The Barstool

 The barstool’s broken seat was just annoying enough for me to start to think about leaving. Or at least moving to another spot.

But damn it, the game was on right in front of me, and the place was packed. I looked at John, the barkeep and winced just enough for him to wander over. I was a regular, and most of these folks were tourists. In the sense that they came here two times a year – St. Patrick’s Day and Super Bowl Sunday.

“What’s bothering you now,” John said. His goatee jostling up and down with each word.

“Damn seat’s broke,” I replied.

“Tough shit, man,” you want another?

“Sure.” John clicked a new Shiner for me, plopping it down on the bar with a rap of his knuckle. There are certain things that are good about being a regular.

I look up at the TV. It’s awful how long the pre-game for the Super Bowl is. It used to be just a few hours. Then all day. Now, it’s the entire weekend. Who has time to watch all of that? Any of that? I wonder to myself. But maybe not.

“Capitalism, baby!” some 45-year-old doofus with a backwards baseball cap says to me.

“Fuck capitalism,” is all I can muster. The guy looks me over, shrugs, and walks away. Score one for me. I take a swig of my beer. It’s cold still, which is great.

I relax a bit. Then I get bumped by someone from behind. I turn around, and I see her. A gorgeous, long-haired woman. She’s about my age, as the eyes always tell you. But she’s beautiful.

“Hello,” I muster meekly. She looks at me and smiles. I guess I have to come up with more than that.

“I’ve never seen you here before. Are you a tourist?”

She shakes her head no. Still not saying a word.

“My name is Randy,” I say.

“Anita,” she says with a smile. I look at her shoulder and see a Lucero “L Star” tattoo. I wonder if that is a good sign, bad sign, or not a sign at all.

She sees me looking at it, probably a little too long and touches my forehead with her finger.

“I’ll tell you why, if you show me yours.”

“Don’t have any,” I say with a shrug, taking a sip of Shiner to calm my nerves.

“None?”

“None.”

“Well, that’s a surprise.”

“Why?”

“The amount of times you’ve put money in John’s jukebox to play them, I figured you were a member of the club.”

“I almost got one in 2009,” I said. “But, I changed my mind. I had even shaved off my shoulder.” I cringed when I said that.

She looked at me, then my back, and smiled.

“Hell, we’re in our 50s, nothing wrong with that.”

I smile, wave John over, and order a couple of Shiners.

“You want to share with me,” I say.

“Sure. Let me go tell my girlfriends that I’ll be hanging out with you for a bit.” She winks and walks over to one of the booths in the back of the bar. Near the game where you punch the punching bag to see how strong you are. I’ve never punched one of those.

I watch Anita saunter over to her friends. You can tell she’s one of those people that is always happy on the outside. I stop myself from digging too much deeper into my experiences with women you meet in bars. It’s self defeating, right?

The group of ladies all look over at me at the same time. I smile my crooked tooth grin. They all wave at me and laugh. I take that as I good sign. Especially when Anita wanders back over. I watch her, but I also watch the rest of the bar. A lot of people are watching her.

She makes it back to the bar just as Pedro, my former boss, gets up to go pee. He asks me to save his seat.

Anita sits down in it. I don’t say a word about it.

“That guy coming back?” she says.

“I’m sure he wants to,” I reply with a swig of beer.

“Well, I should…”

“Nah, I know him. Well.”

She cocks her head to the side when I say “well.” Maybe she should have listened to that voice in her head telling her there was something to that “well.”

But she didn’t. And today, 7 years later, I’m glad she didn’t.

cup

I stared at the old plastic cup on my table. It stared back at me. Neither of us had a smidge of emotion. Both just existing on this day. When the cup was placed on the table, it was full. Now, it was empty. Been that way for a while now. The contents evaporated into the air. A little more each day. Nothing I ever noticed, until half of it was gone – a little bit of mold swimming in the liquid. A bit later, there was nothing. Exactly the way she made me feel the day she left that cup sitting there. Why she even bothered to make herself a drink, plop it down on the table and then proceed to end my life, I don’t even bother trying to comprehend. But that cup, a 1999 Orpheus parade one gleaned from a Mardi Gras a long time before that day, has become a companion. Not a friend, for sure. Because a friend wouldn’t constantly remind you of the shittiest day of your life. Or would they? I don’t know. I sometimes doubt whether I have any friends. I have people that I know. But do they know me? I tend to be a bit guarded. The only ones who get in are the ones I fuck. Literally. And I guess figuratively, if you ask them. That’s my fault, I assume. I’ve tried to open up. Usually on a barstool. Usually drunk. Usually when I needed something from someone. A leech gets better results because they just suck. The cup, it doesn’t offer anything. It could be cleaned out, put back on a shelf. Then it would just become part of the rotation again. A reminder that just pops up every so often. Or, the cup could be tossed into the trash. Gone forever. Except when thoughts veered back in that direction, which, knowing me, they always would find a way to veer. That’s not really an option, however. I know that. The cup is old. It holds other memories too. It’s been a good cup. Never cracking, or letting much of the paint peel. It’s not its fault that she picked it up that day. The cup was one of her favorites. Even though it came from New Orleans. The town she told me she’d never visit. “Because of her,” she always said. I never shied away from her past. I met her ex. He was a weak person. Still living on his parent’s farm in up-state New York. I could tell he was still in love with her. She’d told me as much before we were dating. Not so much anymore when we were. I wasn’t jealous. Why? Because I trust. Cheating is the one thing a person should never do. I think I’ve lived up to that belief, although some would say I haven’t. It’s understandable. The duality of the cup is part of my attachment to it. It came from one, but is now labeled forever as the other. Now, years later, they both are part of my life still. One from afar, one just in my mind. I sit here and stare at that cup. Seems like such a waste of time. Seems? Then it dawns on me, there used to be a bunch of those cups. She must have kept all the others. Five years ago, the choice was made to keep them. And my Andy Kaufman books. A couple of hats and my fishing poles. “I’ll mail you those if I find them,” she said about the fishing poles. They were purchased in New Orleans. In 1995. On a one-off fishing trip with another ghost of my past. We didn’t catch a fish that day. But we smiled a lot. I can’t remember if I’ve smiled that much in a long time. But I kept those poles. A distant memory attached. Eventually, they were claimed by someone else. I hope they’ve been used again. By someone who picked them up at a Goodwill in Florida, most likely. And that the smiles they held passed from them into the new owner. Even if they didn’t catch a fish. It’s more about the company, anyway. Not the torturing of another creature. Or maybe we’re all put here to torture. A fish. A dog. Another person. A country. Shit. Who am I kidding? It’s about torturing yourself. The cup stares at me. I stare back at the cup. If I can get up, I’ll toss it in the trash.