Every night for the past three weeks has begun the same way.  I get off work at the traditional time, hurry home, whip together some substance known to most as food and to me as a method of avoiding hospitalization.  I inhale it, and hop back in the car to come here.   Here is comfortable though.  It has all the usual suspects, and all the comforts of home, without the memories.

Withdrawing the key from my ignition, I pop open my car door and step out into the cold.  Its twelve degrees above the zero mark.  It isn't too bad compared to the forty below temperatures that existed the previous night, but I'd like to be significantly warmer.  The red neon glow above the glass double-doors allows me to relax.  I no longer have to worry about what other people think of me.  I can now be alone with my thoughts.   Snow crushes below my black construction boots, though I can't hear it over the thumping bass being produced by the building I'm walking towards.  Pulling back on the door handle, I enter my paradise.

The room has a unique setup and is divided by demographic, experience, and frequency of attendance without exception.  A half octagon protrudes from the wall on my immediate left.  A lone female stands inside the vague shape.  First timers usually have a horribly difficult time discerning which static figure the bartender is.  She's in her early forties and has a face that appears to have seen Viet Nam.  Her attitude, gaze, and hands are all cold. The outside of this darkly stained wooden octagon is surrounded by wooden stools with backs.  The cross-braces are covered on 3 sides in what looks to be a thin stainless steel kick plate.  The actual seat and backing are covered in horribly worn upholstery to the tune of a classy strip club burgundy.  The chairs sit atop polished black granite tile.  The tile extends for about three feet from the bar, before becoming the burgundy colored carpeting. 

In the corner, to my right exists the Jukebox.  This item has changed significantly over the years.  What was once a record-operated machine, became a compact disc operate machine, which has since been updated to an internet connected MP3 player with near infinite possibilities for music.  Excluding the path to the jukebox, and a narrow path around the tile-carpet merger, the entire remainder of the floor plays real estate to square shaped tables and chairs, stained the same color as the bar-top. 

The facial expressions said more than enough about the people in the bar.  The kids surrounded the jukebox and dominated the table tops, ordering draft beer by the pitcher, ordering fruity, frilly drinks for their significant females, and ordering shots of liquors most seasoned alcoholics haven't heard of.  They are clean cut, only come in on Friday nights, and whatever other night of the week they don't have to be up god-awful early.  They're loud, obnoxious, and somehow tolerated by those that go to the bar with an actual purpose.

The next group are the middle aged people who try and act young.  They don't have a defeated look in their eye.  Some of them are bikers, others are just people who work at the local car dealership.  They use the place as a common ground for discussion with the people they work with, that happens to be off work property.  On nights when the young kids aren't in attendance, these people become the life of the bar.  Some of them are drug users, others just people trying to get out of the house with no better place to run to.  They play the same three songs on the jukebox every time they walk over to it.  After the individual has been a static member for a month, their traditional song picks become known by the bar.  The criticism stays internalized.  This was a learned behavior.  Those that audibly criticized, were subject to the same degree of criticism when they so much as played one song twice within a month.

The third group have a look about them.  Not a drunken, glassy eyed look, but the look of someone with more experience with life than any individual should have access to.  We sit in near silence, outside of the casual hello and handshake.  We keep our cash on the bar, right next to our cell phone and keys.  Nobody from this group has ever been too drunk to drive home, nor spoken frequently enough to know more than the name of the person next to them, or what their spouse or ex spouse looks like from pictures on their cell phone.  We sit in the back corner, closest to the door leading to the kitchen. 

I mosey over in that general direction, sizing up to the bar stool, and parking my duff atop the only stool that isn't cracked, ripped, or nearly deflated from the stuffing falling out.  The bartender knows me, comes over, says hello, shakes my hand, and utters the words "usual".  I nod my head forward as I pull a crisp $20 from my wallet and place it atop the bar, half way between her and myself.  She returns with the pint glass and a napkin, setting them down in front of me along with the change for my twenty she just picked up.  I continue placing things on my area of the bar.  My keys came out of my coat pocket and were laid atop the bar, with the lanyard hanging over the near edge on my right side.  The cash I was using for tonight was directly in front of them.  My cell phone was within reach of my left hand.  My box of Camels and purple zippo lighter lay directly in front of me along with a glass over sized ashtray.  Now starts the time of inner reflection I've come to know and love.

The first beer tastes like every other first beer I've ever subjected myself to.  Its always a bit more of a punch to the chest than I remembered it, but still cold and authoritative enough to remind me that I'm on a mission.  I have a few short hours and a few tall beers to finish before my mission is complete for the night.  Returning the glass to the napkin, the froth neatly chases its way down the inside of the glass, coming to a rest atop the colored flavored piss water I've come to know and love.  Tonight is different.  Tonight I do something few in my group fathom to consider.  Tonight, I remove a picture from my wallet, and set it right on the rail of the bar, in front of my Camels and the ashtray.  My gaze shifts down to the picture I placed directly below my chin.  As my eyes focus on the picture in the dim light, a smile glares at me.  The smile is large, genuine, and caring.  Its a smile that tells a person that everything will be okay, even in the worst of times.  The high contrast between her white-white teeth and darker skin tone allows her smile to stand out exponentially more than the vibrant pink shirt she is wearing.  Historically, coming home to that smile brought about a feeling of warmth and comfort.  I'd look forward to walking in the door after work, and see her delicate figure moving clumsily around the apartment, knocking into everything that doesn't happen to be more than 2 feet off the ground, trying to have everything ready before I made it home.  The damn funny part was, despite her best efforts, the little lady only pulled through once.  That one time, I was stuck in a whiteout blizzard for almost four hours.  Her actually being done, made me smile and be less ticked off about the situation.Her smile was her goofy little way of admitting that I had somehow beaten her to the punch again. 

That thought triggers the corners of my mouth to turn upward, even if just for a brief second, before falling back to the indifferent state of contemplation and lonely.  My eyes quickly dart around the room, wondering if anyone else had caught that subtle change of composure.    It doesn't seem as if anyone has, so I find my way back to contemplation, starting at my photo, and sipping on my beer; though I'm not paying nearly as much attention to the froth and foam on the glass anymore. 

One memory quickly triggers another.  Her running around the apartment, reminded me of her usual garb from back when we first started dating.  She had this pair of black felt-like pants with a single, light colored stripe down the outside of each leg, extending from her hip-bone to her ankles.  I have difficulty walking through most super-stores without remembering those pants, along with watching her change into them.   They almost were a source of comfort to her, as a blanket is to a toddler.  She's pull those pants the long distance from her ankles to her hips, and know that the pants complimented her body, yet she was comfortable enough to wear them with her hair down.  They were that one article of clothing that every female owns, that they can wear anywhere they choose, and still know they look damn good. 

I look up from the bar, and the pain I'm feeling quickly drains from my eyes.  I just wish it would have drained half a second faster.  The bartender caught me, and started to walk over.  On her way over, she grabbed at something behind the bar, which resulted in two shot glasses being hastily set down before me. 

"Woman troubles?"

"Of course.  Everybody my age runs into these hitches and staples in our relationships.  This one just meant a lot to me"

"Don't trust 'em"

"I've learned that one the hard way.  I know you give sound advice, I just find it a bit strange to hear those words coming from a woman."

"Doesn't surprise me none.  Drink?"

"Nah, thanks"

"I wasn't giving you an option.  I was only providing a choice.  Drink?"

"1800"

"Chilled?"

"Piss warm"

"Lime and salt?"

"I may be sensitive at the moment, but I'm no pussy.  Straight tequila.  No frillys, no chaser.  The same way she and I used to do it."

"Good, you aren't going soft on me"

In my head, the lewd inner monologue began.  I had developed a comment about her being the only female to ever make me go soft, but it hardly seemed appropriate.  From a distance, the tender hardly looked a day over 26.  She was about five and one half feet tall, but very physically fit.  The only thing that would prevent me from including her within my "ten other chicks" was her face.  She was war-torn from shoulder to hairline.  The rest of her body wasn't wrinkled, but the stress of life and child birth was not kind to her face at all.  All said and done, this cannot change the content of her character.

I pick up the now filled shot glass and issue one of my signature toasts, though I don't even think it made it under my breath:

Here's to honor.
Here's to hitting on her,
here's to getting on her,
and here's to staying on her,
and if you can't cum in her
cum on her.
LaHeim

Shot glasses clink, my head gets thrown back, and before I knew it, the liquid had made its way straight through to my stomach.  Being completely out of character, the bartender finally pops a question; though it was hardly what I'd expect.

"Why LaHeim?"

"Why Cheers?"

"Don't you think LaHeim sounds childish?  Or sexual?  It doesn't seem to fit the standard of drinking alcohol."

"...And cheers does? Consider it.  Cheers sounds like something little kids would say at a tea party before they clink their plastic cups, sip on their imaginary tea, and tip their plastic hats.  You can't honestly tell me that "Cheers" sounds more official than LaHeim."

"True, but why the Arabic word?"

"Why not?  It has similar significance, a more clear meaning, and a more distinct sound to it."

"What's it mean?"

"To health"

"That's the opposite of what you're doing... you do know alcohol..."

"Yes, but I never specified if it were mental, physical, or emotional health."

"Oh."

The tender grabs both shot glasses, pivots, and casually walks away, scanning for empty drinks. 

I thrust myself back into the dazed state I was in.  More memories cloud my head.  Some make me smile.  Others remind me of  moments where I wanted to sink my right hand straight through a wall, inches from her brow line.

The memory of one of my darkest moments with her pops into my head.  We were sitting on our bed, discussing random bullshit topics, but I could tell something was bothering her.  In calling her on it, I stumbled chest-first into a landmine.

"Someone from my past proposed to me today.."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, a guy I was really into.  I left him because I couldn't deal with his infidelity, but I thought
you should know about it."

"I appreciate you telling me about it... being open and honest is how we've made it this far"

"Oh, that isn't the bad part..."

"What was your response?"

"I'd think about it"

I promptly got up, walked from the room, leaving an entry and exit wound in the wall nearest the door with my right hand.  I grabbed my overnight bag and walked out the door, ignoring all the calls that came through to my cell phone while driving to... nowhere.  I drove for five straight hours, tracing and retracing streets...trying to find sanity.  Roughly five hours and 200 missed calls later, I decided to answer the phone.

"Please come back to the house"

"Have you decided what you're doing with this problem yet?"

"Yes.  I called him and turned him down."

"Because of me, or because that was what you wanted?"

"I don't want to be with him.."

"ok"

I spent the next 2 weeks throwing my back out every night, sleeping on the couch.

The bartender catches me completely off-guard this next time.  I didn't even hear her coming, or realize my glass was completely empty.

"Another one?"

"Why not?  I'm not going home to anyone special tonight"

"Oh?"

"Yeah.. I have no evening plans.  What can one more hurt?"

"You've been staring at that picture for two hours now, constantly wincing...but never moving  your eyes.  There something ya need to talk 'bout?"

"Eah, its just this girl I was with.  The one who made me happy and kept me away from this place"

"yeah...didn't like her."

"You met her once..."

"Yep.  Knew from the first moment she was trouble.  You're better than that"

"Oh... why didn't you say something then?"

"T'wasn't my place.  You don't pay me enough to listen to you bitch."

"Knew ya were good for more than pouring liquid into glasses"

"Aye.  So, what happened?"

"Not sure, really.  Guess I'm ready to talk about it though"

"No need.  You want her back."

"Suppose that's best stated in my last words to her"

"Which were?"

"I'll call you when I'm sober."

I still have yet to touch the phone with intent to speak with her.  Its been almost a year now.  I wonder how she's doing and how her life is treating her.  I'm not sure whether its guilt setting in, knowing that we both cared that much about each-other...and we could have fixed what became fucked... or if it is just because I want to be certain she's doing well.

I reach down, and pick up my Camels from the bar.  I draw the lid back on the box, withdraw one, place it to my lips, and quickly flick my zippo in front of my face...but only long enough to light the cigarette.  Pocketing the smokes and lighter, I reach for my phone.  I turn on the backlight, and open my contacts list.  I scroll down to her name, and her picture pops up on the screen.  My thumb hovers over the green button.  3 millimeters above the button, my finger moves just enough to contact the soft-key located slightly above the green one.  A message pops up on the screen:

"Are you sure you want to delete this contact?"

I press the soft-key again to confirm.  My keys come off the bar and clip securely to my belt loop.  My tender hasn't moved a muscle since my last word.  If I didn't see her chest move, I'd have thought she died.  Noticing that I grabbed my stuff, she quickly pivots and brings 2 clean ..or visibly clean glasses and my bottle of 1800 over.  She sets both glasses down on the bar, and fills both slightly above the rim with one smooth motion. 

I look her in the eyes as I gently lift my glass.  No toast.  The shot hurls over my teeth and smacks me in the back of my already swallowing throat.  I breathe out and shake my head. 

In one motion, I take the shot glass, turn it up-side-down, and firmly plant it over the picture that is still sitting on the bar.  I watch the residual 1800 run down the sides of the glass and begin to blur the ink on the picture.  There is about $12 left on the bar as I push my stool away and stand up to leave. The tender has one final question for me:

"Isn't this a bit much for as few as you've had?"

"Nope.  You've gotta take care of that mess I left on the bar"

The snow crunches from my boots were deafening on my way from the front doors of the bar.  My head is high, and my shoulders are back.  I have water on my lower eyelids.  I'm not sure if its there because the temperature dropped and my eyes weren't meant to handle it, or if I'm unhappy.

Guess I won't know.  I'm fine with that.

V-Am->Dm->G->C->Am->Dm->G->G

Ch- F->Cadd9->G7->F->Cadd9->G7->G

Give me just one more chance to get my last thoughts & feelings out.  Give me just one more night, before we decide our bond is broken & we go our own separate way.  I need closure.  I need one more go.  Just let me Finish.  Pretend to enjoy it, while we express our parting emotions.  Please, just let me finish.

You need to call me
cuz I'm feeling rather lonely
I wanna hear you
saymy name

Say it like you mean it
hold me while you

fake it
shudder & shake

just scream

my name.

No one will ever do it again
No one will ever do it
like you
again.

 

just let me finish

let me finish

say my name

you can't take our lives away

why am I here without you\