Somewhere Between End and Beginning, Approximately
Sometime, somewhen, a lot of people find their way into the Subcafe. It's that kind of a place. Not like Munden's or Callahan's, which are probably a plane or two away, but not unlike them, either.
It's just that everybody seems to find the place they deserve. Some of them are grateful for that, others grimly accepting, and a few are terrified at where they ended up.
Well. Anyway, the sum and substance of it was this:
A man, balding, perhaps a bit too round about the middle, dressed in a pullover short-sleeved shirt and a pair of dark blue pants, plus black shoes that, unbelievably, had a few flecks of green paint on them, stumbled through the swinging doorways and made a few steps in before stopping. He ran his left hand through what was left to run it through, on the side, and looked round about. There were a lot of tables and, fittingly, a lot of people seated at them. Most of the occupants were in plain dress. A few wore getups that belonged in another era, past or future, perhaps, and there was a costume or two, one of which he thought he might recognize, but gave up the effort.
Everyone seemed to have someone to talk to. Someone who knew who he was, or she was, and was on good enough terms with to give them the latest updates on their life's story. At least, that was the way it seemed.
But the man didn't seem to know what to do with himself.
"Sir?"
He turned his head in the direction that the voice came from. The speaker was a barkeep, tall, mustached, with his hair parted in the middle, wearing an apron over his bartender's clothes, a band about his upper arm. He looked like the ur-barkeep, a man who had possibly seen action in a war fought when wars were agreed to be necessities and the man who fought in them involved in a thing of honor.
"Good evening, sir. Welcome to the Subcafe. What will you be having?"
"Oh," said the man. "Uh. Would, uh, ginger ale be out of the question?"
"If it's your pleasure, it's ours, sir," said the Bartender. He reached under the counter, produced a green bottle, and filled a glass with amber liquid. "There, sior."
"Thanks. Thank you." The man picked his way through to the bar. There weren't too many standing there. He was, somehow, grateful for that. Putting one foot on the brass rail, he took the chilled mug by the handle and was reassured by its solidity and coldness. "You, that is, you do take credit cards here?"
The Barkeep looked a bit sympathetic. "Oh, no, sir. No need for those. We deal in other currency."
"Other? Currency?"
"Yes," said the Barkeep. "Stories."
"Oh. So this is, uh, a writer's bar?"
"It is what it is, sir. And that's all that it is."
"Okay. All right. Uh. It is, uh, permitted for me to drink this?"
"Of course, sir. Drink up."
He did. The ginger ale was familiar in taste, at least as good as a Canada Dry and probably better. "I don't do alcohol, not anymore," he said.
"Perfectly all right, sir."
"You want a story for this?"
"That's the usual payment, sir."
"What, that is, what kind of story?"
The Barkeep shrugged.
After a moment, the man said, "You know, it's been a long time since I could write a story. A long time."
The Barkeep polished a glass that didn't seem to need it. "Lots of people in that situation, sir. Lots of writers."
The man relaxed a bit, considering the glass. "I used to write a lot. A hell of a lot. Turned something out almost every week."
"Sounds quite prolific, sir."
"Well, it was. Or I was. It helped keep me sane, even though it was never anything I could sell. I posted it on the Internet. People seemed to like it. At least the ones who wrote back said they did, and I suppose the ones who didn't, didn't bother."
The Bartender smiled, slightly.
"It's been hard, lately," said the man. "I know I've said that before. But I ran into a large dry spot. Don't know why."
Hands and cloth spun over a new glass. It comforted the man to see the Barkeep at work.
"I suppose depression had something to do with it," he continued. "The Black Dog and all that. I've, well, listen, I lost family in the last few years. Had to, that is, pick up and start over again. And over and over, it seemed."
"Understood, sir." The Barkeep's voice seemed more kindly, if that was possible.
"And I don't want to...I don't want to whine. Not really. I lost some valued friends, my fault, I'm sure. Probably gained a few, too. But it's been hard, these last few years. I know others have had a hard time of it, as well. God knows. I've heard from them."
"Well, then, sir," said the Barkeep, fixing him with a gaze right in the eye, "it appears that you aren't quite friendless, now, are you?"
"Oh. No, I'm not. I sometimes feel alone, but perhaps...that's just me, not taking trouble to make contact. I do have friends, even in the real world. It's just that sometimes, with work and all..." His voice trailed off. Then he said, "Not much of an excuse, I know."
"Work is an excuse, sir," said the Barkeep. "I find it a very good excuse."
The man smiled. "You seem to be an exemplary worker, my friend."
"One tries, sir."
"Hope you don't mind me calling you a friend."
"Not at all, sir."
The man looked at his glass, again, probably for the same reason the Barkeep was polishing another. "This seems to be a renewal point," he said, finally.
"A what, sir?"
"A renewal point. Perhaps a place to rest and reconstitute myself. Perhaps..."
The Barkeep waited, and didn't even bother to polish the glass.
"...perhaps a place of possibilities. Perhaps it's a place to help get the creative powers working again."
There was a smile. Nobody at the bar missed it.
The man looked around. "I wish I knew what some of the others think of me."
"Is that important, sir?"
"I don't know. But I know it's something I can't have. We all have to go forward, I suppose, with our own baggage. Probably, probably, they wouldn't want me to tell them what I thought of them. Even if it was good, and most of it possibly would be."
"Part of the baggage, sir?"
"Part of it." He drank another draft of the ale. "Part of it is some of the baggage I've accumulated. Not all a happy load. But I can't do much about it. Just move on."
The Barkeep said, quietly, "And are you moving on, sir?"
The man almost chuckled. "Perhaps I am, my friend. Perhaps I am. But...I don't know. There's one thing I wish I could do."
"And what might that be, sir?"
The man leaned forward. "I wish I could do something for you."
For once, the Barkeep looked nonplussed. "For me, sir?"
"For you, sir. You probably tend this bar for God knows how long, every night, if there are any days here...and nobody knows who you are. Nobody cares, do they?"
"Ah, there you're wrong, sir," said the Barkeep with a smile. "The ones who have to, they do know. The ones who care, do care."
"Well, I care. What can I do for you, my friend? What can I do for youo?"
"Just this." The Barkeep held out his hand.
The man took it, grasped it firmly, and pumped it.
Both of them smiled.
The man said, "Was that payment enough, my friend?"
"Payment indeed, sir. Feeling better, now?"
"I believe so, yes."
"Good enough to brave the wild again, sir?"
"Good enough to do what we all have to do, I suppose. Do you..."
The Barkeep waited.
"Do you think I might be able to find my way back here again? If I needed?"
"Yes, sir. If you needed to, or if you wanted to. I think you've been here before, anyway."
"I have?"
"Perhaps, sir. Perhaps we've all been here, more than we think."
"Oh. Well." He drank the rest of the ale and left the glass on the bar. "This, my friend, has been a productive evening."
"I'm truly glad of that, sir."
"And will you tell those...whom perhaps I might know...that I bear no ill will? I've no idea what they think of me, but at least I can do that much?"
"I believe they know, sir. At least, I know."
The man smiled. "God bless you, sir."
"And you, too, sir. God bless."
The man turned, with somewhat more conviction than he had come in with, and walked back into the night.
A bespectacled youth at one of the tables looked up over his butterbeer. "Who might that have been, anyway?"
His companion looked at him, tersely. "Don't think you'd want to know his name, Harry. It'd probably make you think of something you wouldn't like."
The youth shrugged. "One more for the road, then?"
"The long road, Harry," said Ron. "The long, long road."
*******
With thanks to everyone who put up with me for this long. Thanks for the chance to break the dry spell.
DM
8/25/2009
It's just that everybody seems to find the place they deserve. Some of them are grateful for that, others grimly accepting, and a few are terrified at where they ended up.
Well. Anyway, the sum and substance of it was this:
A man, balding, perhaps a bit too round about the middle, dressed in a pullover short-sleeved shirt and a pair of dark blue pants, plus black shoes that, unbelievably, had a few flecks of green paint on them, stumbled through the swinging doorways and made a few steps in before stopping. He ran his left hand through what was left to run it through, on the side, and looked round about. There were a lot of tables and, fittingly, a lot of people seated at them. Most of the occupants were in plain dress. A few wore getups that belonged in another era, past or future, perhaps, and there was a costume or two, one of which he thought he might recognize, but gave up the effort.
Everyone seemed to have someone to talk to. Someone who knew who he was, or she was, and was on good enough terms with to give them the latest updates on their life's story. At least, that was the way it seemed.
But the man didn't seem to know what to do with himself.
"Sir?"
He turned his head in the direction that the voice came from. The speaker was a barkeep, tall, mustached, with his hair parted in the middle, wearing an apron over his bartender's clothes, a band about his upper arm. He looked like the ur-barkeep, a man who had possibly seen action in a war fought when wars were agreed to be necessities and the man who fought in them involved in a thing of honor.
"Good evening, sir. Welcome to the Subcafe. What will you be having?"
"Oh," said the man. "Uh. Would, uh, ginger ale be out of the question?"
"If it's your pleasure, it's ours, sir," said the Bartender. He reached under the counter, produced a green bottle, and filled a glass with amber liquid. "There, sior."
"Thanks. Thank you." The man picked his way through to the bar. There weren't too many standing there. He was, somehow, grateful for that. Putting one foot on the brass rail, he took the chilled mug by the handle and was reassured by its solidity and coldness. "You, that is, you do take credit cards here?"
The Barkeep looked a bit sympathetic. "Oh, no, sir. No need for those. We deal in other currency."
"Other? Currency?"
"Yes," said the Barkeep. "Stories."
"Oh. So this is, uh, a writer's bar?"
"It is what it is, sir. And that's all that it is."
"Okay. All right. Uh. It is, uh, permitted for me to drink this?"
"Of course, sir. Drink up."
He did. The ginger ale was familiar in taste, at least as good as a Canada Dry and probably better. "I don't do alcohol, not anymore," he said.
"Perfectly all right, sir."
"You want a story for this?"
"That's the usual payment, sir."
"What, that is, what kind of story?"
The Barkeep shrugged.
After a moment, the man said, "You know, it's been a long time since I could write a story. A long time."
The Barkeep polished a glass that didn't seem to need it. "Lots of people in that situation, sir. Lots of writers."
The man relaxed a bit, considering the glass. "I used to write a lot. A hell of a lot. Turned something out almost every week."
"Sounds quite prolific, sir."
"Well, it was. Or I was. It helped keep me sane, even though it was never anything I could sell. I posted it on the Internet. People seemed to like it. At least the ones who wrote back said they did, and I suppose the ones who didn't, didn't bother."
The Bartender smiled, slightly.
"It's been hard, lately," said the man. "I know I've said that before. But I ran into a large dry spot. Don't know why."
Hands and cloth spun over a new glass. It comforted the man to see the Barkeep at work.
"I suppose depression had something to do with it," he continued. "The Black Dog and all that. I've, well, listen, I lost family in the last few years. Had to, that is, pick up and start over again. And over and over, it seemed."
"Understood, sir." The Barkeep's voice seemed more kindly, if that was possible.
"And I don't want to...I don't want to whine. Not really. I lost some valued friends, my fault, I'm sure. Probably gained a few, too. But it's been hard, these last few years. I know others have had a hard time of it, as well. God knows. I've heard from them."
"Well, then, sir," said the Barkeep, fixing him with a gaze right in the eye, "it appears that you aren't quite friendless, now, are you?"
"Oh. No, I'm not. I sometimes feel alone, but perhaps...that's just me, not taking trouble to make contact. I do have friends, even in the real world. It's just that sometimes, with work and all..." His voice trailed off. Then he said, "Not much of an excuse, I know."
"Work is an excuse, sir," said the Barkeep. "I find it a very good excuse."
The man smiled. "You seem to be an exemplary worker, my friend."
"One tries, sir."
"Hope you don't mind me calling you a friend."
"Not at all, sir."
The man looked at his glass, again, probably for the same reason the Barkeep was polishing another. "This seems to be a renewal point," he said, finally.
"A what, sir?"
"A renewal point. Perhaps a place to rest and reconstitute myself. Perhaps..."
The Barkeep waited, and didn't even bother to polish the glass.
"...perhaps a place of possibilities. Perhaps it's a place to help get the creative powers working again."
There was a smile. Nobody at the bar missed it.
The man looked around. "I wish I knew what some of the others think of me."
"Is that important, sir?"
"I don't know. But I know it's something I can't have. We all have to go forward, I suppose, with our own baggage. Probably, probably, they wouldn't want me to tell them what I thought of them. Even if it was good, and most of it possibly would be."
"Part of the baggage, sir?"
"Part of it." He drank another draft of the ale. "Part of it is some of the baggage I've accumulated. Not all a happy load. But I can't do much about it. Just move on."
The Barkeep said, quietly, "And are you moving on, sir?"
The man almost chuckled. "Perhaps I am, my friend. Perhaps I am. But...I don't know. There's one thing I wish I could do."
"And what might that be, sir?"
The man leaned forward. "I wish I could do something for you."
For once, the Barkeep looked nonplussed. "For me, sir?"
"For you, sir. You probably tend this bar for God knows how long, every night, if there are any days here...and nobody knows who you are. Nobody cares, do they?"
"Ah, there you're wrong, sir," said the Barkeep with a smile. "The ones who have to, they do know. The ones who care, do care."
"Well, I care. What can I do for you, my friend? What can I do for youo?"
"Just this." The Barkeep held out his hand.
The man took it, grasped it firmly, and pumped it.
Both of them smiled.
The man said, "Was that payment enough, my friend?"
"Payment indeed, sir. Feeling better, now?"
"I believe so, yes."
"Good enough to brave the wild again, sir?"
"Good enough to do what we all have to do, I suppose. Do you..."
The Barkeep waited.
"Do you think I might be able to find my way back here again? If I needed?"
"Yes, sir. If you needed to, or if you wanted to. I think you've been here before, anyway."
"I have?"
"Perhaps, sir. Perhaps we've all been here, more than we think."
"Oh. Well." He drank the rest of the ale and left the glass on the bar. "This, my friend, has been a productive evening."
"I'm truly glad of that, sir."
"And will you tell those...whom perhaps I might know...that I bear no ill will? I've no idea what they think of me, but at least I can do that much?"
"I believe they know, sir. At least, I know."
The man smiled. "God bless you, sir."
"And you, too, sir. God bless."
The man turned, with somewhat more conviction than he had come in with, and walked back into the night.
A bespectacled youth at one of the tables looked up over his butterbeer. "Who might that have been, anyway?"
His companion looked at him, tersely. "Don't think you'd want to know his name, Harry. It'd probably make you think of something you wouldn't like."
The youth shrugged. "One more for the road, then?"
"The long road, Harry," said Ron. "The long, long road."
*******
With thanks to everyone who put up with me for this long. Thanks for the chance to break the dry spell.
DM
8/25/2009