The Barkeep

Each moment of our lives presents an excuse to pursue control. We sit in its grips and seek it while occasionally becoming validated by perceived successes at the practice. The idea of control is the biggest lie that the universe has ever sold us. But without its presence, who are we? I have often wondered why societies failed attempts at control result in such destruction and separation. My only guess is that it brings us down to size and allows us to descend further towards chaos. Our imperfections give our perfect world its imperfect equilibrium, and I believe that it has to be that way.

My attempts at deciphering control from the acceptance, the true from the false, the power to the power-less has led me right here, writing this all out for you. They may call this a manifesto of sorts. They will call me crazy, perhaps mentally ill, they will not remember their part, but they will remember the name, place, and time of the day when I finally broke down and said, "what am I to do?"

The evening began normally enough. I was sitting in a dive writing out my arduous truths while purposely sipping on a margarita that was far too sugary. My weathered glass stained a displeasing opaque brown. It was here where I began to consider my own mortality. At my misery's behest, I requested another. I downed half the glass before placing the drink on a crinkled, disgraced, and damp napkin that read: Cabalo Cantina, Just Like Paradise. While analyzing this feeble attempt at memorable marketing, the barkeep waltzed up to me and stared with an invasive gaze, his brow acutely furrowed. He looked as if he had just seen a ghost or witnessed something traumatic. He rotated himself towards the illuminated bar where bottles upon bottles of liquid relief occupied the splintering walnut shelves. Taking down a sorry excuse for top-shelf mezcal, he proceeded to grab a set of tumblers and swiftly pour two generous shots. He pushed one my way.

"Drink up, buddy. We're gonna need it."

He threw back the drink with an exaggerated gulp; it was almost like he wanted it to hurt. He winced, removed his Cabalo Cantina apron stained by bitters, rolled up the apron, and spiked it on the ground with surprising force.

"I can make ten times in a week on the trawler than I can here in a month. The tequila here is shit anyway."

Nobody batted an eye. He started through the tacky, Christmas light-infested archway and out the tinted double doors. Briefly, I was reminded of my father. I wished I had remembered what he looked like, but all I remember is that he, too, worked on a boat. He caught tuna deep in the unforgiving waters of the Atlantic. Thankfully, these thoughts were quickly supplanted by the view of the drink in front of me. I followed the dearly departed's lead with a shot of my own before returning to my notepad. If this is paradise, I would hate to see what hell is like.

After two more margaritas, I noticed the illuminated clock branded by some obscure Mexican beer company that I had never heard of: 12:50 PM, last call. I didn't need it; better to cap the night off at home anyway. I decided to exit the fluorescent arch and start my walk home. As the doors sealed behind me, I turned left to head to my flat. With my notepad carefully tucked against my breast pocket, I wobbled down the sidewalk. The street danced with a hand from the dimmed lights overhead, which created a greasy, orange hue. I made my way towards the day's end.

As the pavement moved beneath me, the streets became less illuminated and more littered. I began to pick up the familiar putrid stench that coated the air. It was musky, thick, and sour. The smell reminded me of last year's charter out of Chatham; towards the end of the trip, the men became more offensive than the dead fish. Vagrants, beggars, tramps, and drifters proceeded to voice their typical pitches in hopes of finding a generous passerby. I didn't have anything to give them, but I would tell them to get lost if I did have some money in my pocket. Tonight, I stayed quiet, however. We were all in the same boat, one which appeared to be taking on some serious water.

Since I'll be gone by the time this reaches curious eyes, I have particular freedoms that I don't have while wasting away in the outside world. The only thing that is truly mine in this world is my secrets. Even though therapists, social workers, and the like have told me that I am only as sick as my particular omissions. Even if I wanted to share them (which I don't), I wouldn't know where to begin. The darkness harbored under the surface of those truths is a prison, far worse than the one that I would be sent to if they only knew. I have never been known for my veracity; I prefer to live in the realm of the obscure.

To understand the breadth of my circumstances, I provided a bit of a picture in the aforementioned "memoir," It is strictly for your eyes only, and I hope that it adds some context. For those not privy to my life story, I would like to acknowledge that I believe myself or my story to be unique in no way. Despite how much I would like to think that my experiences are so different in contrast to those around me, it simply is not the truth.

As I approached my apartment, I engaged in my predictable anticipatory sigh before entering the lobby. Whenever I get home, I remember what my life is and what it is not. I am reminded of the loss, both monetary and personal, that has occurred at my hand. I try my best to accept present circumstances for what they are, but living in the moment has never been my strong suit. The best that I can do at any given moment is to give in and recognize things for what they are: shit. Luckily, I always have some writing to do; it's what keeps me busy.

At this very moment, I am staring blankly at my laptop screen, which continues to mock me for all of my literary atrocities. Perhaps if I don't end up in prison, Oxford will have something to say. Strange sensations overcome me when I'm with myself at night. I don't become tired, but there's a particular energy that overcomes me, but for whatever reason, I am unable to move. This type of paralysis brings the only semblance of normalcy in my life.

My body feels like it needs to run away. I become stimulated and overwhelmed by feelings I cannot describe. I want to rise up and move, but Newtons' third law has other plans, so I remain still. I have come to embrace this purgatorial, dream-like state that overtakes me. I see visions of the past that seem manufactured specifically for my broken mind to consume. I call them my "could have been," the way that I wish things would have gone. I close my eyes and see a young boy.

He looks and sounds like me, even has that 2-inch scar above his right eyelid, but he is not me. He is smiling, he is talking, he is with his father, and he is happy. I can see him resting on the edge of a broad, aluminum dock. He seems comfortable watching all of the boats set sail in search of that next big haul. He sits next to his father, a slender man of 40 or so who looks far more seasoned than his age suggests. The two have considerable space between them, yet they appear to have some bond I cannot relate to. For the first time, I can see some communication beginning to form. I can hear his father as he turns to his son and says, "my boy, if you will listen to anything I ever say, make it this. There is nothing in this world that is certain. Many men consider themselves experts of their crafts, leaders of enterprise, and patriarchs of their family, yet they practice utter ignorance towards the truth." The eerily familiar boy looks back at his father with interest, "what is the truth then, dad?" A strenuous pause ensued. The tired old man brought himself upright and looked at his trawler docked several feet away. "Nobody really knows anything. Nobody really knows." The man handed his son a tattered notebook with a tan leather casing, "there are more truths within these pages. These are for you, son. Read as much as you see fit, read until you no longer need to, and then begin to forge your own beliefs."

The boy stayed silent while accepting this unexpected parting gift from his father. He remained dockside, salty waves kissing his narrow, swaying feet. He opened up his new notebook, the first page read:

He stands within the confines of his vessel

Between himself and normalcy is a one way mirror

The room is soundproof

Bustling passerby are aware of his existence, yet they are unable to make a connection

It is not their fault - he understands this

His only weapon is his voice.

He yells

Howls for an attentive ear. Anyone

Only to realize that relief will be found in his silence

But only until it kills him.

Reflection allows him to see the truth.

That the vessel is of his own design

He accepts that.

Maybe it is never too late.

The little boy, who now seems more familiar to me, remains locked in place, confused, and not understanding much of his father's writings. He feels ashamed and stupid and reads the poem once more. After his second attempt at reading this vague prose, he hesitantly peeks up, expecting his father to still be somewhat visible in the distance. He is not. The crawler has made its way, the silhouette of the faraway ship begins to mingle with the horizon. Now, it is only the red masthead light that is visible. The boy becomes angry, tears out his father's words, crumples up the paper, and tosses it in the ocean, sure that it will never be seen again. He sits back down on the dock's edge, starting at the next page that simply reads: Just Another Day in Paradise. I wake up. I remember that boy now.