Broken. Mean. The Need To Be Seen. Dingy Patios of Dive Bars in 2018. Part 2.

Another night, another bar. I sat alone with a drink. The condensation began to gather, creating a small pool at the bottom of the glass. It was late and a work night, but nonetheless I was there, too anxious to go home. I looked around at the few faces and wondered if they were all just lonely, all there for the same reason. Wondered if they were all searching for the same thing. Searching for a purpose. 

Caught in my pain, drowning in my own thoughts I became crippled with the familiar need to talk to someone; Anyone. I had found myself there. Again. Found myself afraid of being alone. Afraid of what I might think about. Afraid of… 

My statement that life is short was a trigger for them both. It made me realized after I said it, that we all have a story. I had found myself sharing a small space in a covered patio, the rain pelting a metal cover above, with two grim-faced older men. At first, I shared the silence with them. Felt their energy reach out to me, like fingertips scratching at my invisible shell with a hesitant loneliness. The same energy I radiated.

It was that uninvited statement of mine that got their attention. Because as I lit a cigarette, one of them made an irritating comment that I was too young to smoke and in response, as I exhaled my first heavenly drag, I gave a weak shrug and murmured the words, life is short.

They both looked at me then. Each told me, these two strangers, that their wives died young. My eyes stung with the threat of tears as I realized what I had done. The invisible dagger I had unintentionally thrown at each of them. They didn’t know me. I wasn’t sure they even knew each other, but there we all were in that moment together, all hurting with the sickening pain of loss. All assuming no one else in the world would ever understand. Just strangers in a dive bar. 

Alone in our hearts. 

Alone in our heads. 

The man in front of me pulled the bill of his hat down low, casting a shadow across his eyes like a mask. He spoke then. Told me that his wife died in their home while he was there with her. Told me how she fought a long battle that eventually came to an end. Told me the date, January 28… years had passed. I could hear it in his voice that the time had not healed his pain. That time had not healed his wounds. His words, the way he spoke about her, made it feel like he was reliving a moment from yesterday. Even knowing it was coming, knowing she was going to die didn’t make it hurt any less. He took a drag of his own cigarette and looked at his feet. 

I wanted to apologize, but knew it would mean nothing. Knew it would never make a difference. I tried not to cry. Tried not to let them see past my solid exterior.

Breaking the somber silence, the man to my left spoke up. With barely a whisper in a tired, raspy voice, he mumbled something in my direction about making sure to tell the ones you love what they mean to you.  Reminded me that you never know if it will be the last time you see them. And that was it. Cj rushed into my head and I thought about waving at him from the Uber as it drove me away. I remembered that last day. Remembered my last moments with him. And remembered the immense regret I had for ever leaving. My throat caught fire and I tried to swallow the burning lump down, but I couldn’t. I wanted to scream. Hot flames scorched my insides, but I remained still.  

The man, he stuttered, spoke slow and low as if it was hard for him to form the words. He told me, told us, these two strangers, that his wife died while he was in jail for something stupid. Told us that the last words he ever said to her was called her a stupid bitch and told her to get the fuck out of his truck before driving off without her. The pit of my stomach churned and I couldn’t look at him. But I couldn’t look away. They had gotten into a fight about nothing relevant, but those were his last words to her. Not knowing they would be his last words to her. Words he can never take back. Words he can never rewrite. Words he will live with forever. It was in 2009... December 6 he said, before looking at the ground and becoming still just as the other man had done. 

The air around us swirled in our shared moment of silence. My skin became hot in the cold air and I wanted to run. 

They both hurt just as much as I did. The alcohol was allowing it to show. The man to my left wiped away his tears and walked back inside, mumbling an apology for his demeanor. 

I couldn’t even say anything as he left… I felt so fucking sick inside. 

The other only moved to hand me his lighter for another cigarette. My hands trembled. I could see under the shadow of his hat that he was crying. He wiped at the few tears that tickled his nose, but ignored the others as if they didn’t exist. I wondered again if we were there for the same reason. Wondered if his pain was too much to be alone. Were we both comforted by the company of strangers in dive bars? Did we hide our pain behind poured drinks and meaningless games of pool. Did we laugh about missing easy shots and pretend we cared about our surroundings because it was better than facing our own thoughts? Were we just desperate for anything to dull our pain. Desperate for anything to distract us from our thoughts come the night?

In a dimly lit bar, with a name I could never remember, I thought about the pain of loss and the effect it had on my view of life. Among other lonely souls navigating a similar path, I found comfort in their pain and I found comfort in their company. As I pondered how much death had actually changed me, I began to understand that the things I did to dull the pain would never rewrite the past. But at least while I was there, I felt just a little less alone. 

And I was reminded that we all have a story.