Falling Down: A Pain Unseen

Falling Down: A Pain Unseen

“Double whiskey and a beer, please.”  Once again I’m in my favorite pub when I should be writing.  I like it here though; I can find peace and clarity. As usual, Darryl is perched at the far end of the bar.  Darryl’s a fat slob, but I respect his fortitude.  He’s here every day/night.  He cusses about how shitty his life and marriage are until he gets plowed enough to let depression overcome his angst.  If he’s having a really bad go of it, he’ll feel that need for a woman, but not his woman.  He’ll want something different.  So he usually then buys Lisa (or another one of the skanks that frequent the place) enough drinks to get her into it and they’ll leave together.  It’s not really a pick-up, a woman like Lisa will fuck you, suck you, shit on you- if that’s what you’re into- and all you have to do is buy her some drinks and throw her a little money at the end and she’ll be happy.  If you don’t want to pay for it, give her a sympathetic ear and let her tell you one of her tragedies.  Act like you care.  She’s just as lost as anyone else, and if the mood is right, she’ll give it away for that brief moment of having something real to hold on to instead of the loneliness.

Lisa will drink whiskey when given to her, but gin is the preferred means to fortify herself against the demons.  In this world of ours, we’re just trying to grind, scrape and claw our way through another day without killing someone, or ourselves.  You’ll find all types in this place, but when it comes to the women, they can usually be thrown into two categories: drunks and whores. But then again, you can say the same thing about the men.

“How about another round?”  I yell down to Paul, the barman, who seems to have forgotten about my end of the bar while he chats with Darryl.  As I shout, I notice the couple at the side table on my left are really going at it.  I’ve never been one to screw around in public.  What’s the point of showcasing intimacy to desperate strangers, especially in a place like this?

This is a drinkers’ bar.  Among other things, it could also be called a brothel, school, paradise, jail, torture, or church.  Take your pick.  For myself, the latter holds true, it’s more spiritual.

“How about another beer and whiskey my friend?”  I call out again while the jukebox is between songs and finally catch Paul’s attention.

After a while, I see that the couple to my left have stopped their make-out session and now seem to be upset with each other.  The girl is not saying a word.  She’s crying on the inside and the guy doesn’t care.  That’s how quick things can change in life.

After a few more rounds, it’s time to go.  I can feel the drunk coming on.  I go home hoping to get some words out on the page, but on the way out, I pick up a fifth of whiskey to-go from Paul.  Paul’s a fairly good guy and he only drinks when he wants to kill himself.  Therefore, he is drunk often.

Once in the friendly confines of my apartment with my family of roaches, I sit in front of my computer.  “What’s it going to be?...” I ask myself hoping for the right words to flash across my mind like a plane pulling a banner across the sky.  Of course, as soon as I’m finally feeling an immortal thought coming on, there’s a knock at the door. 

It’s Hank from across the hall.  He must’ve heard me come in and is looking for a break from his old lady.  He wants a drink.  Lucky for me, I’ve already dented my fifth pretty good, so the charity ward will not be in full swing tonight, but I’m happy to fill him up.  He’s just as screwed, and broken, as the rest of us.

“Hey man, what’s news?”  He says as he plops down in the lounger next to my desk.

“Nada….same old shit.”

“Where’s Wendy?”

“Gone, left about a week ago.”  Wendy was a girl I was hanging with until she found another guy with a little more luck than myself and bailed.  I was true to her and into it, but that doesn’t matter these days, it’s all about what you can give and honesty and loyalty aren’t considered to be of much value it seems.  I do feel that one day it’ll all come back to me.  What you give to the world, the world will eventually give you back.  While I cannot guarantee this, we all need something to give us hope and this is my crutch.

After about ten minutes, the whiskey is finished and Hank’s smoked two of my cigarettes.  He’s just sitting still now as the war rages on in his mind.  He’s also waiting, waiting to see if I’ll pull out another bottle.  Not today. 

After a while, the poor bastard gets up and leaves--- he doesn’t bother to say anything, not even a thanks.  In all honesty, that’s what I actually like about the guy.  He doesn’t fuck around with manufactured politeness.  If he has something to say, he says it, otherwise, he shuts up.  If humans didn’t have the ability to talk so much, life would be a lot easier.

I wake up, the sun has risen, but it’s cloudy and the light is stale.  I still haven’t written anything.  I piss and then go to the kitchen.  I pour myself a drink, light a smoke and stare out my window, as I contemplate getting myself through another day.  A little boy walking with a little girl come into view.  They start across the street toward the park.  It’s probably his little sister.  They’re small and clean, and happy looking.  About halfway across the street the boy spots some ducks, gets excited and runs ahead.  The girl tries to follow and catch-up to him, but trips on the curb and falls on her face.  Hard.  The boy doesn’t even notice because he’s chasing the ducks around, trying to get them to fly.  The girl, about to cry, looks around for sympathy, but there is no one there to give it, so she doesn't make a fuss.  She catches up to her brother as the ducks take flight and the kids continue into the park.  I stand at the window, imagining her falling again and again and again- all the while not feeling any pain because no one cares to notice.  Maybe today will be a good day.

I drain my glass and refill it.

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