Alternate
by
Bryan Sawatzki
This
bar is not dilapidated by any means, but it looks like it could be from the
outside. Swanky’s is tucked between two
bland buildings that held offices on the street level and converted apartments
above it. The street that the bar is
located on is marginally busy during rush hour, but midday just after lunch
traffic is non existent. The only car
that is moving on this road is mine. As
I park in front of the bar, my phone alerts me of a text message, it’s from my
wife. Ur
I
left work shortly after lunch because I couldn’t handle my reality any
longer. Work is always down my throat,
my wife is even further down, and I just needed a break.
Inside
Swanky’s looks as expected, semi-clean and dimly lit. There are three people in the bar and a
bartender serving their every need. I
chose not to sit at the bar, but instead behind everyone in the corner booth
that gives me a full perspective of the joint.
The booth I picked had a sign above it that read, DOES YOUR WIFE KNOW
YOUR HEAR?!. I thought if she only knew
my month would we over.
“Hey pal you need a drink?” The barkeep yelled.
“Yeah, a beer and a therapist would
be great.”
“Coming right up and I’ll get you a
number.” He bellowed back.
The
beer gutted bartender brought my drink over and smiled, “Leave it open or
closed?”
“Open
is fine for now.” I returned.
I
take a sip and survey the clientele of the bar and I begin to alter my
reality. I begin to create a different
life where I was invested and intertwined with other occupants. This is my therapy, my escape from my
reality.
My
alternate reality picked the older gentleman sitting at the bar. My attention was drawn to him because of the
song coming from his cell phone, People
are strange when they are strangers, kept repeating itself yet the man
doesn’t even flinch. He just lets it
play through. The man seems content on
just sitting there letting the smoke roll up his face as the cigarette just
burns while attached to his lip. His
back is to me, but I can see his reflection in the bar mirror directly in front
of him. His reflection seems weathered;
each crevasse in his forehead seems to tell a story that is matched by each
line of his crow’s feet next to his eyes.
His skin is leathery making it difficult to determine his nationality,
but if I were a betting man, I would guess Native American or maybe Hispanic.
My
mind wanders and our story starts to come together.
A
year ago I met Marc Halfmoon at the V.A hospital. I was there for my physical check up that has
been mandated since the explosion I was involved in during the Gulf War. Marc was there for therapy for his brain,
those are his words, from his time in Vietnam
and Korea . We spoke to one another by chance that
day. Marc came into the lobby in almost
hysteria, screaming at whoever he was in the room with. His screaming startled me and I stood up in a
reaction to it. Marc didn’t notice how
close he was to me when he turned around in a fit and knocked the both of us to
the ground. The physical contact between
us must have snapped him out of it and he helped me up and introduced himself
while apologizing. Once we are both on
our feet he nodded at me and sat in the far corner of the lobby.
The
doctor called me into the room and we completed the physical and everything
seemed to be in working order physically for me. When I walked out of the room, Marc was
waiting for me. He apologized again and
offered to buy me a drink. I could tell
he wanted someone unaffiliated with the medical profession to talk to, so I
accepted. We made our way across the
parking lot to the sports bar that shared the same parking lot.
Once
inside the bar, we got familiar with one another with the usual chit chat that
strangers do. After the first beer, Marc
asked me why I was at the V.A. I told
him about my own stupidity at during the Gulf War and how I came so close to
the explosion. He had a good laugh at my
expense, as do I when I tell the story out loud, then I passed the story
telling torch to Marc.
Marc
tells me about the tours he did in Vietnam . His vivid details of the blazing night skies
and the countless number of people he killed during the war were
fascinating. I could tell Marc was
having trouble talking about it, but he kept going. He seemed like he needed to get it off his
chest, and he felt comfortable recalling this memories to someone who shared
the same directives. Through out the
stories he told me and a few beers, I could see each story in the wrinkles in
his forehead. Each wrinkle had its own
memory steep in pain and anguish.
I
was snapped out the fantasy with this weathered bar patron when the bartender
yells, “Steve, you gonna drink that beer or what?”
Steve
looks down at his warm spirit and glares, “I will when I’m God damn ready. If I wanted my wife here, I would have
brought her!”
I
wanted my fantasy of us to be real, I wanted that relationship where someone
felt they could talk to me and I could relate to them with my own real life
experiences. The moment I heard Steve
for the first time destroyed the fantasy.
In his real life, Steve is probably very much like me. He deals with his wife not because of love,
but out of fear of being alone.
I
finished my first beer and the bartender waddled over another one. I take my first sip of my second drink and I
locked on to the overweight couple at the opposite end of the bar from
Steve/Marc Halfmoon, and begin to create a new alternate reality with them.
Dwayne
and Ethal met each other through me a few years ago. Dwayne and I grew up together in an Angola , Indiana . We lived in the same neighborhood, went to
the same schools, and played football together from pee-wee through high
school. Back then Dwayne was a statuesque
middle linebacker for our mediocre high school team. Once adulthood set in, he traded working out
for late night fast food and lack of motivation.
After
high school, Dwayne and I went our separate ways. He stayed in state and went to an engineering
college, and I left Indiana for the blonde bombshells of Arizona State. We kept in touch and saw each other whenever
I would come home to visit, but it wasn’t until our 10 year high school reunion
where he’d meet Ethal.
On
my way home for the reunion, Ethal was sitting next to me on the plane. We began idol chatting to pass time. She told me that she was heading to Angola for a
job interview with the metal fabricating company that is based there. She told me that she is nervous to move away
from everything and everyone she has ever known. Ethal was a nice woman but she had a few
extra pounds on her. In my estimation
she probably heard that she had a pretty face her whole life but was always
overweight, causing her to be lacking self confidence. As we landed Ethal and I exchanged numbers
and I told her I could introduce her to some of the people back home if she
wanted.
At
the reunion, Dwayne and I started talking and he expressed to me how lonely he
was. He never meets anyone new and with
this increased size over the years, even the high school stay behinds won’t
even consider him anymore. He’s been
reduced to the funny fat guy friend. I
sympathized with him and remembered I had Ethal’s cell number in my
pocket. I tell Dwayne we are going to
the Machine Shop Bar for a few drinks and to meet a friend.
Dwayne
says his good byes and I called Ethal and told her where to meet me. I told her that I had a friend I wanted her to
meet.
Dwayne
and I get to the bar first and ordered shots of Tequila, to loosen him up for
his impromptu blind date with Ethal. We
get the shots down and Ethal walked up.
After the introductions the sparks flew.
I just sat back and watched while they told each other their life
stories, accomplishments and embarrassments.
It was beautiful. A year later
they were married and the following year they welcomed my god son into the
world.
This
reality was beautiful until it was interrupted when the two overweight people I
was fantasizing about bumped my table on the way out. They snapped me out of what I believed to be
the greatest love story ever told. I
looked down and noticed my beer was gone, and there was nobody left in the room
but me and the bartender. I signal to
him I wanted to cash out and looked at my watch. I was in the bar for an hour, but to me it
felt like a life time. The bartender
hands me the bill and I give him a twenty and tell him the rest is tip, he
thanks me and I walk out to my car.
As
I pull my seat belt across, my cell buzzes again. I have five missed calls and ten text
messages, all from my wife. The last
text message read, I hope you don’t even
come home. You don’t deserve to have a woman like me. I take a deep breath and put the car in drive.
