A medical mask tumbles down the empty street. The cigarette, pinched between cold fingers, flickers in the steady wind. The dive bar is steady in the breeze-shook night. Shadows of trees and power lines dance on the frozen pavement of the empty parking lot. A neon sign cast blue and red into the dark, beaconing the lonely and destitute towards a temporary solace. A new name is painted on an old sign. The low rumble of bass and kickdrum grow with every progressive inch towards the hallowed walls. The young man pulls hard with his diaphragm, sucking the last of the tobacco smoke into his lungs. The still glowing cigarette butt flashes as it skips along the ground into a pile of leaves that has been there for months.
The young man opens the door. He slips a cloth mask from his pocket, placing the loops over his ears as he walks briskly into the mostly empty room. A few tables and chairs are scattered while most are piled against a wall. The bar is on the opposite wall from the door. A cue ball sits idle in the center of a well-worn pool table. There is no familiar face for the young man to see. The stools at the bar began the night with prescribed space, but now, early in the morning of the next day, the performative act of social distancing had been suspended. “What’ll you have? Tuesday-two dollar you call it.” The bartender moved slow; he was already performing closing duties with his mask dangling from one ear.
“Whiskey, top shelf. Tonight might be my last night.”
The first thing Larry Tagert saw as he rounded the end of the bar after returning from the bathroom, was the young man, hunched over, staring at a small glowing screen. Working for years to climb the company ladder had turned Larry bitter towards the entitled laziness of the youth of today. Kids will never know what hard work is, he thought to himself as he gained ground towards the young man. “Give me another keep.”
The young man looked up from his phone as Larry slid over a stool to sit down next to him. Larry unveiled a thick red mustache as he pulled down his black bandana. “What’s so interesting in that phone? I could have killed you had I been so inclined. You better keep your eyes up, there are demons out here.”
“I wish you would have, could have saved me the trouble. I am done with it, man. I’m done with it all. I am going to have a few drinks, leave here, and kill myself.” As the bartender set the glass of liquor in front of the young man, he gave Larry a side-eyed glance communicating a question, a statement, and a subtle assessment of the young man’s intentions. The longing for death was not uncommon this time of night, not in this town.
“Oh, I doubt it, youngster. Killing yourself takes bravery, and there is quite a shortage of that these days.” Several other patrons perked up at the young man’s declaration of a desire to die and began to snicker at Larry’s response.
“You callin’ me a coward?” The young man’s back stiffened, and for the first time since entering the bar, he appeared to have some wind in his sails. Even on the verge of suicide, offense was still offensive.
“I insinuated that you were a coward, I didn’t out right say it. But if you were a brave man, you would be in sparse company here.” Larry looked in judgment at the other patrons as their smirks faded to frowns. “Say you are serious about ending it all, how do you think you’ll do it?”
“I am going to.” The young man’s resolve seemed to grow with being called a coward. “I got a pistol at home, a 45. Bullet through the temple should do it. I am going to get a little liquored up first, calm my nerves. I can’t go on living like this.” The bartender had stopped mopping and was now leaning on the mop, listening to the conversation between Larry and the young man.
“Shooting yourself is tricky business. I got a buddy who is a fireman, told me once about an old guy who tried to off himself with a bullet to the temple. Said all it did was blew his eyeballs out. Fella was still talkin’ to them when they pulled up. All that happened was he blinded himself. Poor ol’ fool couldn’t even find the gun to try for a second shot.” Larry chuckled. The young man couldn’t be serious. Most of the time if someone is talking about doing something, they never end up doing it, not at this hour, not in this town.
“Well, then I will put it in my mouth. I was planning on standing on a stool or something also, with an electrical cord around my neck. I am done man, I swear, I can’t take this place anymore” He had already finished his drink and was signaling the bartender for another.
“Put this kid’s drinks on my tab, go ahead and pour me another” Larry shifted his stool a bit closer to the young man. “Sounds like you got a pretty good handle on it. Do you mind telling me what’s got you so set on death?”
“All of it. My life sucks. I am not even sure what I am living for. I barely make enough money to rent my shitty apartment, my car breaks down all the time, and even if I had a girlfriend, which I don’t, there is nothing to do in this boring town.” The young man paused for a drink “I have a girl at work that I like. I was thinking about asking her out, but I don’t have a shot with her now, not after yesterday. I might as well kill myself. Only person who will be sad is my mom, and I bet that will only last a couple days. She will probably be relieved that she won’t have to worry about me screwing up my life anymore.” The young man slipped his phone in his pocket and sat guarding his drink between both arms.
“Sounds like you are a real loser. What happened yesterday?” Larry had not expected such stimulating conversation. He was glad he had decided to stay for a few more drinks even though he had work, what was now, later that day. There are a lot of people on the verge of suicide but few who will so freely speak of it.
“This guy I work with, real asshole, got me in a corner talking about politics. I don’t know anything about it, but he was set on getting me talking, kept asking me questions. Dude started calling me a fascist. Pretending like he is all high and mighty just because he listens to NPR. Everyone up there started calling me a Nazi and claimed all my beliefs were conspiracy theories.” The young man shifted in his seat as if it were warming up.
“The people you work with seem like they are struggling with some fascist tendencies themselves. I have heard that suicide is a permenant solution to a temporary problem. You think that could be?” Larry finished his question and took a sip of his whiskey. He laughed to himself because it seemed that all his imaginings of the youth of today were true. Hopeless. Aimless. Senseless living. No roots in anything, nothing to show for their floundering. He was brought up in a different time, one that didn’t perpetuate the illusion that the world cared about what you wanted. You worked because that is what you were expected to do. Your roots were planted, and you can’t complain about where the leaves fall. There were no free rides, no handouts, no intrinsic value. Your value came from your hands, from your work. Rootless expectations of youth lead to disappointment. Like the expectation that you could achieve happiness or find love in this town. The whiskey had loosened his thoughts, and he was starting to feel nostalgic.
“That’s just what has me upset right now. I have been thinking about killing myself for a while. I can’t imagine living my life in this shitty town, drinking at the same shitty little bars. I mean, what kind of life is this, living paycheck to paycheck just to watch other people live their dreams?”
The group of men sat for a time in quiet, reflecting on the question and the possibility of the young man killing himself. The line between literal death of the body and the figurative death of the soul was a blurry one. The men in the bar all felt that it may be necessary to kill a part of yourself to live in this world, in this age. Dreams are illusions of a satisfaction that can’t exist. Staring at their drinks, they reflected the culmination of choices which brought them to this bar. Larry’s comment about cowardice seeped into the blood of each man same as the liquor they were there to buy, and they wondered what it meant to be a man in this town, at this hour.
After the floor behind the bar was adequately mopped, the bartender, now holding his own glass of liquor, stood in front of the young man and Larry. “I tried to kill myself once.” He took periodic sips between phrases. “I was 22, just about to finish up bible college when I realized I didn’t believe anymore. My preacher and church didn’t lie to me, but they only gave me half the truth. They only told me the stuff that made it easy to believe. I had built a foundation on sand. I hated myself my whole life for not being the type of Christian I thought I should be, only to realize that the type of Christian I thought I should be never really existed, not in America at least. I broke down. I was buried in student loan debt and had a degree that enabled me with the same half-truths I had grown up with. I now had enough knowledge to deceive the poor saps in pews across the nation, to convince them that their life wasn’t shameful in the eyes of their lord. I took a bunch of pills and washed them down with whiskey. I didn’t count on a friend stopping by and calling the police. I didn’t even tell anyone I was going to do it. I woke up three days later, in a hospital bed with a tube down my throat. My dad was in the room. He sat hunched over sleeping, said he had been there the whole time.”
“I think most suicides are botched,” Larry looked at the bartender with admiration. “The human body seems to be more resilient than the mind.” Larry tapped the bar to signal that he wanted another fill up.
“I didn’t want to be a preacher anymore, so I figure being a bartender is the next best thing. It doesn’t pay as well, but it is a lot more effective at helping people cope with their problems.” The bartender filled up Larry’s drink and went ahead and topped off his and the young man’s.
“Why didn’t you finish the job, I mean try to kill yourself again after you got out of the hospital?” The young man asked, “What made you want to live?”
“Strip clubs and rap music.” The bartender now leaned backwards against the cooler below the mirror. “I figured if I weren’t trying to be a Christian anymore, I might as well see what else the Western world had to offer. In a strip club I don’t feel judged, first place I felt free. I know the girls were working me over, but there was a genuine nature to how they talked and there is a playfulness to their service. The strippers were there to honor my desires, not suppress my inclinations. They were there for my money, no deception, their intentions clear, pure. There was no illusion that they would save my soul. They were there for my body. For the here and now, not the someday.”
“And rap music? Seems a weird thing to stay around for.” The young man smirked for the first time all night.
“Rap artists are unapologetic in their speech. They don’t recite lines from the pulpit, they spit rhymes from the street, in the face of convention. There is a grit and honesty. The contrast to the ass-kissing preachers I grew up with was visceral. They’re willing to be offensive. Hell, their blatant intention is to be offensive. It gave me hope in life, hope that maybe I didn’t have to live the life others laid out for me, that there was something beyond convention.”
The young man perked up and reached for his phone again. “I love to draw.” He tapped his screen and pulled up a photo album. “I have recently started tagging overpasses and random walls. It’s the only thing that makes me feel alive. Only thing I do that feels counter to the culture I grew up in.” Larry took the phone and scrolled through the gallery.
“This one here, the one of the girl, I have seen this one. It’s really good, but you could get in a lot of trouble doing stuff like this, right?” Larry, for the first time, looked upon the young man with some respect.
“Yeah, I know, that’s why I haven’t posted these pictures anywhere. There are several other guys making money doing this, making commissions, but they are way better than me.” The straightness that had crept into the young man’s back faded to a slump with the confession.
“I didn’t mean to discourage you.” Larry handed the young man’s phone back. “Look, that should give you hope. You found something you love doing, and there are other people making money doing it. Could be worse. I had several things I enjoyed when I was young but there was no money. Money equals time, and I had no time, so I gave’em up. I was focused on paying the bills. I missed out on a lot of life chasing money. Hell, my marriage ended 5 years ago, and I am pretty sure my kids only care about me for money. There are a lot of days I wish I had chased something other than a paycheck, the way this bartender here chased death. That’s what I meant earlier about courage, the willingness to take control, ultimate control, the risky kind, of one’s future. That takes courage.”
The bartender raised his glass to the young man and Larry. “Cheers to finding something to live for, even if it takes the willingness to die to find it.” The three men clinked their glasses together and shared a smile. The men finished their drinks, and Larry paid the tab before walking out into the parking lot with the young man. “Thanks for the drinks,” the young man said. “I really feel much better, a little drunk. I’m still broke and the people I work with are still jerks, but I feel different. I am looking forward to making a masterpiece. It will take a while to get good enough, but I have plenty of time.”
“That’s probably just the liquor, it will wear off by the morning.” Larry winked at the young man as he stumbled to his car. The pickup honked to signal that it was unlocked. The key slid into the ignition, and the engine choked to life against the cold. Pulling out onto the street, Larry placed his left hand at 10 o’ clock on the steering wheel and extended his pinky as a guide to keep the vehicle inside the white line. “As long as you stay between the lines the law won’t get ya.” Larry punched the 3 on the radio which was preset to a country classics station. Driving east on the highway, he took the exit just past the city’s streetlights. The tires jostled as the pavement ended, and the comforting rumble of caliche replaced the civilized smoothness of the city roads. He drove a familiar distance into the isolation of the rural world. The truck slowed and came to rest in a bar ditch angled to where the sun would emerge over the horizon in a few hours. Larry ritualistically pulled his pistol out of the glove box and checked to confirm a round was in the chamber. He causally tossed it to the dashboard and began to chuckle to himself. He thought of the bartender sitting in a strip club and of the young man painting in his shitty apartment. He knew they were delusional. Their hope was naive and would fade with time, but the thought still made him happy. “Sadly, it’s not that easy,” he laughed to himself as the classic country played. Staring out over his dashboard in the direction he knew the sun would come up, he said, “but, sometimes you have to rely on the smallest things, to get you through the nights, especially at this hour, especially in this town.”