ESSAY: The Tragedy of the Space in Place (Based on Actual Events)

Introduction:
There is nothing better than that first deep breath after walking out of an office building at 5 PM on a Friday afternoon. The breeze taps on the shoulder as if to say, “Hey you, where have you been?” The weekend is upon us, the time that belongs to you and you alone, the breath of fresh air. Then comes the phone call that is very much expected from a friend that feels the same, “You want to go out tonight?”
“Duh.”
I’m not a drunk, but I drink. Sometimes I even drink a lot. My only excuse is that it’s Friday and I am in my early to mid twenties. Don’t judge me- I hate when you do that.
The warm water shoots out of the shower head like a fire hose but doesn’t come close to putting out the fire inside. The soap beats the bacteria off of my skin earned from a hard day’s work. The radio plays in the background but the music is swallowed by the sound of the water smacking the bottom of the porcelain tub and my awkward singing voice singing along badly.
The decision of what to wear is usually made by the option of what is clean. Jeans and a t-shirt are just fine with me and I could care less about what she thinks. The proverbial she- the girl I may make eye contact with at some point- maybe the girl I will one day love.
Rubbish.
That is not why I am out. I am here to drink and blow off the world for a few hours. No time for love and certainly no time for you.
Act I, scene i:
It’s 9:30 at night already- where did the time go. I present my papers at the door to a large black fellow. He looks down at it and up at me. Back down at it and then back up to me. Back down at it and then back up to me. “Cut your hair?” he says straight faced and matter-of-factly. “Looks that way, either that or it’s a fake.” Probably shouldn’t have said that, I know it’s not a fake though so I have nothing to worry about. He waves me in and I have my mind set on a cup of ale right away. It’s hard to maneuver through my peers and the million different scents of perfume that when molded together make a sort of stale piss scent that wafts through the air and tickles your nostrils. It’s no narrow in here, it’s a wonder that this place functions but it does- moderately. The renovations have stripped the walls of any personality. It is a shell just waiting for another moment to live again. I admire it’s commitment but only stop to admire for a few seconds.
“What can I get you?” A pretty blonde girl shouts in my direction. “How about a beer- whatever is the cheapest,” I shout back. She obliges and it’s all downhill from here. My buddy sips along with me as we watch the people drunkenly stagger past to the bar maid for another drink waiting in anticipation of soon being one of them.
I think this is what it is to belong.
We head out into an outdoor courtyard full of people. I like the variety of older couples finishing up dinner and looking out at the youth is disgust and my peers who are just starting to drink and look out at the older folks in disgust wondering what they are still doing here. There’s a chill in the air and a jazz band playing a tune I have never heard before. I’m not much for jazz but I stand and listen politely to some chords that I have no intention of remembering. I won’t be here long- I have to keep moving.
Act I, scene ii:
Another doorman, the same conversation, the same result. I am allowed entry to a dark room being attacked by laser lights. The drinks are strong here, that is why I love it. Another pretty blonde girl, the same conversation, the same result. A cup of well vodka with a dollop of Red Bull this time and 2 fingers of whiskey to sip on. It’s the lubricant that enables me to have conversations with strangers. I wasn’t blessed with all of their social grace. The music isn’t bad- a DJ plays an eclectic mix of Top 40 that I really get into when intoxicated. I bob my head and tap my foot to the beat which is considered dancing in my book. I’m smiling and talking more. There’s no turning back now, ride the ride and fear no man for I am the King now and the reign is always short lived.
It’s dark but I can still make out their faces. Gosh, they are all so pretty and one skirt is followed by the next. There is so much to choose from but I am either unimpressed or unworthy- both to tell the truth.
Intermission:
“I got to get out of here,” my friend yells in my ear but it sounds like a whisper from the shrieking of fellow patrons and bold bass from the sound system aiming in my direction. I concur and with a head nod we are out the door and on the streets. My streets- I walk them like they are mine. Slowly and with purpose I fill my space looking onward to conquer more strange lands.
“Stop for a cigar?” I rail. With a nod we enter and pick out a small and mild cigar and get a bottle of beer. We sit outside and sip on our beer and puff our cigars and talk about the week that was. The up’s and the downs, the swings and the misses and her mostly. This is my favorite part of the evening. Just an honest conversation between two intoxicated and therefore honest people. It’s quiet in here, more quiet than the other places anyway. The breeze takes our words and smoke gracefully to just where they are needed. No need to yell a whisper out here.
Act II, scene i:
“Off to battle.” He says with a smile. “A brother in arms,” I reply as we voyage to our next spot, more than likely the place closest to the cigar bar. I hate the spots with cover. I vow to never go into those places at the beginning of the evening but always end up there because the promise of a strong drink and the convenience of not having to walk very far outweigh my pledge. Here I am again. The lights down low, the smoke in the air and the same shitty cover band that seems to always know what song portrays my mood. They suck- but I love them. The 40 something’s dance to the band’s collective noise that plays another tune that reminds the dancers of their stolen youth. Another blonde girl, the same conversation, the same result. Another drink and my pocket is even lighter. The sober voice in the back of my head is calling me a dumbass over and over again and I agree with him but continue to buy my way to another cup filled with cheap but still overpriced sauce.
I hate when the voice slams me with that banter- can’t he just have some fun too? I will worry about food for next week when next week comes. It’s Friday- there’s plenty of time.
I walk toward the bathroom to let loose some of the liquid I have consumed over the evening and am stopped short by a pile of vomit that a customer had left behind in gratitude for a bartender who didn’t skimp on the Jagermeister. I think that’s what it was anyway- it’s dark colored and smells like a licorice’s asshole. I’ll just have to hold it.
Onward.
Act II, scene ii:
The time has gone by without even a thought of my wishes to stay all night. I’m tired and indifferent. The people file out onto my streets without any disregard of my wishes to stay all night. “C’mon man.” He shouts at me as I stare for a second at him trying to catch my bearings. There is no time to repent or to finish my holy water. I am at the mercy of my will; I’ve had too much just like so many times before. The inner monologue tells me what to do and where to go, I’m glad he’s here now otherwise I’d be in some trouble. “Do not talk to anyone, you are in no condition. You won’t puke as long as you keep moving,” the sober voice in my head chants. “Keep walking, there you go- you’re doing great,” he says as my own voice echoes’ inside my head. I pass my subjects briskly to make my way to an apartment fit for a self-crowned king.
I make it and open a beer that I have no intention of drinking. The room is dark except for the glow of the television probably playing an infomercial that will sing me to sleep oh so gently on a leather loveseat that my skin sticks to like glue, a lot like she used to. A small price to pay for a world free world but no worries- I shall return tomorrow night.
Epilogue:
Saturday night- long live the King.