A Bird Called Failure
“You want another drink?” The bartender asked.
“Yeah, sure why not.” He reached for my glass, but it feels cool in my hand and the clinking of the ice cubes, comforting. “I’ll finish this one.” He gave me a look of mild disdain and went to pour another. The ice cubes clatter and tumble, pressing against my lips as I drain the glass, tasting the smoothness of the alcohol. I looked out the window, in the distance I saw a hawk circling and soaring on the winds, the bartender brought my drink.
“You see that bird.” I said, “it’s a hawk, you know how I can tell?” He shrugged his shoulders, “by the way they use their wings.” He walked away taking my quickly evaporating money. I used to admire them, their grace, their power in flight, their prowess in the hunt, characteristics I flattered myself, I had, now there’s always time for another drink, if not the money. I’m not going anywhere. This bar used to be my hangout, now it’s my life.
In the mirror across the bar, I watch myself watching myself. I’m wearing a rumpled felt coat, it used to be my business coat, now it’s tattered and frayed, just like me.
I’ve watched the sun crawl across the windows faster than you might expect, watching the shadows lengthen and recede on the floor, other days I’ve listened as the ice cubes have creaked and groaned against each other like glaciers carving new paths across their faces. There’s a certain freedom in alcohol. I’ve sat in here so long I know all the local characters, the hustlers, womanizers, the savant, who sits and drinks but when Jeopardy goes on, he can answer all the questions correctly ahead of the contestants no matter how long he’s been in here. Most of the days go by pretty fast.
Looking up from my drink I notice two women across the bar having lunch, they’re dressed in business suits. It doesn’t seem like all that long ago that I was just like them, going out to lunch with a client or an associate and having a drink or two and feeling like I was getting away with something. The problem is, I came back later for more, trying to fill the emptiness I felt.
One of the women is darker complected than the other, her eyes momentarily lock with mine. She runs her hand threw her thick black hair, twirling her finger around in her drink then absently sticks it in her mouth. Her skin is a soft brown, a spray of pressed gold accents the skin of her breast. I imagine her long brown legs wrapped around mine, as I slide my hand down over her lithe body, then I…I, a fantasy of days gone past. She’d never go for a guy like me, not anymore.
I haven’t been like this all of my life. I used to be good looking, now my eyes are bleary and bloodshot, my hair alcoholically thickened and slicked back, my pallor is sallow, and I look terminally saddened. I used to be a successful, upper middle-class salesman. I had a great job, married to a woman I loved, we had two children. And no, it’s not what you think either, I didn’t turn to alcohol because she left me, as a matter of fact it was quite the opposite, she stayed with me until the end, until I couldn’t watch them suffer anymore, until I left. Now if I feel the urge to get laid, there’s always the occasional barfly her standards “relaxed”, or if worse comes to worst masturbation is always close at hand. But all I really want now is a friend to tell me it’s all right.
Alcohol is a dark excuse, but I know what it’s like to feel the need to get a drink, just to feel normal again. Alcohol is something I understand. I don’t know what happened, not anymore. I used to drink just with friends, but somewhere along the line something just left me. I don’t even know what that something is, or was anymore, my will? My idealism? Or maybe just my soul? Sometimes I think I remember what I lost, but by the next morning I don’t remember, or the thought seems so ordinary it just doesn’t seem to shine in the same light of illumination. Maybe that’s why I started to drink, to try and recapture that moment when everything seems to make sense, grab it and hold onto it, and if I can hold onto it everything will be okay, again. But it’s usually the moment right before everything swims out of control. I don’t know, if I did know why I started to drink, I’ve forgotten. Or maybe that’s why I started to drink to mourn the loss, or was it to remember?
Maybe it was just inevitable, a matter of genetic chemistry. Both of my grandfathers were alcoholic. I’ve been coming to bars for twenty-five years, and I’m only thirty. The first time I was in a bar was with my grandfather, he got a beer, and he got me a root beer. It was so cool, I felt grown-up. I took another sip of my drink, encouraging the reverie. A warm flush passes through me as I bask in the pleasant memories. Then there’s the story my uncle once told of going into a bar on his birthday trying to cadge a free drink.
“It’s my birthday can I get a drink?”
“Sure!” The bartender replied in good fellowship “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Twenty-one? You’ve been coming in here for five years!” So, maybe it was just a matter of time and events conspiring to bring everything together. A biological inevitability.
I finished my drink. I’m down to my last dollar, what should I do? Tip the bartender? Or get a beer? New moralities are born every day, new values, hourly. I stiffed this guy the last time I was in here. Decisions, decisions, I need his goodwill. I left the dollar on the bar and walked out.
“Shit!” I said, as I walked outside. I’ve been in there for hours and the sun is still shining. I don’t like being drunk out in the day, it reminds me of things I don’t want to think about, like people with something important to do, or someone important to go home to, it reminds me of life. It reminds me of what I was, of what I am.
Circling overhead the hawk, you don’t see them around here much anymore, I feel something on my cheek, I raise my hand to touch it, a tear. I looked at it with an alien detachment I haven’t shed a tear in years. I wish I had more money. I try to think of where I can go to get money, what I can do, I head one way, then pivot around the other way, not knowing which way to turn. I need another drink, I’m not really drunk I can still think, I can still feel.
Credit: Hawk Flying by George Peters.