A Man in a Bar--A Short Story

A Man in a Bar

Chapter 1: Despondency

    Our story, like many tales of pain-ridden and unraveling souls, begins in a bar.  This bar—Bart’s Bar—was distinctly average.  It was filled with average people drinking average alcohol while having average conversations.  The environment was not dark and gloomy, nor was it particularly well-lit.  It was not a “nice bar” (whatever that might mean), nor was it a rodent-infested, germ-ridden sort of place.  For many lonely folks, it was an okay place to spend an otherwise-unreserved evening in rural Northeastern Ohio.

   

    It is in this bar that we meet our protagonist—a man named Michael (and never Mike, or Mikey, or Mickey, or any other possible derivative of the two-syllable name Michael).  Michael’s physical appearance epitomized this ubiquitous feeling of mediocrity.  He stood somewhere close to 5’10”, while having ambiguous proportions that weighed in around 175 lbs.  He had light brown hair, fair skin, and mildly-interesting blue eyes.  He was not a man of many talents, but his karaoke skills were widely appreciated, though he wasn’t sure which entertained the crowds more—his vocals or his lack of inhibition.

   

    Now Michael drank too much.  I wouldn’t call him an alcoholic, but let’s just say that he wasn’t doing his vital organs any favors.  He had begun to frequent the aforementioned establishment about three years prior.  His life had seen some ups and downs, and he had settled down somewhere in the middle.  He had very few friends, and even less use for friendship.  His was not an overwhelmingly charismatic personality.

“Bart,” he muttered, staring down at his empty glass.

“Yeah?”

“My glass is running low!” he replied, as tactfully a bar patron could manage.

    

    “As is my patience, Michael,” Bart shot back.  Bart was the proprietor of the aptly-named bar.  He was nice enough.  He was friendly and would engage with his clients in conversation.  He was not a social worker, however, and he had no mind for charity cases.  Michael was a lost soul, but it was not Bart’s job to find him.  “You’re done, Michael.  Go home,” he said unequivocally.

    “You’re probably right,” Michael admitted sullenly.  He stood up, grabbed the notebook he always had by his side, and walked out the door into the brisk night air.  It was just another Tuesday night in the middle of September in Marlboro, Oh. 

     Michael knew he was too intoxicated to drive, so he began the journey home on foot.  Fortunately, Michael’s walk was not a long one.  He had been staying with his sister for a while, and her residence was only a mile or so up the road.

    Michael’s sister was the oldest of three children (Michael was the youngest, while Tom, who had long since moved away, was the middle child).  Her name was Lisa Boatright, and she never tired of saying, “Like a boat that goes right.  No ‘W’.”  She was 33—seven years older than Michael.  She was incredibly stressed—overworked and underpaid as she was—but her beautiful smile and complexion never failed to shine.  Her hair was the same color as Michael’s, but instead of blue eyes, she sported soft hazel ones.  She was rather tall for a woman, around 5’10”, a fact she never let Michael forget.

   

     While Lisa and Michael had their fair share of sibling rivalries and petty disputes, they were practically inseparable.  When Michael had hit rock bottom, Lisa alone was there to pick him up.  She welcomed him into her family’s home and tried to help him rebuild his life.  She was still working on him.  Lisa was the big sister, and she had always sort of seen it as her job to care for her baby brother.  Adulthood hadn’t changed that.

    Michael staggered in the back door around 10:30.  Lisa was there to greet him. 

    “Michael, why do you do this to yourself?” she whispered.

    “I can’t say that I have a real good answer,” he replied with a shrug.

    “It’s been three years, Michael.  It’s time to move on.”

    “Move on?  Move on?  I don’t even know what that means.  It’s not that I don’t want to.  I just honestly haven’t figured out how it’d be possible,” he said, warm tears creeping down his blushing cheeks.

    She moved towards him and caught him in her arms.  “I don’t know, Bro,” she said.  “We’ll figure it out.”

Chapter 2: Her

    Fast forward about 22 hours.  The day had changed to Wednesday, but most of the other details remained the same.  Michael was back in Bart’s Bar, drinking his favorite whiskey sour.  He wasn’t looking for change, but change was looking for him.  He was unsuspecting when his sister walked in the bar, followed by a shy young woman.

    Lisa weaved her way over to where she knew Michael would be, her friend in tow.  She reached Michael first, bending over to whisper in his ear, “Now, be normal…be civil.” 

     Michael stood up to greet Lisa and her friend.  He may not have looked the part, but his parents had raised him to be a gentleman.  “How’s it goin’?” he said as casually as he could.

    The friend said nothing.  She only smiled.  Lisa did enough talking for the both of them. 

    “Michael…Rita.  Rita…Michael.”  And with that they were introduced.  Suddenly Lisa’s phone began to ring.  She answered it and headed for the door.  “I have to take this,” she said as she ducked out.

    The awkward pair stared at each other awkwardly.  Michael broke the silence.  “Can I buy you a drink?”  She agreed and Michael waved for the bartender.  “Bart,” he said.  “I’ll have another whiskey sour and for the lady…”  He turned to her. 

    “Anything is fine,” she said softly.

    “The lady will have a merlot.”  Drinks being served, Michael and Rita moved sat down across from one another, each as equally anxious as the other for Lisa to return.  After some meaningless chit-chat and a few references to the weather, Lisa returned.

    “I hate to do this to you,” she said.  “But I’ve got to run.”  Michael and Rita both began to blush as panic set in.  “Michael, can you entertain Rita for a bit?”  Michael nodded.  Lisa thanked him and headed for the door once again, stealing into the night with a proud grin on her mouth. 

    “So…” Michael said.

    “So…” she echoed, her discomfort rivaling his.  “So…that seemed a little convenient, right?” 

    “Yeah, that would be Lisa—always trying to stick her nose into other peoples’ business.”

    “You noticed that about her, too?” Rita joked. 

    Strangely, that brief laugh broke the ice, and the words began to flow more easily.  The topics of conversation grew slightly more serious.  They talked about common interests and careers.  They talked about sports and politics.  They found something familiar about each other’s company. 

    “So…” Rita changed the topic of conversation.  “Have you ever been engaged or married?”  Michael bit his lip.  His eyes grew red. 

    “I…I’ve gotta run,” he said, standing up to leave.  Flying through the door, he burst into tears.  He fell to his knees, the gravel tearing holes in his worn jeans.  Images began to flood his mind.  He saw her face.  He heard her voice.  He kissed her lips.  He saw blood.  He saw her face—lifeless. 

    Meanwhile, Rita remained motionless inside.  What had she done?  Bart motioned her over to the bar, a bottle of gin in one hand and a glass in the other.  “What’d you say to him, Hun?” he asked.

    “I just asked if he had ever been married,” she replied, still slightly dazed.

    Bart sighed and began stroking his forehead.  “Sister, his wife is dead.”  Her face turned the color of strawberry ice cream as tears careened down her cheeks and over her subtle dimples.  “I can’t believe Lisa didn’t tell you…”

    Michael made it home alright.  Slumping into the old hammock that hung between the two maple trees, he began to remember life before that night.  He remembered his lovely wife and their beautiful daughter, Emma, who was just becoming a toddler.  He fell asleep dreaming of their faces.

       

3.  Trying

    Soon it was Friday.  Rita had called Lisa, wondering why she never mentioned it.  Lisa didn’t want people to think he was damaged.  Rita heard the whole story.  Coming home one night from a routine trip to the grocery store, Michael had lost control of the van.  He lived.  He was the only one who did. 

    Rita wanted to see him again.  She wanted to be there for him.  He, however, was broken.  He had enjoyed their evening together, but he wasn’t sure if he could ever bear to see her face again.  He felt exposed.  He felt undone. 

    “Rita’s coming over for dinner tomorrow night,” Lisa said as she dried the last plate and put it in the cupboard.  “Whether you like it or not, she’s coming.” 

    “I’ll be at Bart’s,” he said.

    “Michael…”  He began to leave the room.  “Don’t you walk out on me!” Lisa shouted.

    “You’re not my mother!” he said as he turned towards her.

    “Yeah, I am!  I’ve always been there for you.  I’ve always loved you like a mother.  I’ve always done what’s best for you.  Can’t you just trust me?”

    “Trust you?  After that stunt you pulled last night?” he said sarcastically.

    “I knew you would never go for it,” she admitted.  “I’m just trying to help.”

    “I know…but…”

    “But what, Michael?  You know you liked her.  Everybody likes Rita!”

    He leaned back into the wall, wiping away a tear he refused to acknowledge.  “You know,” he said, “I never thought it could get any worse than losing Mom, but then…”

   

    “I know, honey.  I know…”  She walked over and hugged him.  That was all she knew to do.

    “We’re doing this too much, you know?” he said with a smile.  “It’s starting to get weird.”  

    “Hey!” she said.  “Normal families hug…at least that’s what I hear.”

4.  Dinner with Rita

    Michael sat across from Rita, and Lisa sat across from her husband, Terry.  Chad and Christine, their two kids, were eating in their bedrooms.

    Michael was doing this for Lisa.  Maybe there was a piece of him that was curious.  He studied his vegetables intently.  Eye contact was painful.

    Lisa led the night’s conversation, which was par for the course.  Terry nodded and laughed—there was always something he’d rather be doing.  Rita couldn’t stop thinking, *Don’t mention his wife!  Don’t mention his wife! Don’t mention his wife!* 

    They were talking about high school and college when Rita began to talk about her roommate from freshman year.  “Lindsay was the craziest…” she said.  She stopped dead in her tracks.  She recalled Lisa telling her that Michael’s wife’s name was Lindsay.  An unhappy coincidence.

    Everyone looked at Michael.  What would he do?  He remained silent as his eyes welled up.  Her eyes went floating through his mind.  Her laugh echoed in his ears.  He could handle that, but soon he could see nothing but her cold corpse.

    He fought to dam the tears that threatened to ruin the evening.  “I need to use the restroom.  Excuse me,” he whimpered.  He rose and fled the room like it was a crime scene.  Lisa pursued. 

    “Man,” Terry said.  “You’d think he be over her by now.”  Rita shot him an evil look, shocked at his distaste.

    “It’s getting late.  I had better go,” she said as she reached for her coat and purse.  She slipped out before Michael and Lisa could catch her while Terry pulled out his phone and checked his updates.

5. A Chance Encounter

    The weekend went as soon as it came and they fell victim to Monday once more.  Michael had spent his weekend at Bart’s Bar, as usual.  Monday was the family shopping day, and Michael decided to come along, mostly at his sister’s urging.  She wanted him to do something besides drink.

    As they entered the produce section, Michael spotted Lisa.  He hoped she hadn’t seen him, but he was unable to escape her line of sight.  She spotted him.  She didn’t know if she should say anything.  Which would be more awkward?  Talking or ignoring each other? 

    “Hi, Rita!” Lisa spoke up.  She acted like the other night had never happened.  Rita and Michael wished they could, too. 

    Michael turned to Lisa and shot her the evil eye.  “This again,” he muttered. 

    “This wasn’t me,” she insisted.  “Maybe it was God.” 

     They small talked for a minute or two.  Rita secretly wished Michael would ask her out, or at least have a conversation with her.  Any sort of positive attention would have been appreciated.  His face was red and he looked like he had fire ants crawling down his back.  He couldn’t manage more than a scantily-worded greeting.

6.  Confrontation

    It was Tuesday night.  Rita knew where Michael would be and she was determined to get a few words off her chest.  Hers was a generally quiet and passive spirit, but she just couldn’t stand to watch a man self destruct like that. 

    She walked through the door and over to his usual seat.  She drew the attention of the crowd, most of whom were well-acquainted with Michael. 

    Caught off balance, Michael tried to collect himself.  “Huh…hi, Rita.”

    “Michael,” she said.  “Can I be honest with you for just one minute?”  He nodded, as frightened as he had ever been in his life.  “I like you,” she declared.  “I like you a lot…and I feel like you like me, too.  It can’t just be me.  There’s a connection here, right?”

    Michael didn’t know what to say.  “I guess,” he managed to say. 

    “I know you lost your wife.  I get that…I really do,” she said.

    “No, you don’t,” Michael said.  “I know what you’re trying to do, and I really wish I could get to that place, but I’m just not there.  I don’t expect you to understand.”

    “Two and a half years ago my fiancé died of brain cancer.”  Michael shrunk back.  She continued.  “Seeing him in pain was the most excruciating experience of my life, but I’ve got to say, watching you waste your life might be worse.  I barely know you, and I have no right to do this, but I feel like I’m the only one who can really understand what you feel, so I’m just going to say it.  It’s time to move on.  You don’t have to get over her.  You don’t have to forget about her, but it’s time to live your life.”

    Rita went silent.  She waited.  Michael sat quietly for a moment.  He wanted to choose his words wisely.  “They can’t live their lives.  They can’t walk or talk or laugh.  My wife and child can’t do anything!”

    “You shouldn’t let that stop you from living your life, Michael,” she said calmly.

    “But they’re dead because of me,” Michael said, his whimpering giving way to weeping.

    “You can’t blame yourself, Michael.  It was an accident.  Car accidents happen every day.” 

    “Not like this one,” he assured her.  She said nothing.  She simply stared with curiosity.  “I was driving home one night,” he said.  “We were driving behind somebody doing ten under, so I decided to pass them.  Lindsay told me not to pass them.  ‘We’re almost home anyway,’ she said.  ‘Just be patient.’  But I wouldn’t listen.  I told her that I knew how to drive.  So I accelerated and started passing them.  As I got into the left lane, I saw a car starting to back out of a driveway.  Next thing I remember, I woke up screaming.  The car was upside down.  Lindsay and Emma were covered in blood.  What I wouldn’t give to go back and listen to her just once!”

     Michael began to sob gently as he finished retelling the worst day of his life.  A couple of his friends in the bar came over and put their arms around him.  Rita sat lifelessly.

    “You see?” he said.  “I don’t deserve to be here.  I should’ve died that day—not them…”

    Rita stood up, a tear or two in her eye.  She whispered, “I’m sorry,” as she walked past him.  When she reached the door, she turned to him, her voice soft and apologetic, and said, “But you didn’t die that day.  You’re still alive.  I hope you learn how to live like it.” 

7.  Moving On

    Rita walked out the door and into the night.  Michael tried to stop weeping.  Bart walked over to him, a fatherly look in his eye.  “Michael,” he said, “what are you doing in here when there’s a beautiful woman out there?”

    “I’m not ready, Bart,” he replied.

    “You’ll never be ready.  That’s not how it works.”  Michael hung his head.  He knew Bart was right.  He threw back the last of his whiskey sour and jumped up from his seat.  He had to catch her.

    He threw open the door and scanned the parking lot.  Had she gone?  He breathed a sigh of relief—he spotted her maroon Camry in the corner of the lot.  She was leaning against the trunk, her long hair concealing her teary eyes.  As Michael moved towards her he heard a whimper.  When she noticed him approaching her, she tossed her hair back and dragged her backhand across her eyes. 

    “Before you say anything,” Michael said, “I just want to say I’m sorry.  You’ve been nothing but nice, and I’ve been awkward, at best.”

    “That’s alright.”

    “No, it’s not,” he insisted.  “I should’ve been honest and up front with you.  Truth is, you’re really nice.  I do like you.  I’ve just got a lot of baggage.”

    “I know,” she said.  “I have my fair share, too.  Maybe it was stupid to hope for a normal relationship.”

    “A normal relationship?  I think we’re past that,” he joked.  “What I really need to do is just to get to know you.  I need to learn to talk, and laugh, and cry around you.  I need to figure out what it means to be happy again.  Does that sound okay?”

    She nodded.  He reached out his hand.  She caught it and pulled him towards her.  “I think we were supposed to meet each other,” she said.  “The pain we’ve felt has driven us away from others.  I think it can bring us together.” 

    Michael smiled.  He leaned in and pressed his lips against hers.  They fit perfectly.

The End