Never Drink Alone: Finding Loss In an Endless Loop

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He walked into the bar the same way you'd walk into your living room. But he was not a drunkard. He knew what made a drunkard; he'd read about it God-knows-where, that it was solitary drinking that makes a drunkard. So he knew what not to do.

He picked the tall chair at the extreme end of the bar, adjacent to the bartender, just as you'd pick your favorite solitary chair in your living room. But it was not solitude he sought. It was a rather special company.

"Can I interest you in some idle talk?"
He said, taking his seat with a bit of effort.

He spoke the words with an heaviness; a languorous language with which old friends who had fallen out reconciled.

The man to which he spoke looked just like him: same grey stubble beard, same receding hairline with a hint of untimely grayness here and there. They must have both been in their early forties, but looked, and spoke, no less than seventy.

"Idle talk is the only thing that interests me."
The other man replied. His voice was stronger and deeper. He had an empty cup in front of him.

"Another bottle, please."
He called to the bartender with his baritone.

The bartender arrived with a bottle.

"Open it please."

The bartender opened the bottle and poured its content into the glass.

"One for my -- friend here, please."

The bartender brought an empty glass and poured. After he had left the two friends toasted to the passage of time and got intimate.

"Why'd you make him open it?"
The man who had walked in asked, adjusting on his seat, getting used to it. The man who had been seated earlier, with the stronger voice, said:

"Because opening bottles is what makes a drunkard."

"Tolstoy?"
The man who walked in said.

They spoke with voices and gestures bearing a concoction of boredom depression and indifference.

"It isn't Tolstoy."

"Well I'll be damned. Who was it then?"

"I can't remember either."

He poured another round into each glasses.

"Well we don't need to remember, do we? All we need is a good sleep. She'll help us sleep."

"Another toast to the passage of time then?"

"Hear hear!"

The men drank. And smacked their tongues and squinted their faces, synchronously, like old friends.

"Didn't he say it was solitary drinking?"

"What?"

"You know, what makes drunkards. Didn't he say it was solitary drinking and not opening bottles?"

"Who?"

"I don't know."

"We're not that old not to remember."

"How about another toast then?"

The two men poured themselves another drink and another and called upon the bartender to open another bottle.

"You think he's a drunkard?" The man who had been seated earlier said. "He must have opened a lot of bottles in his lifetime."

"He's definitely one. I bet he drinks alone."

"He's such a fine one, though, isnt he?"

"The fine ones make the most deplorable drinkards."

"True."

"Why do you think he works as a bartender?"
The man who had entered said.

"Cos he's a drinkard?"

The two men appeared very completely drunk now, and laughed as hard as the drink could take them. Which was quite far.

"We should toast to not being drunkards."
The man who had been seated said.

"We should. Hey boy. Fine boy. Pour us another drink will ya?."

The bartender edged closer, and eyed them both with a look filled with immense scorn and genuine pity at the same time.

"Say, boy. Why'd you become a bartender in the first place?"
The man who had been seated asked.

"You've had too much to drink, uncle." The bartender said. "You should probably leave."

The man who had been seated laughed and the man who had walked in laughed with him.

"Yoy don't dictate to me, boy." The man who had been seated said, "now go back to opening bottles."

They both laughed again.

"You think he's really a drunkard?"
The man who had walked in asked.

"No. No he's not. He's such a fine boy."

---

At this point both their voices had became sober; even the one with the strong voice now had a tremulous vibration.

"You think we're the drunkards?"
He said.

"No. No of course we're not."

"Yes?"

"Sure. Sure we're not."

They both remained sober then, and silent.

"I still see the fire."
The man who had entered said, suddenly. There was fear in his voice, like a man facing his demons for the thousandth time, having lost the battle the previous 999 times.

"Don't."
The man who had been seated said, quietly, calmly.

"I still --"

"I said don't! Don' talk--about the fire!"

It was an angry outburst that drew the attention of everyone in the bar. The man who had walked in remained calm, though, as if he had not even heard his friend, being so occupied with himself; with his demons.

"Last time I saw her she -- she told me --"

"Don't talk about her! I swear if you talk about her once again-- one more time i swear it! I swear I'll break this frigging bottle on your damn head. I swear I will."

The man who had entered sprang up now, with such strength as though he had been saving it.

"I still see the fire!"
He shouted, gritting his teeth with passion. Stomping the bar floor with tears materializing on his face. "I still see the fire." He said again. "And I swear I see you there every time! Laughing! Scorning me!"

"I absolved you of your pain!"

"No. No you didn't, you stupid idiot! You took her from me!! You made it worse!"

In a second both men found themselves rolling on the bar floor, exchanging blows. The man who had been seated was on top, connecting his fist with the other man's jaw.

"Do it!" The man who had entered screamed unintelligibly, pinned under heavy blows, blood spilling out his mouth. "Do it, you devillish bastard!"

The people in the bar looked on with indifference, until the young bartender rushed out, with a couple other men, and separated them. They were yelling at each other, the two old men, and crying at the same time.

They were led out then, through separate exits. It was raining hard but they would not let them back in.

"See you tomorrow, nephew then."
The man who had been seated shouted from the rain, still crying.

The young bartender went back inside bar then, walking briskly towards the kitchen. There he saw a tall beautiful lady with hair packed under a bonnet, removing her apron.

"Its uncle Joe and Mark again."
The bartender said.

"I know."
The lady said, packing her things into a bag.

"Who started it this time?"

"It was hard to tell."

"Who hit first?"

"Uncle Joe, I think."

"Oh. Well that's a first. I take it as a sign of progress."

The lady packed her bags, walked towards the bartender and gave him a kiss. He stopped and kissed her pregnant belly.

"They'll remain forever inseparable, won't they?
The young bartender asked.

The lady did not answer.

"Poor Laura."
She said finally, walking towards the exit door. She paused and turned back.

"Did they figure out who made the quote?"

"What?"

"Their sayings about drunkards and solitude."

"Oh no. Still haven't figured it out yet."

"Oh well. Good night, Luke."

"Good night, Angela."

The young beautiful bartender stepped out to the alley behind a bar, where a man in black shirt stood waiting for her.

"How was work today, honey?"
The man in black called to her.

"Exciting." She said.

"The two old men fought again?"

"They sure did."

"Ah" the man in black said, holding the lady in his arms, and placing a kiss on her lips for a second.