Inspired by a Song

inspired by a song

He had taken to spending most of his time at the bar. It wasn't much of a bar. It was just a nondescript bar on a nondescript corner. But the people there were good people, and he could talk when he wanted to and he could sit in silence when he wanted to. It was a place where he could drink and not think. He liked that. It had become his home away from home, in a way.

Things had started to get difficult. Situations became foreign to him. His job became foreign to him. Speaking became foreign to him. The bar made sense to him. There was always someone to talk to if he wanted to talk. There was a pretty girl there who always bought him shots. She would even come over and talk to him every now and then before leaving with someone else. He never minded that. By the time she bought him shots, he knew he wasn't capable of much more than drinking shots anyway. The nights were usually long at the bar, but that was okay, because he started to schedule himself around the idea that it would be a long night.

He had tried other things. He went to other bars with friends and coworkers, but it wasn't the same. In these situations he always felt as if he was forced to talk to these people, whether he wanted to or not.
Sitting in silence was not an option. He tried to got to different bars by himself, but that didn't work either. He always ended up having to put on some show, pretend he was something else. Talk as if he were somebody different from who he was.

He never had to worry about that at this bar. There, he could just be himself and sit alone and be frightened or calm or okay. But things had become foreign to him. He tried to change this, to remind
himself how things made sense, but it was always out of his grasp. Close, but out of his grasp.

He had had a long night at the bar, but forced himself to wake up at a reasonable hour and relax in the world rather than just waste time before going to the bar. He decided to head out to Rittenhouse Square to sit in the summer sun for a while.

It was hot as he walked and he was starting to feel confused and his water wasn't helping so he bought another one, hoping it would. His cigarettes burned at him and his water only stayed cold for a few minutes. The day had him in its grasp and would not let go.

When he entered the park, he heard music. There was a violin playing. He became nervous. He approached the sound of the violin from behind. The park was crowded. It seemed that every bench and every wall and every spare inch was occupied by someone who was much more comfortable with the day than he was. The music being played was beautiful, and it scared him.

He kept walking through the park, only to see that the violinist was stunning. She was Japanese. Well dressed. Determined. She had her case open, ready to accept any money offered, but few were offering any. He looked for some space to sit back and stare and enjoy, but there was no space for him. He realized that he was stuck standing in the middle of the crowd, looking directly at her, wishing he had something less than a twenty in his pocket to tribute her with.

H e was standing and she was playing and the sun was tearing into him. He was convinced that everyone was staring at him. He hated himself. He hated them. He wanted a drink, but he knew it was too early for one. He stared at the violinist. She didn't even see him. He knew she would not offer him any reprieve. He was in love, but he couldn't stay. He knew that much. He hurried out of the park. He had to. He knew he didn't belong there. He cursed himself for thinking it would be okay to go there. He hated the fact that somehow he had forced himself into such an awkward situation.

As he hurried up the street, he tripped over a cardboard box which was home to someone. The man got out of his box and yelled at him that he was a motherfucker. The man yelled get the fuck away from me you motherfucker, then asked for a dollar. He almost gave the man a dollar, but the man was cursing at him so much he ran away.

He knew it was too early to go to the Bar, so he went to a different one. He found one that was dark inside, and offered no glimpse of the beautiful day which had been causing him so many problems. He drank. He found out it was happy hour. He drank more.

It didn't last. Suddenly, he felt as if all the people who had chased him out of the park, away from the beautiful violinist, were descending upon his the dark bar. Suddenly there were people everywhere, and he couldn't stand it. The world was taking over right around him. He had no say in any of
it.

He walked out into the day again. He was happy to find that the day was ending, and the night was beginning. He felt much better in the night. It meant he could go to the Bar.

When he walked into the bar, he looked around, as he always did. Almost everything was as he expected it. The people he liked to talk to or not talk to were there, the bartender knew him, and the woman who liked to buy him shots was there. There was also a violin case on the bar with an empty seat next to it.

He looked around. He didn't see her, but he could feel her. He wasn't sure what to do. The bartender offered him is usual drink, so he sat down next to the violin. He stared at it as the bartender gave him his beer. He wanted to lean over the violin case, to take it in his arms, and smell it, but he realized that that wouldn't help. He waited a couple of minutes, hoping that maybe she was in the bathroom. She wasn't. The bathroom was occupied by a very drunk girl who tripped and hit her head on the jukebox. Finally, he asked the bartender about the violin.

“I don't know whose it is. It was left behind.”

He decided he had to stay. He knew she would come back for it, and then he would meet her on his own ground. He would say, “I saw you playing in the park,” and it would be fine from there. If she prodded, he could tell her “It was beautiful,” and everything would get even better. For protection, he leaned his left elbow on the violin case and kept drinking and saying “I saw you in the park” over and over again in his head.

He drank too much. The girl who liked to buy him shots bought him shots. Everything began to get fuzzy. He had to pee. He stumbled his way into the men's room. He unzipped his pants and waited to start. Just before he started, he could hear beyond the bathroom door the sound of the bar door opening and a young woman yelling, “Thank God it's here! Thank you so much!”

He knew it was her, but there was nothing he could do. He was being held hostage by his bladder and he hated his body for it. He tried to force himself and rush out of the men's room, but it didn't help. By the time he got back out to the bar both the violin and the girl were gone.

He sat back down at the bar, leaning his left elbow on the bar where the violin once was. He wasn't even sure if it was the same violinist or not.

“I saw you playing in the park,” he said to himself.

It didn't matter. The girl who liked to buy him shots bought him a shot. He drank it. She went back to talking to the guy she would probably leave with that night. It was all there, and it didn't matter. He knew it would just end up being another long night at the bar.