Drunk on Decadence

In 2017 my wife talked me into doing a creative writing class at Amarillo college. I had this idea of a homeless person only eating luxurious food for a long time and decided to use it as my final project in the class. I wanted to explore the challenges of mental health and how a person may find a way to remedy their pain outside of what is generally expected or even normal. I hope you enjoy reading Charlie’s journey as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Drunk on Decadence

Charlie never hid his intentions. In fact, he broadcasted them from his sign, “Need money for fine dining.” Once Charlie could collect enough money, he would shower, get the suit he kept in his backpack dry cleaned and pressed, and indulge in the experiential decadence of five-star dining. No one ever recognized him as the bum from the corner. With his suit donned and his hair cleaned, he was indistinguishable from the wealthy that he ate next to.

Charlie was at home amongst the lavish interiors of high-class dining establishments. He knew all the terminology, his French accent was perfect, and he was well versed in the proper rituals that would give an imposter away. His knowledge of fine wines was always greater than that of the waiter. His heart jumped for joy at the sight of a properly set table. “You can tell how prosperous a society is by the placement of their eating utensils” he would always say as he sat down at a table. He loved to lightly tap the wine glass and listen for the sound that comes from a real crystal glass, remarking, “Some say it doesn’t affect the taste, but I beg to differ.” He could count the threads of an expensive table clothes with the tips of his fingers. The happiness from one night would reverberate for days, sometimes weeks afterward.

Charlie’s enjoyment of fine dinning and his homelessness were both due to his condition. He suffered spells where he re-experienced his past experiences. Often, when begging on a curb or sleeping under an overpass, he would lose himself in a memory for hours, reliving the details of a distant night in a lucid vividness that many cannot imagine. The memories were often so encompassing that he had trouble holding a job and maintaining relationships. His life would go on hold as he relived the past. The doctor’s assured him that with the proper cocktail of pills his condition could be numbed out of existence. He could live a normal life, but the last thing he wanted was a normal life. Charlie didn’t view his condition as a sickness, it was his strength. What would his life be without the hope of slipping back to a time when he was happy?

Most people read his sign as a joke. Jovial passers-by held dollars out their windows with a smile at the preposterous idea of a bum caring about fine dining. They all assumed he was going to buy liquor or drugs, but what harm could a dollar do? A laugh was worth a dollar. Sometimes people offered to buy him a meal or take him to eat, but it wasn’t worth it. His greatest fear was reliving a plebian McDonalds or Wendy’s experience. Because of his condition, he had to be very particular about where he dined. Once, out of desperation, he ate at a soup kitchen in Ohio. He relived the taste of burnt soup and the stinky bum that he sat next to for weeks.

It took Charlie a minute or two to reorient himself after waking from the spell. “Do you know where you are? What year is it? Do you know who the president is?” The questions were always the same. The EMT shook Charlie to consciousness. People often call 9-1-1 from the comfort of their car worried that Charlie may be dead.  “Charleston South Carolina, 2017, Trump. I am fine, I promise, I just lost myself for a bit. Thank you for your help.” Charlie was lucky this time, sometimes he couldn’t wake up and would end up in the hospital. After the ambulance left, he sat down, unzipped his backpack, and counted his money. $742.16. He had saved extra money for tonight. He had a reservation at Charleston’s famed Hall’s Chophouse. Hall’s was one of the restaurants that drew Charlie to Charleston. Hall’s tomahawk rib eye is famous among steak connoisseurs, and the restaurant boasts an elegant wine selection. Charlie’s reservation was at 7pm, which gave him plenty of time to pick up his dry-cleaned suit, freshen up, and have a few drinks before dinner.

The big-boned black woman standing behind the drycleaners counter was Martha. She had cleaned Charlie’s suit for him now four times and was still baffled by his choice of lifestyle. She kindly smiled at Charlie as she took his ticket. “Hey Charlie, what big plans you got tonight?”

“I have reservations at Hall’s chophouse. I plan on ordering the tomahawk and a bottle of their Château Rauzan-Ségla Margaux Deuxième Cru Classe 2000. It is a delightful red from France. I have been looking forward to tonight for some time.”

“Hall’s is a nice place. I still can’t put it together Charlie, you seem like a nice man. Why don’t you settle down, get a house? Hell, I will give you a job. You don’t have to be homeless.”

“You know about my condition. I relapse in time. My past experiences are all I have, if I started working here, it’s all I would see. I would be trapped in the monotony of every day.”

            “Boy, that’s just being an adult. Everyone hates their job unless they choose to enjoy it.”

            “I don’t hate my job. I love being homeless, gives me all the time in the world to live in the past.”

            “I ain’t never heard of something so crazy. Where’s your momma? I can’t believe a woman would let her baby live so backwards.”

            “I like living backwards. I could have a house, but I would never be there. I am stuck in the past. I live the way I do today so tomorrow I can have a nice experience to drift off into. It’s a little more complicated than it seems. So how about that suit? Do you mind if I use your bathroom to change?”

            Martha led Charlie into the back of the drycleaners towards the employee only bathroom. The curtains of clothes casted shadows in the incandescent lighting. The farther back they walked, the dimmer the surroundings seemed to grow.

            He sat his black toiletry kit on the sink and stared into the mirror. He was looking older than he remember himself being. His hair was greying above his ears, and wrinkles were appearing across his forehead. Charlie bent his head low and ran hot water from the faucet through his greasy hair. He scrubbed with a high dollar shampoo he had bought a few months back. He had to smell the part; the smells were always clear in his flashbacks. He shaved the stubble from his face with a straight razor that had been his grandfathers. He finished with a hand full of aftershave that burnt the freshly shaved skin and a scoop of deluxe hair wax to keep his shoulder length hair pushed back. The man who was in the mirror, although still old, looked more familiar than the bum who had been there earlier “Hello Mr. Buchanan. It’s a pleasure to see you again.” He walked to the front and said his goodbye to Martha.  

“You sure do clean up well Charlie,” she paused and corrected herself, “I mean Mr. Buchanan.”

            Walking out of the drycleaners was the man Charlie remembered himself to be. He walked a few blocks and found a good spot in an ally to stash his backpack. He loved the way people looked at him in his suit. Their eyes met his with respect. Gentle head nods and the occasional “Good evening” assured him that he looked the part of a middle-aged successful man on a normal night out on the town. The transformation was complete. He walked with the nonchalant confidence of a man without a care in the world.

            He walked the few blocks to Hall’s arriving an hour before his reservation.

            “Do you have a reservation with us tonight?”

            “Yes, it’s Charles Buchanan. It’s not till 7, but I was hoping to have a few drinks at the bar before.”

            “Of course, Mr. Buchanan, right this way.”

            The restaurant’s walls were a combination of wood and red velvet. Charlie followed the host past the wine room. It was a thing of beauty seeing all that wine protected from the world in their glass vault. The bar was on the side of the restaurant and looked out over the street. Charlie picked a stool near the end of the bar so he could see the whole room without having to turn his head. He had discovered that his flashbacks were crisper if he sat in corners.

            “What would you like to drink sir?” The bartender was a young man in his mid 20’s. Charlie was glad to see that the bartender seemed fit and clean cut. He liked waiters to look put together. Youthful beauty added a certain pop to the experience.

            “I will have a dirty martini, top shelve.”

            “This is it,” Charlie thought to himself as he looked out into the lightly populated room. He almost couldn’t wait to remember tonight. The air was clean, and the smell of chefs perfecting their craft swirled through the room.

            “Are you waiting on someone?” the waiter asked as he slid Charlie the martini.

            “Not tonight, I often dine alone. It makes for a more controllable experience. I am all about consistency.”

            The martini was perfect, and Charlie knew he was in for a beautiful night. The bar filled up in the next 30 minutes. Charlie loved to watch the people as they came in. A young couple celebrating a special occasion strolled in and sat three seats down from Charlie. They were what Charlie referred to as tourists. The kind of people who ventured into a nice restaurant for a taste of a world they weren’t a part of. It was a novelty for people like them, not a requirement like it was for people like Charlie. Decadence is a taste acquired over time; it is a monster that must be nurtured and fed or else it will grow unruly.

            At 7, the host showed Charlie to his table. The room was filled with a gentle murmur as Charlie ordered his bottle of wine. There was a quartet tuning their instruments in the far corner of the room. He noticed the young couple from the bar a few tables away. The man, or boy, by the looks of him, was rapidly snapping photos of his freshly served plate. He rearranged the table for the best light and the perfect setting. The women talked into her phone, most likely to her mother. She couldn’t wait to share her present splendor. Charlie took in the scene and thought to himself how sad it must be to be “normal.” “And they say I am the one with the condition,” Charlie scoffed to himself as he sat in his seat.

            A few hours later and after two bottles of wine, Charlie was adequately satisfied. He was sure that the cut of meat, which now rested in his stomach, was the finest steak he had ever tasted. The wine had been of the highest quality, each sip a testimony to the crafter’s dedication to excellence. He closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath through his nose as if to capture the moment in his chest. He took a close look around the room for the first time since his food had arrived. The music controlled the sonic atmosphere melding with the conversations of the room. The smells of clean people enjoying their perfectly cooked food. Charlie was on cloud 9 as he called for the bill and took his lasts sips of wine, he always left wine in the bottom of the glass to show he did not consume from greed but only from enjoyment.

            The bill came, and Charlie parted with all the money he had in the world. “We all make investments my friend, some just make better investments than others,” Charlie said as he handed the waiter his money. As he stood, the weight of the wine settled between his ears, and he was assured that he was sufficiently drunk. He thanked the waiter and laughed his way out the door onto the crowded street. Charleston came alive in the evening.

            Charlie stumbled along the ancient cobblestone streets in admiration of the world he lived in. He walked past the old slave market that is now used to sell souvenirs to eager tourists. As he walked, thoughts of his mother drifted into his head. She is responsible for his appreciation of fine dining. She had been a waitress at the finest restaurants in Chicago when Charlie was a child. She often brought home leftover food from the tables of the wealthy for Charlie to eat. She would tell him all the secrets to satisfying the appetites of the prosperous. “Money is nothing to people like them,” she would say, “you can’t put a price on an experience like that.” Once Charlie hit middle school, it was obvious that, with a condition like his, public school wouldn’t work for him. His mother was forced to bring him to work with her. It was there that his sickness turned into his pleasure. He remembered the smells, the sights, the wonderful sounds of soft music and bounding laughter. He washed dishes in the back, but when he was all caught up, he would sneak to a vantage point where he could look at the people enjoying their food. “You will find your purpose Charlie,” his mother would say, “always do what makes you happy.”

            Charlie proceeded this way, lost in thought and direction, long into the night. Where one street would end, another began, and he found endless enjoyment around each corner. He was not sure what time it was when he arrived at the graveyard. Graveyards are great for sleeping off the decadents of life. No one bothers you, and there is always nicely trimmed grass. “Sara Rotherton, 1868-1891. My name is Mr. Charles Buchanan. Do you mind if I share this grave with you?” Charlie whole heartily listened for a reply. After two bottles of wine, you are never quite sure what you may hear. After a moment, he gave a slight bow to the gracious grave and crawled next to where Sara was buried.

            “Have you ever eaten at Hall’s, Sara? If you get a chance, I highly recommend going there. It is full of the loveliest things in life. Life is all about the experiences, you know. If you want to go, I am sure I can get reservations. I could take you next week. Oh, you will love it there Sara, I just know you will. I am going to say goodbye to you tonight, I will leave out before you wake up. I got a bit of a Cinderella thing going on, and I don’t want you to see me after the magic wears off.” There Charles Buchanan fell asleep. As he fell asleep he smiled to himself, “I can’t wait to remember this evening, what a wonderful night.”

Victims of Progress

I have always felt a tinge of remorse whenever I saw splattered wildlife on the side of the road. To me, road kill is a symbol of the insanity of our age. Our cruelty seems to be our desire for convenience at whatever cost, especially if that cost has no dollar signs attached. This story is a critique of modernity, and I also take it as an opportunity to take a poke at the carpetbaggers flooding into Texas. I hope you enjoy this story.

Victims of Progress

            “Is this what we’re moving for?” Margo looked out the bug-splattered windshield of the luxury sedan. They had crossed the Texas border an hour earlier, and flat grasslands with an occasional burned-out rural town were all there had been for their eyes to consume. “It’s much prettier down south. You will love it there. It’s like LA. This is the ugly part of Texas. Austin isn’t like this.” Todd lifted up his sunglasses and peered out toward the horizon. “It’s all going to turn around for us out here. Elon said Austin was the next boom town on Joe’s show. This is the land of opportunity. Texas may be kind of backwards in its thinking, but they will come around once they meet people like us. We have a lot to offer a place like this.” Todd dropped his glasses back in place on the bridge of his nose and moved his hand toward his phone. “Look at this Instagram page I found the other day.” His thumb moved swiftly as his eyes floated from phone to road. “There are a lot of beautiful people…people with a real taste for fashion.” As Todd passed the phone to Margo, she screamed. “Look out!” A mule deer buck thumped off the hood and cracked the windshield. Todd didn’t even have time to brake. The sedan clipped the back legs causing the car to swerve as the deer tumbled into the bar ditch. The car screeched to a stop. The deer regained its composure long enough to clear a fence and run away. Todd slammed the car into park and didn’t even check to see if any cars were coming as he slung open his door and scurried to inspect the damage. “That deer came out of nowhere!” Todd cussed as he looked at the blood-smeared car. “My car! Did you see where that thing went? I wish I had killed it. I bet my insurance will need to see the body.” Margo stood, hot and wind-blown, staring off after the deer. “I am going to hate it here.”

           The deer knew better than to run across the road without stopping to look. It’s easy to miss a sedan with a low profile. The danger of the highway was well known. The shredded carcass of a coyote, armadillo, or deer was no strange sight. The bar ditch of the highway stinks of mortality. Still, you never imagine the smell is going to be you. The deer had always been very careful, but it was the rut and he had been distracted by the scent of a far-off female. Don’t let your instincts blind you. God gave them to you to test your patience. He could almost hear his mother’s voice saying the warning as blood dripped down his ears. He limped along towards water until the swelling of his hindquarters prevented forward movement. A mesquite tree with a cactus patch on the far side was at foot, and he decided that would be a safe place to rest. The tree offered shade, and the breeze cooled him. This was the first time he noticed that one of his antlers had broken off and that he was missing a chunk of his left foot.

            From high above, a turkey vulture had watched the young buck stumble toward the tree. Now that the deer was down, the bird swooped in for a closer look. “That was quite a shot you took, young friend. Do you think you’ll be able to pull through?” The bird’s black head bobbed as he spoke.

            “I messed up, got caught up chasing love. I am hurt, but I’m sure I’ll be able to pull through. I just need to lay here for a bit, catch my breath. Here in a bit, I will get up and head for water. Water will make all the difference.” The deer looked up at the curved beak of the vulture. He didn’t feel ill will towards the questioning. The vulture seemed honest, and everyone has to eat.

            “I was afraid you didn’t see the car as you were approaching. I saw the whole thing. I thought you were going to clear it for a moment. That leap was majestic, true athleticism, then bam! Terrible luck really. You probably would have seen a truck, but that little car, that slight hill, the imperceivable curve of the road…probably the worst place to cross. Bad luck really.” The bird hopped a bit closer. “I can smell your hind quarter. It has the slightest amount of decay. I don’t doubt your opinion, and I really do hope you make it, but I think I will hang out until you make it to water just to be sure. I would hate to miss out if you don’t make it.”

            The deer watched the bird as it flapped its large wings and floated up to a branch of an ancient cedar. The tree had been dead for years but had yet to relent to the steady wind of the plains. The bird cautiously weighted a thick branch and, when it seemed sturdy, settled in to observe the scene from above. The deer felt the stiffening of injury expand from one leg to the other and progress towards the mid back. The smell that the vulture had keenly perceived was growing and now competed with the wildflower patch nearby. The deer was a realist. In his world, one had to be. He knew his injuries were severe. He knew that with nightfall the coyotes would find him, and no matter how well he had positioned himself, they would tear him to shreds. He saw a few ants converge on a puddle of his blood and knew the horde will be close behind. 

            For the first time since being hit, anger set into the young deer as his impending doom loomed above and crawled near. His vison blurred, and he thought about his mother. The wind swirled and carried the sent of his rotting leg away from his nose and the fragrance of the flower patch calmed him. He couldn’t be mad. The world was how it should be. His mother seemed to whisper through the trees. It is our job to fit into it. The traffic has been picking up, and he knew it was his own fault for losing composure and dropping his guard. It is your instincts that betray your rational mind. He could almost see his mother’s shadow approaching in the light. Never let your animalness cause you to forget your place. The deer had proceeded with a lack of respect and had been slapped down for it. But, the past was gone, his body had been smashed. The privilege of youth was shattered. Life had been a gift. Now, it must be earned. He turned his eyes toward the sun. “It’s still morning. There is still plenty of day for the fight. I can still find a way.”

            The vulture sat perched above the anguishing deer. From his position, the view of the highway was unobstructed. His whole life he had scrounged in the wake of obliterated wildlife strewn along that unholy alter of asphalt. Death was sacred before the highway. Scavengers were thankful. Now, there is so much death that they have become picky and bloated. Two other vultures, one with larges wing and one with a red head, swooped in and joined the stationary vulture. 

            “What you got here?” The vulture with large wings landed heavy on the branch just above the first vulture.

             “Young buck was struck jumping the lanes. Ol’ boy is busted up pretty bad.” 

            The red headed vulture landed gracefully on the same branch as Wings “Oh, his last season? What a shame.” 

            “I hate it when they barely get clipped.” Wings spoke as he looked around for water. “I’m thankful for the meal, but I could pass on the anguish.” 

            “Because of the road, I have never heard of a vulture going hungry.” Red carefully watched the deer, assessing his most subtle movement. “Although tragic, this is the way of the world.” 

            “Were vultures going hungry before the road? There has always been enough death to go around, the dyin’ now just seems… apocalyptic.” Wings looked back to the deer. “There’s no chance of him makin’ it to water. Nothing but dried creek bed for a mile or so in any direction.”

            “He wouldn’t be able to walk to it even if the water were at that fence there. Boy is busted up too bad” Red looked to the highway as the climbing heat wiggled the light of the West Texas sun. “We have no doubt become reliant on the road and it’s bounty. Maybe the abundance of this age has caused me to become blind to the misery of it.”

            The three vultures sat in silence until the first recited a short poem which his grandfather had taught him. 

 

“We don’t get to choose

Some win, others lose

We don’t assign guilt

We eat what the world kill’t”

 

            Red and Wings didn’t look at the first vulture as he recited the words. They all had ways of excusing their actions. Eating the dead is in their nature. They each knew that the world wouldn’t yield to their wishes. They will, as they always have, yield to it. The three vultures all watched the young deer’s head bob with sleep.

            The shadow of the mesquite tree shrank then began to extend again. The young deer had caught his breath and calmed his mind despite the ants which now covered his leg. One push was all it would take to get him to water. If he got to water, he knew his chances of pulling through would increase substantially. He ignored the pain as he pulled his broken frame upright. The vultures were inspired by his strength, and all gave subtle “atta boys” as the deer heroically hobbled on. The bones in his hip crutched, and with each step, the reality that this was his last day settled in. The quest for water was now one for comfort, not survival. With head held high, the deer limped forward. His head tilted to one side from his unbalanced antlers. He chuckled to himself about a transient thought he had earlier that morning. He figured he wouldn’t matter after today, after he had bred a doe. He had imagined that once he had fulfilled his duty, then he would be free to die. 

            After only 50 yards or so, the deer came to a fence. He was too broken to jump and knew if he were to try to crawl under it, he wouldn’t be able to get back up, so he turned to the north and gimped on. The vultures circled above and sang a song of encouragement to him. It was a small comfort to know such honorable creatures would soon gain substance from his corpse. The vultures’ consumption of his dead body would at least give purpose to his death. As he walked, he began to hear a rushing sound. “A river? A mighty river!” Water was closer than he had thought. He perked up a bit. A new hope creeped into his now half-delusional mind. “If I can get into that water, that cool fresh water, then maybe my leg will cool. Maybe the infection will get washed out and these ants washed away. I will drink and eat the thick grass on the bank. Soon, my leg will heal. I’ll never be young again, but I only need one more season. Next season, I will grow some new antlers, and I will breed. Then, I can die.”

            “There’s that son of a bitch!” The young deer collapsed with exhaustion as he approached the roaring flow of the highway. “I saw him go down just over here.” Todd bounded through the tall prairie grass in the direction where the young deer fell, still faintly breathing. “Man, it’s my lucky day!” Todd yelled as he grabbed the deer by the antler and began to drag the limp body towards the road.  Todd hooked the antler on the fence and hopped over. He then dragged the deer over the wire. A barb dug into the deer’s hide and ripped a hole which the intestines spilled out of. The entrails hung from the fence and formed a line as Todd drug it the rest of the way to the road. “That is disgusting. I doubt the insurance will even need to see that. Oh God, it stinks!” Margo walked toward the back of the car trying not to gag. Todd set the still-twitching body of the young deer on the hot road in front of the car. “He might not need to see it, but I’ll leave it here just in case.” The meat began to spoil as it waited on the hot road for the insurance adjuster to give that young couple from California what they deserved. The vultures, still singing, caught the heat from the road and sailed off to look for something else to eat. 

Liquid Courage

A medical mask tumbles down the empty street. The cigarette, pinched between cold fingers, flickers in the steady wind. The dive bar is steady in the breeze-shook night. Shadows of trees and power lines dance on the frozen pavement of the empty parking lot. A neon sign cast blue and red into the dark, beaconing the lonely and destitute towards a temporary solace. A new name is painted on an old sign. The low rumble of bass and kickdrum grow with every progressive inch towards the hallowed walls. The young man pulls hard with his diaphragm, sucking the last of the tobacco smoke into his lungs. The still glowing cigarette butt flashes as it skips along the ground into a pile of leaves that has been there for months.

The young man opens the door. He slips a cloth mask from his pocket, placing the loops over his ears as he walks briskly into the mostly empty room. A few tables and chairs are scattered while most are piled against a wall. The bar is on the opposite wall from the door. A cue ball sits idle in the center of a well-worn pool table. There is no familiar face for the young man to see. The stools at the bar began the night with prescribed space, but now, early in the morning of the next day, the performative act of social distancing had been suspended. “What’ll you have? Tuesday-two dollar you call it.” The bartender moved slow; he was already performing closing duties with his mask dangling from one ear.

“Whiskey, top shelf. Tonight might be my last night.” 

The first thing Larry Tagert saw as he rounded the end of the bar after returning from the bathroom, was the young man, hunched over, staring at a small glowing screen. Working for years to climb the company ladder had turned Larry bitter towards the entitled laziness of the youth of today. Kids will never know what hard work is, he thought to himself as he gained ground towards the young man. “Give me another keep.”

The young man looked up from his phone as Larry slid over a stool to sit down next to him. Larry unveiled a thick red mustache as he pulled down his black bandana. “What’s so interesting in that phone? I could have killed you had I been so inclined. You better keep your eyes up, there are demons out here.” 

“I wish you would have, could have saved me the trouble. I am done with it, man. I’m done with it all. I am going to have a few drinks, leave here, and kill myself.” As the bartender set the glass of liquor in front of the young man, he gave Larry a side-eyed glance communicating a question, a statement, and a subtle assessment of the young man’s intentions. The longing for death was not uncommon this time of night, not in this town. 

“Oh, I doubt it, youngster. Killing yourself takes bravery, and there is quite a shortage of that these days.” Several other patrons perked up at the young man’s declaration of a desire to die and began to snicker at Larry’s response.

“You callin’ me a coward?” The young man’s back stiffened, and for the first time since entering the bar, he appeared to have some wind in his sails. Even on the verge of suicide, offense was still offensive.

“I insinuated that you were a coward, I didn’t out right say it. But if you were a brave man, you would be in sparse company here.” Larry looked in judgment at the other patrons as their smirks faded to frowns. “Say you are serious about ending it all, how do you think you’ll do it?”

“I am going to.” The young man’s resolve seemed to grow with being called a coward. “I got a pistol at home, a 45. Bullet through the temple should do it. I am going to get a little liquored up first, calm my nerves. I can’t go on living like this.” The bartender had stopped mopping and was now leaning on the mop, listening to the conversation between Larry and the young man.

“Shooting yourself is tricky business. I got a buddy who is a fireman, told me once about an old guy who tried to off himself with a bullet to the temple. Said all it did was blew his eyeballs out. Fella was still talkin’ to them when they pulled up. All that happened was he blinded himself. Poor ol’ fool couldn’t even find the gun to try for a second shot.” Larry chuckled. The young man couldn’t be serious. Most of the time if someone is talking about doing something, they never end up doing it, not at this hour, not in this town. 

“Well, then I will put it in my mouth. I was planning on standing on a stool or something also, with an electrical cord around my neck. I am done man, I swear, I can’t take this place anymore” He had already finished his drink and was signaling the bartender for another.

“Put this kid’s drinks on my tab, go ahead and pour me another” Larry shifted his stool a bit closer to the young man. “Sounds like you got a pretty good handle on it. Do you mind telling me what’s got you so set on death?” 

“All of it. My life sucks. I am not even sure what I am living for. I barely make enough money to rent my shitty apartment, my car breaks down all the time, and even if I had a girlfriend, which I don’t, there is nothing to do in this boring town.” The young man paused for a drink “I have a girl at work that I like. I was thinking about asking her out, but I don’t have a shot with her now, not after yesterday. I might as well kill myself. Only person who will be sad is my mom, and I bet that will only last a couple days. She will probably be relieved that she won’t have to worry about me screwing up my life anymore.” The young man slipped his phone in his pocket and sat guarding his drink between both arms.

“Sounds like you are a real loser. What happened yesterday?” Larry had not expected such stimulating conversation. He was glad he had decided to stay for a few more drinks even though he had work, what was now, later that day. There are a lot of people on the verge of suicide but few who will so freely speak of it.  

“This guy I work with, real asshole, got me in a corner talking about politics. I don’t know anything about it, but he was set on getting me talking, kept asking me questions. Dude started calling me a fascist. Pretending like he is all high and mighty just because he listens to NPR. Everyone up there started calling me a Nazi and claimed all my beliefs were conspiracy theories.” The young man shifted in his seat as if it were warming up. 

“The people you work with seem like they are struggling with some fascist tendencies themselves. I have heard that suicide is a permenant solution to a temporary problem. You think that could be?” Larry finished his question and took a sip of his whiskey. He laughed to himself because it seemed that all his imaginings of the youth of today were true. Hopeless. Aimless. Senseless living. No roots in anything, nothing to show for their floundering. He was brought up in a different time, one that didn’t perpetuate the illusion that the world cared about what you wanted. You worked because that is what you were expected to do. Your roots were planted, and you can’t complain about where the leaves fall. There were no free rides, no handouts, no intrinsic value. Your value came from your hands, from your work. Rootless expectations of youth lead to disappointment. Like the expectation that you could achieve happiness or find love in this town. The whiskey had loosened his thoughts, and he was starting to feel nostalgic. 

“That’s just what has me upset right now. I have been thinking about killing myself for a while. I can’t imagine living my life in this shitty town, drinking at the same shitty little bars. I mean, what kind of life is this, living paycheck to paycheck just to watch other people live their dreams?”

The group of men sat for a time in quiet, reflecting on the question and the possibility of the young man killing himself. The line between literal death of the body and the figurative death of the soul was a blurry one. The men in the bar all felt that it may be necessary to kill a part of yourself to live in this world, in this age. Dreams are illusions of a satisfaction that can’t exist. Staring at their drinks, they reflected the culmination of choices which brought them to this bar. Larry’s comment about cowardice seeped into the blood of each man same as the liquor they were there to buy, and they wondered what it meant to be a man in this town, at this hour.

After the floor behind the bar was adequately mopped, the bartender, now holding his own glass of liquor, stood in front of the young man and Larry. “I tried to kill myself once.” He took periodic sips between phrases. “I was 22, just about to finish up bible college when I realized I didn’t believe anymore. My preacher and church didn’t lie to me, but they only gave me half the truth. They only told me the stuff that made it easy to believe. I had built a foundation on sand. I hated myself my whole life for not being the type of Christian I thought I should be, only to realize that the type of Christian I thought I should be never really existed, not in America at least. I broke down. I was buried in student loan debt and had a degree that enabled me with the same half-truths I had grown up with. I now had enough knowledge to deceive the poor saps in pews across the nation, to convince them that their life wasn’t shameful in the eyes of their lord. I took a bunch of pills and washed them down with whiskey. I didn’t count on a friend stopping by and calling the police. I didn’t even tell anyone I was going to do it. I woke up three days later, in a hospital bed with a tube down my throat. My dad was in the room. He sat hunched over sleeping, said he had been there the whole time.”

“I think most suicides are botched,” Larry looked at the bartender with admiration. “The human body seems to be more resilient than the mind.” Larry tapped the bar to signal that he wanted another fill up. 

“I didn’t want to be a preacher anymore, so I figure being a bartender is the next best thing. It doesn’t pay as well, but it is a lot more effective at helping people cope with their problems.” The bartender filled up Larry’s drink and went ahead and topped off his and the young man’s. 

“Why didn’t you finish the job, I mean try to kill yourself again after you got out of the hospital?” The young man asked, “What made you want to live?”

“Strip clubs and rap music.” The bartender now leaned backwards against the cooler below the mirror. “I figured if I weren’t trying to be a Christian anymore, I might as well see what else the Western world had to offer. In a strip club I don’t feel judged, first place I felt free. I know the girls were working me over, but there was a genuine nature to how they talked and there is a playfulness to their service. The strippers were there to honor my desires, not suppress my inclinations. They were there for my money, no deception, their intentions clear, pure. There was no illusion that they would save my soul. They were there for my body. For the here and now, not the someday.”

“And rap music? Seems a weird thing to stay around for.” The young man smirked for the first time all night.

“Rap artists are unapologetic in their speech. They don’t recite lines from the pulpit, they spit rhymes from the street, in the face of convention. There is a grit and honesty. The contrast to the ass-kissing preachers I grew up with was visceral. They’re willing to be offensive. Hell, their blatant intention is to be offensive. It gave me hope in life, hope that maybe I didn’t have to live the life others laid out for me, that there was something beyond convention.”

The young man perked up and reached for his phone again. “I love to draw.” He tapped his screen and pulled up a photo album. “I have recently started tagging overpasses and random walls. It’s the only thing that makes me feel alive. Only thing I do that feels counter to the culture I grew up in.” Larry took the phone and scrolled through the gallery.

“This one here, the one of the girl, I have seen this one. It’s really good, but you could get in a lot of trouble doing stuff like this, right?” Larry, for the first time, looked upon the young man with some respect.

“Yeah, I know, that’s why I haven’t posted these pictures anywhere. There are several other guys making money doing this, making commissions, but they are way better than me.” The straightness that had crept into the young man’s back faded to a slump with the confession.

“I didn’t mean to discourage you.” Larry handed the young man’s phone back. “Look, that should give you hope. You found something you love doing, and there are other people making money doing it. Could be worse. I had several things I enjoyed when I was young but there was no money. Money equals time, and I had no time, so I gave’em up. I was focused on paying the bills. I missed out on a lot of life chasing money. Hell, my marriage ended 5 years ago, and I am pretty sure my kids only care about me for money. There are a lot of days I wish I had chased something other than a paycheck, the way this bartender here chased death. That’s what I meant earlier about courage, the willingness to take control, ultimate control, the risky kind, of one’s future. That takes courage.”

The bartender raised his glass to the young man and Larry. “Cheers to finding something to live for, even if it takes the willingness to die to find it.” The three men clinked their glasses together and shared a smile. The men finished their drinks, and Larry paid the tab before walking out into the parking lot with the young man. “Thanks for the drinks,” the young man said. “I really feel much better, a little drunk. I’m still broke and the people I work with are still jerks, but I feel different. I am looking forward to making a masterpiece. It will take a while to get good enough, but I have plenty of time.”

“That’s probably just the liquor, it will wear off by the morning.” Larry winked at the young man as he stumbled to his car. The pickup honked to signal that it was unlocked. The key slid into the ignition, and the engine choked to life against the cold. Pulling out onto the street, Larry placed his left hand at 10 o’ clock on the steering wheel and extended his pinky as a guide to keep the vehicle inside the white line. “As long as you stay between the lines the law won’t get ya.” Larry punched the 3 on the radio which was preset to a country classics station. Driving east on the highway, he took the exit just past the city’s streetlights. The tires jostled as the pavement ended, and the comforting rumble of caliche replaced the civilized smoothness of the city roads. He drove a familiar distance into the isolation of the rural world. The truck slowed and came to rest in a bar ditch angled to where the sun would emerge over the horizon in a few hours. Larry ritualistically pulled his pistol out of the glove box and checked to confirm a round was in the chamber. He causally tossed it to the dashboard and began to chuckle to himself. He thought of the bartender sitting in a strip club and of the young man painting in his shitty apartment. He knew they were delusional. Their hope was naive and would fade with time, but the thought still made him happy. “Sadly, it’s not that easy,” he laughed to himself as the classic country played. Staring out over his dashboard in the direction he knew the sun would come up, he said, “but, sometimes you have to rely on the smallest things, to get you through the nights, especially at this hour, especially in this town.”