Although there is still half a beer in the glass, I already have my fumarette ready. As I straighten my coat, I remember another downside of coming to this place I could add to my list: Having to put up with this lack of sharpness. – Some kind of short story
How many hours spent sitting in front of a pub bar? The reason is usually the same in most cases. Just like today, my isolation reaches a critical point, a mixture of boredom and despair. After days of confinement in the flat, the longing to see human faces and listen to a random selection of music, voices, and background noises brings me back to this place.
Is this the fifth or sixth pint of the night? Each of them is identical to the previous one. The slow pace at which its level is dropping has made me lose count. I don’t know why that should concern me. The gaze fixed on the coaster begins to lose itself. First, there were the letters printed on it. Then the circular trace that the glass left as a mark. Now I have begun to wonder why this is always my chosen destination.
For some reason, the bartender always seems happy to see me. He greets me by name, and he knows in advance what I am going to order. Deep down I am aware that maybe it is his way of hooking customers, but I can ignore this fact in exchange for that small gratification. That would be the first of the reasons.
I always convince myself of the need to go out, to try to socialize, as if that would make any difference. Sitting here I’ll be on my own. My effort to start a conversation is non-existent and I know it would be a rarity for someone to come over to exchange a few words. I suppose that by coming to the bar I am exposed to that possibility, but I don’t know if I really want it to happen. In any case, this would be a second reason, an attempt to be part of society.
Every night I return from the pub I sleep so well! That would be a third reason. I don’t know if that’s alcoholism, but I feel happy every time I stagger back to the flat. Lying in bed there is no time to think about existential angst, failure, or missed opportunities. I just give myself completely to the somnolence and let it take over me.
I get drunk very little, but drunk you have a better time. I don’t think I need more reasons to justify myself. How long have I been here? In the distance, I hear the sound of pool balls crashing into each other. A group celebrates. Surely there is one less ball in play. A new song plays on the loudspeakers and for the first time in quite a while I pay attention to the music. Michael Kiwanuka’s Cold Little Heart has put an end to a batch of irrelevant and generic hard rock.
The sound of human voices is part of the environment. My exercise consists of identifying the moment in which they cease to be articulated constructions, with a specific order, full of meaning, to become simple noise. To my right is a conversation about a vacation. It seems that a person travelled to the south of Spain and now wants to move there. Complaints about the prime minister are heard at a table behind me. None of these talks get my train of thought back on track.
Regardless of the decade or year, both conversations could make sense. Always the same. It seems that nothing changes. The human experience is essentially the same. Even having the alternative of diving into a deep ocean like language, we stay on the shore, in a place where our feet can touch the bottom and feel safe. Superficial complaints about some politician or the thoughtless narration of some event will always be safe zones without any challenge to our analytical skills or our creativity.
Shit! How soon have I gotten to this point? As expected, I have begun to give free rein to a pretentious monologue that develops in my head in which nothing escapes my judgment. I could well start a list with the disadvantages of coming to the pub to drink alone, with that recurring soliloquy being the first thing on the list. At least this time no one is a victim of the boredom that would come from listening to an old man speak from his imaginary superiority.
However, I don’t see the problem in doing so. Tonight, I feel the right to destroy everything from the bar of this pub. An avalanche of thoughts generated by introspection and beer motivates this ideology from which nothing escapes. Everything is a construction! The words I hear, the money I pay with, the hours spent in this place. Nothing really exists. 4 pounds? 1:25 a.m.? What’s that? Nothing more than symbols that help us understand reality, but empty if you used them in another time or place.
Imagine trying to buy something to drink in Tenochtitlan with a piece of paper. You would be a laughingstock. It’s worth nothing compared to a few cocoa beans. Imagine using these numbers just a few centuries ago: 1:25. What do they really mean? Could these traces have any validity in Memphis or Thebes? Surely, they would have been just pointless doodles.
Cheers say the bartender as he hands me my change. Question everything, I say in response.
After a gesture of confusion, he approaches. As if wanting to prevent anyone else from listening, he asks me, have you had enough?
Of course not! is my strong response. After looking at me for a few seconds, he asks me again, what year are we in?
Why does it matter? We’re in the year 4.5 billion if you’re asking about the planet, or it would be the year 3.5 billion if you’re asking about any life on this rock. It would be the year 300 thousand if you ask about this species of monkeys that we are.
His reaction is to burst out laughing and look at some other guy behind the bar. If I had to describe his gesture in one sentence it would be: Can you believe this old man? A combination of a smirk, raised eyebrows, and an air of superiority. It’s 2022 man! He exclaims as he looks back at me. What stupidity! Why waste my time like this? But well, all time is wasted. 2022… what nonsense.
Although there is still half a beer in the glass, I already have my fumarette ready. As I straighten my coat, I remember another downside of coming to this place I could add to my list: Having to put up with this lack of sharpness. Now I imagine visiting an isolated indigenous tribe in the Amazon or Micronesia. Can you imagine? Tell them we’re in the year 2022? The laughter this would cause them is contagious and I can’t help but burst out laughing.
See you next time man! The guy behind the bar yells. I look at him and as I stumble around looking for the exit, I can’t help but laugh. Hahaha. 2022?! How naive!