“Would you like another beer?” I hear someone ask me, breaking my reverie.
“Uh…..yes….yes, I would,” I say, looking up at the person addressing me.
It’s a young woman, maybe 21-22 years old. Cute, but a little too much party girl in her features. She smiles at me and I return the smile, though I feel it probably doesn’t come across very well. It feels crooked and unsure.
“Sorry I disturbed you,” she says.
“No problem,” I say, trying to reassure her with another terrible smile.
She smiles at me again and goes to the bar to get the beer. My eyes follow her to the bar and back. She has nice legs, but I am extremely put off by the fact it appears she hasn’t washed her hair in a week. It’s matty and dangling. Women think men don’t care about these things, but we do. Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe the rest of my male ilk are banging matty-haired chicks as I write this.
She sets the beer on the table and I smell her perfume. It’s a cheap, but nice smell that mingles with the smell of her sweat, the alcohol and smoke of the bar.
“Dana said you started a tab,” she says.
“Who?”
“Dana. The bartender,” she says, pointing her out as if I don’t know where the bartender should be.
“Yes….yes…I did,” I say, not sure at first but then remembering I did start a tab.
She smiles and walks away. I drink my beer and sneak glances around the place to make sure no one is looking at me as I sit by myself. The Beatles are coming in over the speakers, low in volume, unobtrusive.
The door opens and more people come in. They sit a few tables away from me and I find myself shifting nervously in my chair. I’m worried the place is going to start filling up soon.
Despite this concern, I have to admit to myself it feels good to be out of the apartment. The ale tastes fantastic and I find myself caught up in the dimness of the place. It feels as if this pub is on the edge of the world - a beginning of a new frontier.
This inspires me. I sip the beer, thoughts forming in my head. Yes, yes, by the time I get home the words will come easily tonight. I will fill many pages, creeping close to completion of my book. Afterwards I will sleep well and wake fresh and ready to take on the day. I order another beer.
More people spill in. The empty tables start to fill. I decide on one more beer and then I’ll call it a night. The waitress brings me a beer and I immediately order another. She raises her eyes but goes to the bar to get it. I watch a group of people sitting at a table across the bar.
I assume they are college students. They can’t be any older than 22. One of them wears a t-shirt with the local college’s name emblazoned across the front. It’s three girls and a lone fella. He’s a pretty bastard, and it’s evident from the way the girls look at him, they’re all infatuated with him equally. Lucky bastard is probably tagging all three; and they probably even know it, but they don’t care.
All three of the girls are chattering, looking at him, hoping he will return an approving nod. He looks restless and bored, as if he wants to leave the table. No doubt he had his pick of the ladies wherever he went. These three may not even be his first choice. Pretty people have that luxury, but they take it for granted. They don’t always appreciate their physical gifts until they’re no longer pretty. That’s when they realize that was all they had. The regrets come hard and fast after that realization. It’s not just them though; all people are regretful about something or someone. I’m very regretful, though it’s not because I was once pretty. No, I regret choices and paths I’ve taken, seemingly for no reason. But after it’s done, all you can do is push forward or kill yourself. I’m not particularly fond of death - too much of a mystery - so I keep pushing on.
The waitress brings me another beer. I decide to drink it fast, pay up, and get the hell out of here. I’ve had enough to have a slight buzz. I regret coming alone. It’s impossible to enjoy this environment without the wild rapture of conversation and physical contact that comes with being with someone.
The music coming over the speakers stops and I see a woman stepping onto the stage. She looks to be late thirties, early forties. Hard to tell from where I’m sitting. But one thing I notice is that, despite being older, she possesses a grace about her that younger women can only dream of.
She grabs her guitar from the stand and begins to tune it, glancing up occasionally to say hello to someone or check out what kind of crowd she’s up against. I decide to stick around a little longer.

I wish I had sat closer. She has red hair that hangs slightly past her shoulders. Her face is pale, but smooth, slightly freckled. There is nothing particularly glamorous about her, but there’s a sensuality about her that is easy to pick up. In fact, most of the bar patrons are watching her as she tunes that guitar as if they sense it too - this exciting sexuality that is flowing from her without perhaps her even knowing it. She doesn’t have to flit around and play games like most women; for her, it comes natural.
Finally she is ready. She says hello to everyone and they roar back at her. It’s unnecessarily exuberant, making her shrink back from it. She begins to play. I pick it out almost immediately as a Neil Young tune. Her playing is good, but it is her singing that captures the moment. It’s soulful and, when needed, guttural. Her voice rages through the place, tearing it to shreds. At times her voice will slash and burn all of us. I can swear the flesh is peeling back from bones; it’s that good. She has the gift, no doubt about it. I order another beer.
She performs a range of tunes from Buddy Holly to Etta James to Chrissie Hynde. She really lays it down, and it makes me feel a lot better knowing she’s in the world. It’s funny how being caught in a moment that feels pure and right can restore hope in a person.
No one else seems to appreciate her intensity though. They were attentive at first, but she isn’t playing a selection of songs that most of the audience knows. The applause is mild, at best, when she finishes. I try to take up the slack and applaud loudly at the end of each song, prompting a few of the patrons to look at me with an amused look on their face. I sneer back at them and they turn away. Usually, attracting any sort of attention to myself would force me to curl up or make a retreat, but I’ve had enough alcohol to calm my nerves. Plus, I believe in her, even if none of these other fuckers do. So I keep clapping loudly, out of defiance now more than admiration. It’s you and me, redhead, against the world. You belt the blues and I’ll stand by your side. A few times, as I’m drinking and applauding loudly, she seems to look in my direction. I assume it’s my imagination.
After a half hour she puts the guitar aside and leaves the stage. Once again, my applause drowns out all the others. No doubt I’m being referred to as the “jackass sitting by himself.” at this point.
Music comes forth from the speakers again, this time Ray Charles. I see the redhead hugging some old timer at the bar. I look at the empty bottles on the table. It’s been a good night. Drank some beers, heard some good music. Now comes the moment of decision. Do I continue to drink and worry about getting up for work in the morning or do the responsible thing and pay the tab now?
“Hi,” I hear a voice from behind me.
I turn around and see the redhead smiling at me with two beers in her hand. It appears the question has been answered. My heart starts beating and the blood starts flowing. This keeps me from standing up.
“Would you like a beer?” she asks, offering one of the beers in her hand.
I stand up sideways, trying to conceal my excitement. I realize I must look completely stupid at the moment as I stand sideways and search for something to say. Talking to women used to be easy, regardless of whether they were receptive. I could walk up to a woman and engage them. Now, I felt like some bumbling, underage virgin mistaken for someone sophisticated and soulful.
“Hello,” I am able to mumble, reaching out for the beer. “Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you,” she says, handing me the beer and taking a seat. Sitting down, I take a long drink from the bottle to try and calm my nerves, realizing immediately the absurdity of that since I have already drank quite a bit. I can’t help it, I am nervous. Being this close to her is inspiring. On stage she was just a dream across the room, except it felt like a million miles. And now here she is sitting across from me. Obviously she had noticed my brash behavior during her set. I am cursing myself now, for I know I don’t have what it takes to close this deal. Within minutes I am likely to be exposed. And yet I am turned on by the fact she is older and has seen the world in the time before I was even born. She’s lived stories I want to write, and could tell me things I need to know. But how do I communicate that in this modern world without sounding completely mad? People don’t like the truth, particularly women. Tell a woman the truth and you’re liable to find yourself standing alone. People don’t want the truth, they want lies; and if you’re not a good liar, it is possible you shall never find a place to call home.
“I enjoyed your set,” I say.
“I could tell,” she replies, smiling.
This makes me laugh and I loosen up for a second, but there follows a short silence that dooms me back to my nervousness.
“I haven’t seen you in here before,” she says.
“It’s the first time I’ve been here.”
“I’m Sara. Sara Blake,” she introduces herself, extending her hand.
I introduce myself and shake her hand. Our hands grip for a moment, hold steady and then pull away. I feel the fingers as her hand slides away. They are marred with callouses from her years of playing guitar, but this only excites me further.
“How long have you been playing?”I asked, without thinking. I hope she doesn’t think I am referring to her hand with the callouses.
“A little over twenty years,” she says, accepting the question.
“Have you ever tried to make a career out of it?”
“No. Playing around town is enough for me.”
I finish the beer.
“So, what do you do?” she asks. God bless her, she is trying to improve this situation. But I am too tight. Not from the beer, but from myself. I’ve been cut off too long from women and people and places. I can feel the old familiar feeling of the walls starting to close in. I want to tell her I am a writer so badly after she asks me what I do. It is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t reconcile lying to her.
“I’m a…I work in an office,” I say, and I hear the defeat in my own voice.
She isn’t impressed, but who can blame her? She probably knows musicians, artists, writers, important people doing important things. I merely represent one of millions. I do not stand out or stand alone or breathe passion and energy. I am just a guy taking the easy way out: making a little dough and calling it a day.
“What kind of office work do you do?” she asks.
I hate small talk. I abhor it. Why can’t I just open my mouth and say the things I can say in private to myself, the room around me and the cats as my audience? Small talk is lifeless. I want no part of it.
“It’s something to do with the department of education,” I say.
“You’re not sure?” she asks.
“Well, no, I mean, yes. It’s just….well, I know what I need to do every day but I’m not sure its connection to everything else. Does that make sense?”
“Sure,” she says, but I don’t think she’s convinced.
“Do you play?” she asks.
“Oh, no,” I say, laughing. “I’m afraid I have no musical talent.”
“But you obviously like music?”
“I love it.”
“That seems almost cruel that someone could love music and not play it.”
I nod in agreement, pondering for perhaps the 500th time that I wish I could play. It would have impressed her if I told her I could play. Maybe she’d invite me over to her place sometime. One thing could lead to another and….
“Well, I hate to meet and run, but I have to be up early tomorrow,” she says offering me her hand again.
“You’re not playing another set?”
“No. Hollis Druker plays the late sets. You should stick around though, I think you’ll like him.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment that she’s leaving. An hour ago I wouldn’t have cared, but now I find myself starved for her attention.
“I’ll see you around, I hang out here a lot,” she says, perhaps sensing my disappointment.
We shake hands and I watch her make her way across the bar saying goodbye to people she knows before she walks out the door. I look at the table and the empty glasses. I’m drunk by this point. I look at my watch: 11:00. Only 11:00. It feels much later. It’s not too late, I think to myself. I can go home, dash off a few pages of the book and get in bed early enough that I won’t be a walking zombie at work the next day.
A new waitress approaches me. She’s younger, with her blonde hair in pigtails. She carries an attitude with her. I like that in women. She’s very lean, very beautiful, very dangerous. The pigtails only serve to give her an ironic edge. My mind forms vivid pictures some would call sleaze and filth as she stands there in front of me.
“Do you want another beer?” she asks me.
“Where’s the other girl?”
“She’s off. You want another?”
The waitress was gone. The redhead was gone. Even the bartender was nowhere to be seen. And now the crowd had grown. It made sense to leave now.
“Yes, I’ll have another,” I say.
For some reason I did not want to go home. I could not even face the thought of going home. I love home and feel safe behind its walls, but the smell of alcohol wafting from my lips encourages me to hold out a bit longer as if some secret will be revealed.
The blonde waitress with pigtails returns. The beer is tapping into my deviancy as my eyes scan her body from head to toe. Her shape is young, sturdy, light years ahead of the girl who was serving me earlier. Those pigtails leave an indelible image in my mind which I can not shake, despite my best inner moral protestations. Hands gripping the hair and pulling back, tight and with strength. Sighs of passion, joy and surprise, perhaps a little pain. But only a little.
I feel shame in thinking this. My shame and repression force me to avoid her gaze as she places the beer on the table. My thoughts do not mirror her thoughts, I can see it in her eyes. There is no attraction. I am just the lone guy sitting at a table drinking his face off. Any questions that might exist are left unasked and we face a future of never knowing each other. She cares less, but I am depressed by this truth.
I watch her as she moves from table to table. I have lost my sense of discretion. Someone is probably watching me at this moment, preparing some wise-ass comment about the loser in the corner staring at the server’s ass. I leave her ass and glance around the bar just to make sure I’m not being observed. Like the other 300 times I’ve looked around this place, no one is paying any attention to me. I’m safe….for the time being.
The smell of the ale reaches my nostrils. I pick up the glass and take a long, deep drink. Ale is really a wonderful concoction. Edison can have his light bulb; let’s set a national holiday for the man who invented ale. I was reading this article that claimed ale was first invented by the Sumerians 6,000 years ago. It was invented accidently, but was considered divine afterwards. I make an invisible toast to the Sumerians to show them my love for their sense of invention.
Ale is all I drink these days. I used to drink a lot of liquor in younger days. I used to inhale it almost. Always lost a little bit of my soul when I drank it. I could feel it escaping my body, never to return. But you don’t care when you’re feeling the liquor burn. Then you piss it away in the bathroom, or in the street or in your pants if you pass out.
Liquor is rough and tumble, like a gregarious friend whom you’re never comfortable with because they have the propensity to find or cause trouble. Ale is gentle and quiet. Ale is Autumn nights sitting on your porch with the approaching Fall breezes lightly touching your skin. Liquor is cold winter nights awaking in the back seat of a strange car with vomit puddles under you. There were many nights like that before I settled on ale, and ale alone. I regret the whiskey earlier. I can still feel it in my stomach.
I try to relax. The music is coming through the speakers. John Coltrane. I love Coltrane. I’m not a big jazz fan, but Coltrane was from another planet. I had a dream once: I was sitting on a curb outside a convenience store and John Coltrane and Jimi Hendrix sit down next to me and start telling me about the secrets of the universe. They tell me they were from another dimension originally, and that they only had a short amount of time to do what they did because they had to return to their own dimension. Sly Stone had originally accompanied them, but he decided to stick around for a while. Far Out.
Back in my own dimension, in the bar, I was happy to hear Trane coming through the speakers. Whoever picked the music in this joint were to be commended..
I looked over at the bar. The bartender was now back. The waitress with the pigtails would occasionally pass by close enough to watch. I felt good here. I liked this place. Everyone around me, lost in their conversations, but the noise wasn’t deafening and I began to believe that I was actually invisible to them all.