The feelings wash over me like the ocean waves, unpredictably rushing out and slamming into the shores of my mind, only to recede away again. A persistent nagging. A constant struggle of a restless subconscious.
I found myself in the corner, slumped over the edge of the bar again. Most people who walk past probably like to deliberate about whether I’m some degenerate regular or just a hobo trying to escape a cold, hard sidewalk. Either way they’d be right about one thing, I am a complete waste of space. Day in and day out I occupy myself with two things: alcohol and sleep. Right now, I’m engaged with the latter. At least I was.
“Let me ask you something.”
The words sounded closer, more directed than the aimless chatter that reverberated throughout the pub. The question urged a response from me. However, my growing sense of indifference urged back. What manner of individual could be so unsympathetic to my discernibly isolating posture? Surely a few moments of utter disregard for my new friend would be enough to send him fucking right back off. About a minute later and… here I am, alone again in the dark corner of this utterly dreary establishment.
A prod at my shoulder quickly, and rather abruptly, informed me that the brief silence had deceived me. I begrudgingly lifted my head from the comfort of my arms. An old man sat across from me, his eyes piercing into mine. His fedora was angled down over his forehead and his scraggly beard covered the lower portion of his face. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat before turning to the half empty glass that still resided on my coaster. Sleep obviously wasn’t going to happen so I’ll try that other thing. I emptied the glass with one full swig then directed my attention to the man.
“Well… your question?” I said. “What is it?” I hadn’t expected to be interrogated tonight so I was trying to get this over with as soon as possible. Still, there was something very curious about the man’s presence and so I was inclined to indulge.
“Are you happy?” he said.
That one actually made me smirk. I pondered ignoring him altogether and going back to my blissful misery, but the straightness with which the inquiry was delivered begged further consideration. He continued his line of questioning.
“What if I told you that you’ve been living your life all wrong?” he said, his voice low and urgent.
“No shit,” I said. “I’m not exactly the embodiment of the American dream.” The bartender signaled for last call. I flagged him down for another drink.
“You’re cut off, Fischer,” he yelled from the other end of the bar. “You need to pay your tab from last week or you’re done drinking here.”
“Come on, just one more,” I said. “I’m good for it.” I was definitely not good for it.
“On me,” came the voice to my left.
I looked at him, then back at the bartender. “On him,” I yelled back. Even through my impaired vision I could see him shake his head in disapproval.
The old man pressed on without skipping a beat. “And what if I told you that everything you thought you knew was just an illusion?”
I leaned forward. “What do you mean by that?” A beer was slammed down in front of me, the frothy foam spilling over the sides. I immediately grabbed at it.
“The world you see around you is not the real world,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s a façade.”
I was starting to think maybe I was the sober one here. “And what’s the real world, then?” I asked, expecting an equally crazy response.
“Just ask yourself why this place feels like home.” The man rose from his seat and turned to leave. “Ask yourself… why you can’t remember your wife’s face.”He started toward the door and finally disappeared into the dark, rainy night. I looked around the bar at the lifeless souls that inhabited this place. What did I do yesterday? Where was home? Wife? As I contemplated and failed to recall anything other than my immediate location, a shudder ran through my body. I rose and ran after the man, but when I crossed the threshold of the entryway, I was face down across the bar again without a care in the world.