TRANSGRESSIVE THURSDAY
Another Bar and Another Shot of Whiskey
Time is a circle, and the past is waiting for us to catch up. Again.
The stench of lost and broken dreams hit me like a sledgehammer as I pried open the door to my newest conquest — Joe’s Bar and Grill. The joint was pitch black and empty — just like my heart — but I soldiered on. That’s what I learned from four years at the front — keep your head down, your eyes peeled, and head straight to the booze.
Once my eyes had accustomed themselves to the darkness, I made out the bar at the far side of the room through the dim light shining from the dusty windows. Even squinting, I could barely make out the hulking figure of a man standing behind the bar, who I assumed was Joe.
“Close the fucking door. You’re letting the light in,” he said. The snarl was obvious in his barely audible whisper as I let the door slam shut on my ass.
I picked myself warily through the maze of chairs as I had through the fields of landmines Jerry had left behind in their hasty retreat. You never know where danger lay, so always be prepared. The old oak bar has worn smooth from years of patrons crying in the beers. Telling tales of woe. Of despair. Of sadness. Telling these tales to whoever is within earshot. Especially to the barkeep, with the hope of a kind ear and maybe a free shot. But I can tell this man doesn’t care about your stories. He sells watered-down whiskey and flat beer and doesn’t give a damn about your troubles.
The barkeep looks me over with a permanent scowl etched on his face. “What’ll you have? We have beer. We have whiskey. And we have trouble if those ain’t good enough for you.”
With my thousand-yard stare, I look him straight in the eyes. Neither of us blinks, but we both tense, recognizing danger when we see it.
“Whiskey. Neat. And leave the bottle. There ain’t no going back.” I slipped him an extra twenty and soon sank back down to the bottom of the bottle.
The warm biting fire of the whiskey felt good. It was the only thing real to me. The only thing to remind me of what I had once been. Without the roar of death to keep me sane, life was meaningless. Without the hand of death on my shoulder, life was only endless empty whiskey bottles.
My mind wanders back to the alleyway. To the woman lying crumpled in a heap. Her life flowed into the gutter. To the feeling I had standing over her. My Fairbairn-Sykes ran red with her blood, and I felt calm for the first time in days. I had only wanted a blowjob, but she had only wanted my wallet. We could have worked out an even trade, but her friends were waiting for us.
They left me no choice. I ended them quickly. Efficiently. Just like the army had trained me. But her. She had led me into this trap and would have to pay for this deceit. My knife, sharp as ever, was my paintbrush, and I painted a Picasso in the alleyway. She begged and whimpered as I carved my masterpiece. But I paid her no mind. I was back in the thick of it. Back in the jungle. Back doing what they drilled me to do.
“There ain’t no going back,” I muttered to myself, the words a mantra to repeat continuously as I drowned myself in the whiskey. There was only the darkness, only the fire, only the memory of what I had been and what I had become. And in that moment, it was enough.
Paul Mansfield is a writer, a photographer, a guitar player, and a philosopher — some he does well, some not so well, but he still tries them all. You can follow him on Twitter @pmansfield.
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