Runaway Train to the Bottom

I wiped my eyes clear. The sun was beginning its climb—high above the sangria-soaked streets of Pamplona. It had been hot all week and my San Fermin attire was stained an awful shade of red from a combination of sweat and sweet Spanish wine.

The festival had ended the day before, but the streets still echoed from the screams of festival goers.

There was a small bar up the block with a 3x3 easel on the sidewalk in front. Big Beer: 1,50 € was etched into it with white chalk. I picked myself up and wandered towards it. Inside, eight barstools were tucked neatly into the front of the bar.

Sitting felt right. Sleep had been scarce and the week’s festivities had pushed a swell of inflammation down into my knees and up my back. I waved down the bartender who was staring idly at the beat-up TV in the corner of the bar, “Dos cervezas, por favor.” He nodded and brought over two large cups of beer.

The four of us rested, all perspiring in the soupy Spanish air. I felt a whispering anxiety thinking about real life. The real world.

Embracing departure can have diminishing returns. Gulp… gulp… gulp… I worked through the first beer.

Memories from the preceding days sparked like fireworks behind my eyes. Thousands of mozos, all donning white jumpers, red belts, and red scarves, bellowing like savages as they stormed through the city’s narrow streets.

It was one of those experiences that never really feels real. Inside the moment—it is more like a debaucherous delusion. And afterwards, well, it withers into a sort of bizzarro world fever dream. Between the drinks, the mayhem, and its steady distance from reality, it exists in your consciousness the same way a proper film does. The emotions, the sensations—they are real, but the brain knows that the story wasn’t real. It simply could not exist within the rules of your world.

And still, for all its craziness, Pamplona gave me a glimmer of peace. That fever dream beat the hell of my reality. Running through those streets there was no worry of what middle management at the 9 to 5 had to say. The pressures of society’s demands vanished… the house, the wife, the kids… Not one person in the city demanded a thing from you. Everyone simply existed.

The door at the front of the bar creaked open. A tall, Eastern European looking woman walked in. She had high, almost regal cheek bones and her wavy brown hair rested gently on her shoulders. The San Fermin kit looked dignified on her.

She paused in the entryway for a second, then came and sat down one barstool over from me.

“Long weekend?” She asked.

“I suppose… But in a good way. This place is something, huh?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Who did you come with?’ I asked her.

“I came alone,” she replied, “All the way from Los Angeles.”

“You left the city of Angels by yourself for this madness? What are you running from?” I quipped.

She chuckled and said, “I’ll spare you the dramatics,” then reached over and picked up my second beer and took a sip.

“My name is Anne.”

“Louis. And there’s nothing wrong with a little dramatics. At least I know I’m not the only one playing hide and seek with my problems.”

Anne signaled to the bartender to bring two more big beers over. I reached into my pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. I lit one and passed it to her, then lit another.

“Honestly, it is just some first-world shit,” she said, “My 12-year-old self would be flushed with embarrassment if she knew the kinds of things I worry about nowadays.”

The bartender set the big beers down in front of us. We downed our first round.

“It is funny you say that… I feel like my world was so much simpler when I was 12.”

“I guess mine was too—in a way. It is going to sound cliché; my family hardly had a pot to piss in.”

“And now you are jet-setting to the middle of Europe, so you must have done something right.”

“Some things, for sure… It is hard to believe sometimes. You know, when we were kids—my sister and I—we would go out to a nearby farm and take the green tomatoes that had fallen off the plant. And we would take them home to play this game where you build this little fort with branches and rocks—you know—whatever we could find… Then would collect a bunch of stones and hurl them in at each other’s fort. Last tomato standing wins. Tell me that isn’t the poorest thing you have ever heard.”

“Sounds like a great way to kill an afternoon to me.”

I took a big hit of my beer then signaled the bartender to bring another round.

“Where did you scurry in from?” She asked.

“New York.”

“And what are you running from?”

“How did I know you were going to ask that?” I chuckled. “Four-year relationship, flushed down the tubes.”

She ashed her cigarette in the empty cup.

“Aren’t we two peas? My fiancé was cheating on me.”

“At least you weren’t the asshole.”

We clanked our cups and finished round number two.

“What’s next?” She asked.

“To be honest, I don’t know. I booked a one-way. I might spend a week or two in Barcelona. Or Madrid. Maybe Valencia. I’m not ready to go back yet. What about you, Anne?”

“Me? First—I am going to finish this next round of beer. Probably order another one. Maybe two. Until I find something wrong with you.”

“And what if you don’t find something wrong with me? I’m mighty good at masking my oh-so-many flaws.”

“Then I’ll hop on the train with you—to where ever it is that we decide on—and launch a longer-tailed investigation.”

“Who says I want company on my trip to the bottom?”

“Who says there really is one? A bottom.”

She waved to the bartender. He stood in front of us, 5’ 5” if he was lucky, and asked her what she wanted.

“Two shots of whiskey, two beers, and the check please. We have a bottom to find.”