Afterwards - 1. Dead Hour

Dead Hour

A gruff man walks into a bar. He is in his early thirties, a stubble that he has long since stopped caring to remove is spread across his face. His hair unkempt, his eyes droop, his demeanor one of every other cubicle dweller on a Wednesday morning. However, today was not Wednesday, but Friday. This man is so defeated, yet still standing, a condition that is not as positive as one would like to think. He trudges over to the counter and plops himself down, slumping himself over, and sighs audibly.

The bar is experiencing a dead hour at the moment. The only occupants it houses currently is the lone man and the bartender. This is not unusual for the bar in question, as it is not a well-known bar. Few people actually know of its existence. Perhaps this is the reason why the man chose the bar. He seems to frequent it often enough. Low, quiet music is playing in one of the corners of the bar. The man is not quite sure from where though. The TV has been muted. The bartender takes note of the customer and dawdles a bit before slowly making his way over to the lifeless man before him.

The two men know each other, kind of. As previously stated, the customer is a regular, and the bartender practically lives at the bar. He founded it, after all. The two never talk beyond the customer ordering his drink and the bartender telling him what his bill was. This is the extent to their communication.

“What’ll ya be havin’?” asked the bartender. The man orders too many drinks to really have a “usual.”

“Budweiser. Don’t even bother with the glass,” growled the man.

The bartender’s eyebrow raised. He knew that this man wasn’t THAT heavy of a drinker. He also knew when something was up. He had been a bartender for thirty years now. He had seen grown men that could easily snap him in two (not an easy feat for a built man such as himself) cry after drinking enough alcohol to kill a bear. They would try to drown their sorrows and, when that didn’t work, release their pent-up pain to him, the lowly bartender who was merely there to serve beer. He dare say that he had enough experience to rival a licensed shrink. He could tell the symptoms of sorrow, and this man ordering a bottle of beer was displaying them as bright as day.

“Comin’ right up,” he replied.

He debated whether to interfere with this gruff man’s situation or let him drink himself into oblivion. Ah, what the hey. They’re all alone in here. It would give him something to do. He placed the beer in front of the man.

“There ya go.”

He watched the poor guy grab the bottle, almost violently rip the top off, and chug almost the entire bottle in one gulp.

“Troubles in life?” he said. The rugged man looked up at him. “Care to share? I’ve probably heard worse than what’s affectin’ you.”

“No,” was the blunt reply from the man. He seemed quite content on getting so plastered that he’d have to have someone call him a cab just to get home.

‘Alright then. We’ll do this the hard way,' thought the bartender.

“Okay then. I won’t push it. Did ya see the big game yesterday?”

The solemn man’s face lights up, just a wee bit.

“No, I had to do my nails. Of course I watched the big game! I would’ve called in sick for work if it meant watching it. And yet they STILL lost!” he yelled.

“Haha! Yeah, you bet they did! I won fifty bucks because of that last-minute fumble your quarterback made!” laughed the bartender.

“Screw you, dude! We were playing damn good until your fucker came out of nowhere and bulldozed our lineman!”

“Yeah right, man. You guys didn’t stand a chance the moment ya walked onto the field.”

The roused man eyed the bartender.

“Hmpf. So much for your tip.”

The bartender continued to smile, greatly annoying the losing team’s fan.

“Aw, shoot. And here I was, just two bucks short of buyin’ me a Harley.”

It was the man’s turn to chuckle.

“Bullshit, bro. Like you would have enough dough to buy a motorcycle. And even if you did, why would you want to go and blow it on a piece of shit like a Harley? Buy a Yamaha, a real man’s bike!”

“A real piece of bolts and scraps! Don’t they come with trainin’ wheels now for tykes like you?”

“Asshole. At least Yamahas can go faster than a school bus and not break down from the pressure.”

“Obviously you’ve never ridden one before. In fact, didn’t ya come in here in that old ’00 Wrangler?”

“I’m in an unknown bar close to foreclosure drinking! Does it look like I’ve got excess money to spend?”

“Haha! Sorry, but judging from your looks, I didn’t think you knew what ‘excess’ means.”

“Shut the fuck up! That’s what…everyone says,” stated the man, first loudly, but then softly. He lowers his head slightly.

The bartender immediately sees his blunder and the opportunity he’d been waiting for.

“Hey man, I’m sorry about that last joke. That was probably pushin’ it, wasn’t it?”

“Shut up,” came the man, quieter now than before. “I’m tired of this. I’m just going to head out.”

“Now don’t you think of leavin’ me here to feel bad about myself for the next half an hour. Sit your ass back down. Here,” he said, pouring another Budweiser from the tap and into a mug. “This one’s on the house. And I don’t do that regularly, so ya better drink it.”

The man eyed the glass, sighed to himself, and resigned to sitting back down and milking the mug. Hey, free beer is free beer. Seeing a window of opportunity, the bartender spoke.

“So I take it that most people think you’re just a high school football jock who somehow managed to make it into the real world without impregnating a cheerleader?”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” mumbled the man.

“Well, you managed to not knock up some chick. That’s some proof that you’ve got some gray matter between your ears. And judgin’ from the suit, I’d say ya managed to land a good-payin’ job as well.”

“Somehow.”

The man continued to slowly sip at his beer whilst the bartender continued.

“And now you’re playin’ the self-pity game. Ya know how you win at that game? By tellin’ your troubles to a completely random stranger or bartender who can be completely objectionable to your story. C’mon, I’ve been workin’ here for thirty years. I’ve heard all kinds of stories. Yours can’t be that bad.”

“Probably not, but it’s getting to be too much for me.”

‘Ah, so he at least admits there’s a problem. Saves me time and energy.’

A loud jingle could suddenly be heard resonating from somewhere. The man pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. Upon realizing who it is, his eyes closed a bit and he seemed to deflate once again. He clicked the phone and read the message. He groaned to himself, clicked the phone again, thrusting it into his pocket, and finally gave in and placed his head on his arms, which were upon the table.

“I take it that wasn’t a friendly ‘How are you?’ text?” the bartender asked rhetorically.

“I can’t take this shit anymore,” said the man into his arms. “I hate my job, but I make too much money to quit it. My boss looks for any excuse to fire me, so I’m constantly paranoid. This chick at the reception desk keeps flirting with me, even though I keep telling her that I’m taken. She doesn’t listen, and just tries harder. I’m sure the boss is working with her to see if she can get me to have sex with her in the office so that he can fire me for that. The old ball-and-chain keeps harassing me, point out THIS thing I did wrong, pointing out THAT thing I did wrong. Even talking about starting a family soon. I’m not ready for that yet. I don’t know when I will be.

"But of course, no one listens to me, because I’m just the jock. All I care about are sports, cars, and women. I keep feeling pressured on all sides. I can’t escape. There’s trouble at work. There’s trouble at home.”

He sighed.

“I don’t even know if I should keep seeing this person. It feels so wrong to be doing so. I can feel it. But, at the same time, I don’t want to leave. Arrgh, it’s so confusing.”

The bartender heard everything and was busy putting together advice in his head. First, he should start out with something positive.

“Well, that is a doozey, but I’ve heard a lot worse. At least ya ain’t on the lamb, or found out ya was dying of somethin’.”

“Heh. Yeah, at least those would be normal things to get upset about. I know I’m just supposed to suck it up, take it like a man, and just go on with life. And that’s pretty much what I’ve been doing. I guess enough beers makes any man cry. You bastard.”

“Hey! It ain’t my fault if you drink whatever’s put in front of ya. That’s your decision.”

“Yeah, well, whatever. I guess thanks for listening, dude, but I better get going. I don’t want to be at the wrong end of an argument tonight.”

The defeated man rose up from his seat again, reached in his pocket, pulled out some loose cash, placed it on the table, and made his way to leave.

“Keep the change.”

The bartender, feeling like he hadn’t done his job yet, called out to him.

“Wait.”

The guy stopped again.

‘Why do I keep stopping for this guy? What is it with him?’ thought the man.

‘He keeps stopping whenever I tell him to. It’s like he’s just looking for distractions to keep from going home. Is he that desperate for help?’ thought the bartender.

“I may not be able to help ya out in terms of your job, but I CAN offer advice in your marital squabble.”

“We aren’t married.”

“Doesn’t matter. Neither am I, and yet I’ve been livin’ with the same person for the past twenty years. It’s true; you CAN survive living with someone for that long, and longer.”

“I don’t think you have the necessities to be judging my relationship,” said the man, getting a little testy now. Just who did this bartender think he is? Dr. Phil?

“I don’t see why not. I’ve been livin’ happily with my spouse for twenty years, and your relationship is on the rocks, but sounds like it’s still repairable. If I were in your situation, I’d take all the free advice I can get.”

‘I wonder if he has a freezer in the back where I can hide his body,’ thought the man. Instead, in a sarcastic voice, he said, “Well then please, tell me what I need to know in order to make EVERYTHING better in my life! And don’t even THINK about quoting from that book The Secret, ‘cause I read it and everything inside it is BULLSHIT!”

The bartender did everything he could to not get angry and yell back. That’s exactly what this man would want him to do. He wants a screaming match. Something to take the edge off his pain. No, the bartender had to go about this calmly.

“Well, first of all, if something’s troubling me, the first person I go to is Dan.”

‘Oops,’ thought the bartender. ‘Just roll with it. Roll with it!’

“Dan?” questioned the man. “Is that, like, your…?”

“Yes, he’s my lover. I’d say boyfriend, but we’re practically married already, and technically I did propose to him, so…yeah. But anyway, what I was saying was…”

“But you don’t look gay,” interrupted the man.

The bartender slumped just a little.

‘Great. Another guy who believes in all the stereotypes.’

“Great. Now I have to do my little ‘not all gays are flamboyant drama queens’ speech. Not that I haven’t practically memorized it by now.”

“Dude, you sound just like…my one guy friend,” said the man.

“He’s gay, too?”

“No, he just gets all pissy whenever for no reason at all. Usually whenever I do so much as to blink.”

“Man, need I remind you that I can whoop your ass AND I’m allowed a firearm in here.”

“No you’re not! That’s against the rules!”

“What rules?” said the bartender, pulling out his trusted double-barreled gun from behind the counter. “Bartenders are allowed to carry one in this state because of the dangerous environment we’re in. Drunks will do anything, even bring in a weapon, like a knife or a gun, and start usin’ it on people.”

The man stared at the gun. He could tell by the way the bartender was holding it that he indeed knew how to use that gun efficiently.

“I don’t get it. You’re gay, but you watched last night’s game, knew what was going on, know about motorcycles, and can even fire a gun. You don’t even look or act gay. None of that makes sense.”

“Let me guess. You got all your information about gay people from seeing gay pride parades on the evening news.”

The man nodded.

“Well, let this be proof to you not to believe everything ya see in the news. Standin’ before you is a prime example that a guy can like guys and not feel possessed to buy high-heeled, sequined shoes and a feather boa. Or leather. Damn that feels uncomfortable, and Dan and I were only tryin’ out a couch at a department store!”

The man continued to be dumbfounded. Standing before him was…a guy. Just a regular ole guy, a bartender even, whom NOBODY could ever place as gay.

“It’s almost eight. Customers will start pourin’ in soon,” said the bartender, glancing at the clock. He probably wouldn’t be able to help this guy out in time, and he certainly wouldn’t be able to do it with dozens of customers constantly around. “You probably should be headin’ out soon.”

The man looked like he was in deep thought.

“Hey. Sir. Are you listenin’?” asked the bartender.

The man looked up at him, surprised to be broken out of his reverie.

“What? Sorry dude, I wasn’t listening.”

“Ya damn right, you weren’t listenin’. I said dead hour’s almost up. People will be comin’ in soon. Ya might want to leave by then.”

The bartender then went to go get the coasters out for the counter.

“Wait,” said the man.

“What is it?” implored the bartender.

“I want to tell you more about this person I’m seeing, dude. See if you can help.”

The bartender smiled.

“Sure, I suppose we can do that. So tell me about this old ball-and-chain that’s givin’ ya such a hard time.”

A smile could just barely be seen starting to form on the outskirts of the man’s lips.

“Well, his name is Shawn…”