyes in the mirror again. I could never see the differences day-to-day, but over the course of time I saw the change. Not the eyes themselves, but something behind them. Something added? Something missing? I could never tell. All I knew is they were different.
I studied them as I sat there, trying to melt the ice in my stomach with another sip of vodka. They looked back at me impassively, nothing given away. I indulged myself for a few seconds, wondering if the me in the reflection was the same as the me sitting there. Everyone does it sometimes - we look in the mirror and try to tell if the person we see looking back at us feels how we feel, thinks how we think. If my reflection knew, he wasn't telling.
I rolled my head back and looked at the ceiling. Was that what she saw when she looked into my eyes? Was there nothing given away there as well? It could be a self-fulfilling prophecy - I know what's behind my eyes, so I see it when I look. Can you see it without knowing it's there?
My head was starting to hurt. Prolonged uncertainty - that shit'll get you, man, I tell you that right now.
"Hey...hey."
I looked round. Every-high-school-tv-drama-protagonist was back on his stool.
"I just wanted to say thanks, man. You didn't have to do that for me."
"I know." It came out harsher than I expected, and he recoiled slightly. I sighed. "Go home, boy. Go home, drink some water and eat something before you sleep. Then get a decent night's sleep, dream about your girl, and in the morning..." I rubbed the bridge of my nose - my father's old tic, lying somewhere inside me, rearing its head once more - "in the morning, do what you want to do. Tell the girl. Ask the girl. Kiss the girl. Leave the girl, if that's what you want. Just don't let this take you over. If reality becomes unbearable....change reality."
He bowed his head slightly, half-nodding. His canvas jacked slid hung from his hand as he started heading for the door. I clapped him on the shoulder, almost sending him down to the floor. "And, bud," I finished, almost calling after him, "she must mean a lot for you to get like this. Don't shut that emotion out - admit it, accept it, and use it. You got this."
The door slammed behind him, and I turned back to my drink. Not much left now - I would be following the young lad's example soon. But for now...
I just couldn't stop thinking about her. I felt like a man dreaming, reaching for a prize only for it to drift out of reach. I thought of standing with her in the cold, talking and laughing more, veiled feelings and half-formed thoughts drifting between us. I'd had her wrapped in my arms...and I hadn't kissed her. Why hadn't I kissed her? What kind of idiot was I?
If I met myself, sometimes, I'd kick myself in the teeth.
Was I an idiot? Or was I being smart? I didn't want to lose her, I wanted the opposite, if anything. I didn't want to wreck this by making a move she didn't want.
I cradled my head in my hands for a brief moment. It was the perpetual catch-22 - I want to ask a question. The positive answer is unimaginably positive. The negative, overwhelmingly so. How can you ask a question when you're scared of finding out the truth?
Get a grip on yourself, I thought. I let my mind drift a little further - imagined her here beside me, looking at me with that little head tilt she often made. That little smile on her lips, the one that could just undo me completely...
I imagined kissing her.
My hand tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, my arms wrapping around her as our lips pressed together, stars exploding in my mind. I imagined the warmth of her against my chest, her heartbeat fast against me. I thought of the way she'd look as we pulled apart, flushed, her hand brushing across the skin of my jaw, my neck, my chest, my arms.
I thought about everything.
Then, of course, I resisted the urge to slap myself. What would she say if she knew what I was thinking? Would she be flattered? Would she think it romantic? Would she....I cut myself off. I could feel myself getting trapped in a recursive cycle, thinking of what she felt, and wondering how she would feel that I thought that, and how she would feel about THAT...Like a dog chasing its tail, you don't know if it'll catch it, but if it does it's not going to be comfortable for the dog.
I knocked back the last of my vodka. Two drinks, done, finished, out. Not a rule I was going to break tonight. I nodded to the bartender as I stood up, getting a slightly shorter and colder nod in return. Reasonable enough I supposed - I'd made a bit of a mess, even with good intentions.
I shrugged on my jacket, the heavy leather settling across my shoulders. I took a last look in the mirror behind the bar, running a hand through my hair. I'd looked worse, that was for sure. No new scars or bruises, at least.
The door closed behind me, and the cold wind whipped around me for a few moments, seeking to chill me and make me shiver. I rolled my shoulders under my coat, looking up at the moon as I lingered on the threshold for a few seconds, then stepped forwards, out of the shadow of the door and into the faint yellow glow of the lights, the misty rain drifting down.
I took a last look back at the bar. I hope the boy took my advice. Hypocritical, perhaps, but still good. Nobody's perfect.
I walked away down the street, my voice echoing off the walls as I ground out a tune. Behind me, the rain-slicked granite glowed in the streetlights, the whole world melting into a painting as the colours around me flowed together across the wet stone. There was a surreal kind of beauty to the scene, a feeling like the closing scene of a film, or like at any moment I would melt into the surroundings, merging with the midnight blue of the sky, the silver-grey of the stone or the yellow lamplight, running together like oils on a slate.
I stopped, and turned. Blowing a breath of steam into the air, I looked back at where the camera would sit for this closing scene, and cocked my eyebrow. Hey, I still had tomorrow, right? And the rest of my life after that.
I resumed my swagger homeward - this was the start of something.
Published 6th May 2016
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