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The Darkest, Dirtiest Bar

Connor White

    It seemed like he always searched for the darkest, dirtiest bar.
    We spent hours hopping from place to place, none fitting his filthiest desire. Stale, sticky beer on the countertops, mangled napkins on the floors, shit and piss in the bathroom stalls. These places hide in the life of day, but resurrect for those who need it when night bleeds heavy ink onto their skins.
    We’d keep our search going until the early hours of morning. This happened every weekend in the month after he turned twenty-five. There had been a group of us, but our size dwindled as the weeks passed.
    He loved these places. He’d buy everyone shots with a smile.
    “Why does he always want to come here?” one of my friends asked.
    “I’m not sure,” I lied.
    “And you’re always here with him.”
    “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    “He tried to kill himself last month.”
    “So I’m supposed to feel bad?”
    “I never said that.”
    “Because I don’t.”
    “All right.”
    He bought more shots for the group. Everyone cheered his name as I, and my other friend, watched on.
    “Doesn’t seem too depressed to me. Why’d he try to kill himself, anyway?”
    I said nothing.
    “Probably just did it for the attention,” my friend said.
    “I don’t think he did it for anything.”
    “So, he tried to kill himself, over nothing?”
    It was too spot on; it had to be true. “That’s exactly what happened.”
    “Hey, they just opened a new place on McDougal. Fresh, marble bar; bathroom attendants; women everywhere—I can get us in for free. I know someone.”
    “He won’t come.”
    “He makes more money than all of us. He should be getting me in.”
    “What do you think is over there?” I asked. “It’s all the same.”
    “Bullshit. This place on McDougal has everything.”
    “You don’t believe that. You’re searching, just like he is.”
    “I will never be like him. Same fucking dingy bars every weekend.”
    “He likes it here.”
    “Well, I don’t.”
    “I won’t leave him.”
    My friend sighed, gulped the shot that had been bought for him, and mine.
    “Suit yourself,” he said, and left without turning back.

    An hour later, the house lights came up. His head was down on the bar, and the bartender threatened to call police.
    “I’ll take him home,” I said.
    “You do that,” the bartender said. He was an old man with a hard face. “You kids are a nightmare. Bunch of soft pussies ruining the country.”
    “He’s had a tough month,” I said.
    “I’ve had a tough life. You don’t see me cry about it.”
    It was then I noticed my friend was crying.
    “I am certain you’ve never cried,” I said to the old man.
    “Damn right.”
    “Do you have some coffee?”
    “No.”
    “How about a little water?”
    “We have nothing for you, or your friend.”

    I got my friend out to the car and placed his head gently against the front seat’s headrest. As I pulled out, he began to snore. He slept hard, and looked at peace with the night.
    A rosary dangled from my rearview mirror. It had been over a year sober. Had I felt peace? Sometimes, it seemed like we, all of us, never really felt anything. Some needed a dark, dirty bar to distract from this, some needed hardened pride—there are many ways to play the game. In the end, though, what was out there for us? No matter how, where, or when you looked, there appeared to be nothing. God, grant me the nothing to accept the nothings I cannot nothing, the nothing to nothing the nothings I can, and the nothing to know the nothing.
    You’ve seen this story before. We all try to keep going, despite everything—maybe to spite everything. I drove through our town slowly, while the wind pushed my friend and I left, right, and finally, forward.

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