Strange Familiarity

“Do I know you?”

“I dunno, do you?”

John’s been building up to this approach and the question that’s been worrying away at him like a puppy pulling at his sleeve and demanding attention that must be given come what may. The question. A question. Constructing an adequate siege engine with which to smash down the doors and find the answers he desires.

There is something about this man. In a way, he’s glad it’s a man. He does not have that leaning, he finds women attractive, men don’t do it for him. And so it should be easier to approach the stranger and ask his questions. In another way, the fact this is a man leaves him awkward. There is an allure here. A draw that he has fought and lost against. He does not think this is a sexual attraction, but the intrigue of this man excites and scares him in equal measure.

The gentle retort puts him yet again on his back foot. There has been no penetration. He wanted this to be an open gateway that he was waved through, but he has no invite and no wherewithal to talk his way into the place that he feels he is meant to at least visit for a little while. One of the many pitstops in life. For now, he remains an impostor out in the cold, and this is his lot. His struggle appals him. He is ashamed in the light of this man that has drawn him into this situation. Feels a weakness that should not be his own, if only he’d venture out into the world and do the work to build the strength and the armour required for life’s occasional ambushes.

Somehow, he finds it within himself to persevere. Choosing between the evils presented. Not wanting to quit so easily. Not now. Not this time. He shakes his head and smiles, “ this is going to sound odd, but there’s something about you.”

The man returns the smile, “that happens,” he says this with an alarming assurance. As though this is a common occurrence for him at least. The way forward is uncertain, paved with jagged glass and John’s way is barred by this smiling sentry.

“My name is John,” going back to basic principles. Starting over. Regrouping in order to find a way forward. He knows he’s back in his corner. Sitting on a ridiculously small stool. But he won’t throw the towel in. Not yet.

The man nods and smiles again, “pleased to meet you, John.” He raises his hand and waves. There is nothing more. Treasure lies ahead. This gatekeeper mocks him, safe in the knowledge that there really is no way forward for John. Not like this.

The options regress to the animal in him. Fight. Flight. Freeze. He finds none of them attractive. There is no sense here. He is feeling his way clumsily. Understands that he has no choice other than to continue. A thick fog of chaos with the vague promise of a prize beyond it. Besides, he cannot remain in this inclement situation. He must move his way to shelter one way or another. The only way is forward. Through or around this man.

Frustration blurs his vision. This is so unfair. His body thrums with the familiarity of that unfairness. He is small again and the world is closing in. Bullying him. Poking him to evoke a reaction that he is not capable of. Suffering yet another injury that he expects the inflictor to remedy. Never doing the work himself. The obstacle of his entitlement slowly drowning him and his sense of self.

“I think we may be related,” John ventures. There is something too close to home here. A series of noisy echoes from his childhood. A likeness that thrills and disappoints him. He fears the outcome of this exchange, but he will see it to the end. There is a preordination that locks him in and compels him. This is a train journey with only two outcomes. A platform to an unknown destination or devastation. He’s unsure as to his preference. The desire to self-destruct is seductive and it knows him far too well. His attempts to ignore it amount to nothing more than foreplay.

The man now considers him as though he were a specimen in a science lab. He weaponises silence and time. Awkwardness transitions to remembrance of pain. Pinned to the present moment he has to endure this moment as best he can.

“I’ll buy you a drink,” the man says, “you look like you need it.”

Turning to the bar, the man orders two single malts. Doubles. He didn’t ask John what he wanted. The order flowed from his lips as naturally as a river runs to the sea. The same drink for the both of them. Harmony and accord in the midst of a moment that threatens to break everything.

The silence of the ritual of drinks being poured and served provides some respite. They both raise their glasses, pause and regard each other before taking an exploratory sip. The whisky is good. A promise of better times from an optimistic birth that occurred in better days.

The man sighs and shrugs, “do you think you’re ready for this?”

John’s forehead creases up in the only relevant question he’ll ask, then he answers, “yeah.”

The man shakes his head, his eyes conveying a deep sadness, “I thought so.”

“What?” he asks. A waste of a question. A waste of breath. A pointless shot in the dark. An entitled gambit requiring another to provide life’s answers.

“Will you listen?” asks the man.

“Of course I will,” the response is instantaneous and lacks any substance or intent.

Another sigh from the man. A pause and a swig now of the amber liquid. The burning sensation that follows is apt somehow, “I will tell you because I love you. I will speak the truth of this because I must. I have my values and I am those values. We are nothing without truthful meaning. We build our lives with that truth and that meaning. Nothing more and nothing less.” The man’s eyes hold an intensity now. A power that cannot be denied. John withers before them. He does not comprehend the words spoken. Feels frail and unworthy in the hearing of them.

Denial comes too easily, and between the two men lies a no man’s land of coping mechanisms underwritten by blame, anger and hate. A self-made obstacle to living.

“I’ll tell you then,” says the man. But before he does, he downs the rest of his whisky, nods to the landlord and secures only himself a refill. The wages of his forthcoming labour of love.

There is another pause as the drink is poured. No payment is made. There is an unspoken understanding between the man and the landlord. A connection that is not thwarted by the bar that separates them.

Over the brim of the fresh glass of whisky, the man eyes John. There is the potential of mirth or resignation in that look of his. John fails to see the compassion.

“Go on then,” he prompts. He wants to know. There is something here. He feels the stinging memory of a loss as though this is the one that got away. His lost love. A short circuit to the path of his destiny. He wills the man to answer him. There is something that he needs from this exchange. This is a fork in the path of his life. Here is a map that will give him direction at last.

The man is nodding now, “that which you are feeling. Never forget that. There’s a pull there isn’t there? The universe is beckoning you forth. I feel it too. We all do, if only we would silence our incessant, banal chattering and listen to what really counts.”

He feels a cloying discomfort in the comfort of this understanding, “I don’t…” his words trail off along with the last vestiges of his conviction.

“You do,” says the enigmatic stranger, “we do.”

There is a chill that rises up with in John then. Something falls away and exposes him, and in his weakness he is both afraid and angry. The border between anger and hate fizzes and spits, becoming insubstantial.

The stranger nods at this, “we’re the same you and I.”

Now he wants to cry in his impossible knowing, “how is this even possible?” His voice is reedy and feeble. He is more ashamed in this moment than he has ever been, “you can’t be.”

“I am,” the man says this then he downs his drink and stands nodding his farewell to the landlord, “mark me well, or leave no worthwhile mark in this life, or worse still, a stain that will forever spoil and ruin that which came into this life with a miracle of beauty.”

He doesn’t see the man go. His eyes are misted with tears that he has yet to attribute meaning to. He hopes they will amount to more than self-pity and self-loathing. He wants them to be more than performative.

Eventually, he catches the landlord’s attention and settles his tab. The charge is twice as much as he is expecting. He pays with no fuss. Before he leaves, he looks across the bar to the man in the mirror. The man who is both a stranger, but somehow familiar. A man who made better choices and lived a better life.

As the cold night air hits him, he acknowledges the warning and the chance that he has been presented with. Acceptance is a way off in the distance and it is an elusive animal that few ever tame.