Beer Goggles

There’s something intoxicating about a dive bar, besides what they put in your glass. Perhaps it’s the aroma, not just the fumes of the liquor and beer but something else: piss? sweat? mold? Or maybe the fact that it could be any time of day and it would still be so dark you have to squint to read the book you brought; a book you probably won’t read anyway. Or the sound of pool balls crashing into each other, the tapping of feet on the foot rest in front of your barstool, the rock music playing slightly too loudly on the speakers. Most likely it is all of these things together.

Or maybe it’s her.

Here I sit, again, at a time unbeknownst to me, on my regular stool at the corner of the bar. And there, again, on the other side of the bar, stands the woman I’m going to marry. She doesn’t know we will one day wed, of course, but I’ve known it since the first time I set my eyes on her.

There’s something intoxicating about Stella, besides what she puts in my glass. It’s those eyes: two celestial rays of light, beaming even in this dark, cavernous bar. It’s the way she sips her tea, always with two hands around her cup, pulling it up to her lips for a kiss. It’s the way she pours a beer, that hand wrapped around the handle—I don’t mean in a sexual way, though I recognize the phallic nature of the handle—I mean the way she touches it gently, with care, as if gripping it harder or pulling it faster would cause it to cry out in pain. It’s the way she lights up when she sees me walk into the bar. It’s the sound of her voice when she says, ‘would you like another beer?’

“Would you like another beer?”

Is mine empty already? Didn’t I just sit down? I peer at my glass and see only a thin layer of beer or spit or both at the bottom. Oh how time flies when you’re in a dive bar.

“Yes please.”

She’s off again grabbing a fresh glass from below the counter. I stare—gawk?—as she pulls the handle and the tap gushes it’s golden glory into my glass. She pushes back the handle with such ease and upon seeing the glass is not yet full she pulls it gently forward allowing the slightest of dribbles to trickle out. Glass full, she turns toward me. We lock eyes as she sets it down and smiles.

“That one’s on me,” she says, and leans back on the counter behind her. She grabs her tea and kisses the cup to her lips. “What are you reading today?”

I had forgotten about the book in front of me. Any time I go alone to a bar I bring a book with me. Sometimes I read. More often it’s something to fiddle with as I build up the courage to talk to strangers. And in this bar, it’s just a prop. I pretend to read it while I think of what to say next to Stella.

“Oh,” I pick up the book and turn the cover toward her. “I’ve only just started it, but it seems interesting. The main character seems to drink a lot so I guess I have that to relate to.”

Stella laughs. Have I forgotten to mention her laugh? Perhaps that’s because it’s nearly indescribable. It’s not performative like the laugh of other bartenders or waitresses or girls on bad first dates. Or maybe it is a performance, but it doesn’t feel performative, and that is utterly important. In short: her laugh makes me feel soft.

“What about you. What are you reading,” I ask, though I already know what she’s reading. She keeps her book to the right of the cash register. Each book takes her about a month to finish, and by the time she is done they are so bent that it looks like she was using them like a telescope. Each time I see her bring a new book I go out and buy it myself. I will have read it by the next time I see her. I finished the book she is currently reading last night.

She walks over to pick up the book. She’ll show me and I’ll smile and say how much I love that book. She will be impressed, as she always is, at how many books I seem to have read.

*Ding*

She pulls her hand away from the book and looks toward the entrance. I keep my eyes on her. She lights up. Her angelic eyes glow.

“Patrick!” she shouts.

I feel the beer slosh in my stomach. My bones rattle and my skin aches, my body awash in a feverous heat. This man, Patrick, sits on the other end of the bar, pulling Stella as far away from me as the bounds of the bar could let her go. I take a long slug of my beer hoping to dampen my parched throat.

“How was your week,” I hear Patrick ask Stella. She’s pouring him a beer that he didn’t ask for, presumably his usual. I hear her tell him the exact same thing she said to me when I walked in the door. And then…

“Oh! I’m reading that book you recommended.” She turns her back to him and for a moment I think she’s going to look back in my direction. But then she grabs the book that she was supposed to show me—ME—and shows it to him. “I love it so much. I’m already on my second read through.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Patrick says. That smug fuck. “I love how real she is. She writes about herself as if she’s your best friend telling you how her weekend was.”

It was supposed to be me talking to her about the book. I wanted to say how much of myself I could see in it. I wanted to say how it inspired me to write my own personal essays, memoirs and poetry. I wanted her to ask if she could read what I had written, to which I would reply: ‘maybe when I’m finished’. And, of course, I would never really be finished because I would give up on writing them as soon as I told her about them. The act of telling her would be more exciting to me than the act of completing something.

“Oh yeah I loved that!” I scream across the room.

Stella smiles at me and then back at Patrick. Patrick nods, uninterested. They’re in love. The woman I’m going to marry is in love with someone else. I put my beer glass to my lips and let its contents flow into me until there is nothing left inside. I long for more. I picture myself jumping over the bar and putting my mouth directly to the beer tap, my hand throwing down the handle with no regard for its screams of agony.

“How’s your wife?” I hear Stella ask.

“She’s good. She’s at home with the kids. I probably shouldn’t have stopped here on my way back, but I figured just one quick beer wouldn’t hurt.”

Wife? Kids?

*Ding*

Four, five, six, seven people enter the bar. I look at my watch only to find that the hands have disappeared. Three of them head to the center of the bar, in-between me and my married foe. The other four gather around the pool table and I hear the sound of quarters being inserted into metal slots.

“Did you want another?” Stella asks. She must have seen my glass empty and come to refresh it before she had to take the orders of these new customers.

“Yes. Please.”

Before I can blink another full glass is set in front of me. I watch Stella kiss her tea before turning toward the three new people. They order vodka sodas and I silently rejoice because the soda gun is over by me.

“Did I tell you I’m going to Portugal next month,” I ask as she pours ice into highball glasses.

“No, that’s so cool! What brings you there?”

“My best friend is getting married there. He got us this—”

“Oh. Hold on.” She turns away from me and toward my new enemies. I grip my beer glass hard enough that I fear—hope?—it might shatter. “Did you want limes in those?”

“Yes,” one of them says. “A lemon for me,” another says. “Oh, I’ll take a lemon too,” someone at the pool table shouts. I lose track of who wants what, but Stella seems to have kept it straight.

“Yeah, so my best friend is getting married. I’m actually officiating.”

“Here you go,” Stella says as she sets the drinks down in front of the group. “That’ll be sixty-three.” Someone hands her their credit card and asks her to keep the tab open. She moves to Patrick’s side of the bar to type the info into the system.

“Look at this picture my wife just sent,” Patrick says holding his phone out to Stella. Her hands go to her heart as she awwwws. “He took his first steps the other day and hasn’t wanted to crawl since.”

I turn on my own phone to see if I can find any photos to show her when she comes back to my end of the bar. Here’s one of a beer I had at a brewery last week. Here’s another of a half-eaten Pain au Chocolat. Here’s one of a coat check tag that I took in case I lost it. I turn my phone off and have another drink of beer.

*Ding*

*Ding*

*Ding*

The bar fills with people. I don’t know how much time has passed, nor how much beer I have consumed. Patrick is gone, replaced by some other attractive man who also has Stella’s attention. My bladder is full but I’m afraid of what will happen if I stand up to walk to the bathroom. Will I be forgotten? Will someone take my seat at the corner of the bar? Will Stella judge me for having a weak bladder?

Someone at the middle of the bar sticks his hand out for a high-five and Stella returns it with a wide grin. She’s in love with him too. And the guy next to him. And everyone else here. I feel my vision start to fade with jealousy and hatred and an overwhelming sense of disorientation. Is that bile rising in my belly? Or is it my bladder ready to burst? I look at my wrist but my watch has now disappeared.

*Ding*

*Ding*

I look toward the door. No one is coming in.

*Ding*

Or is it the opposite, that everyone is coming in?

*Ding*

“Wow. It got really busy. Remind me what we were talking about before?”

Before? Does she mean about the book I’m reading? Or the book she is reading that I already read? Or about my hatred toward Patrick, or Patrick’s replacement, or the high-five guy? Or about the piss that’s about to run down my leg?

“Oh! Portugal. You’re officiating the wedding? That’s really incredible.”

Finally! Her attention is back on me! I’ll tell her about the wedding and about the light jokes I have written into my script. I’ll tell her how I marked plus one on the invite but so far I had no one to go with. I’ll ask her what she’s doing next month. I’ll ask her if she’s ever been to Portugal. She’ll say no but she would love to go, and when I suggest she come with me those eyes will shine oh so bright.

I picture her sitting next to me on an airplane holding her tea with both hands. I picture her smiling at the book she is reading, a book I have already read. I picture us slow dancing to Can’t Help Falling In Love and her using two gentle hands to pull my face toward her for a kiss.

“Yeah. I’m looking forward to it. Have you ever been to Po—”

*Ding*