Brewed Awakening

It's easy letting yourself go. Less so letting go of others. I took my usual route home from the office one evening after a particularly long day. A day no different from the others on the surface. However, the painful shortness of breath and drained mental clarity that had inexplicably come over me left me dragging my fingers across the keyboard, as the windowless cubicle showed no signs of the day's passing. Only the sound of the whimsical little jingle on my phone gave warning of the day's end. I dragged myself through the cubicle and onto the frozen sidewalk. I began my stroll, just two blocks south on Elm Street. I passed by the usual gang of degenerate dope slingers shooting up on the stoop outside the packy. From there, I took a sharp right turn at the corner of Hanover Street, flipped off the Trump flag hanging from the copper fence of the old, crusty Victorian house, and then went straight for another mile until I reached Hart's Four Corners. My face buried in my phone, I let muscle memory propel my feet forward like a steam locomotive, as I monotonously drag my finger through the never ending feed of doom. 

I continued through the motions until I ended up at the edge of the road, just before the intersection. I look up, just enough to prevent myself from becoming another skid mark on the corroded bodies of cracked pavement. Just as I pick my head up from my chest, I notice the “For Lease” message completely wiped off the tall pylon sign preceding the brick commerce building across the street. The sign was replaced by a janky beer mug logo, followed by a hideous, neon sign reading “The Brewed Awakening”. I have watched the seasons turn over three times, with that same “For Lease” sign preceding a shriveling brick and mortar, haunted by the perils of its own vacancy. The corroding cement chips, with each icy winter sheet burrowing into the cracks and crevices and pulling away at its integrity with each night of subzero temperatures, was left a scathed and jagged balancing act. Every winter, the building began to look less and less solid, as it jostled under the force of the harsh New England breeze. And yet, After all this time, seemingly out of nowhere, the building was restored to its pristine condition, not seen since the day it opened as Mary-Ann’s Place in January of 2004. When the pandemic came and cleared out all public houses, it left these precious pockets of culture wiped clean, hollowed out. 

But yet, after all these seasons of watching my youth become a cemetery, it is miraculously revived? Not by the merit of noble visionaries, but by the nauseating mediocrity of an overused pun? Nevertheless, my intrigue overtook my contemptuousness. At the flick of the pedestrian light, I sauntered across the bustling intersection and made my way inside the bar. As soon as I entered, I was greeted by a dimly lit ambience of linoleum flooring, mason jar lights streaming overhead, and an unbearably rustic pastiche. I made my way to the counter where I was greeted by a hip, thirty-something with a slicked back pompadour and finely twirled handlebar mustache. 

Sedated by the migraine-inducing smell of pretentious retrospection, I flag down the swaggerly young bartender, who is holding court with a group of bright-eyed coeds from the university down the street. “Umm..excuse me” I shouted from down the long and winding bar top. “Oh, let me get to ya in one sec there, buddy” he replied. He struts over to me, rolling up the sleeves of his finely pressed Patagonia flannel shirt. Laying his tattoo-covered arms out on the table top, he leans in. “What can I get ya, my friend?”. “Just a whiskey sour on the rocks. Knob Creek if you’ve got it. Otherwise, Jim Beam is fine”. He looks me in the eyes, perplexed by my request. He then tilts his head down into his chest, as his face grows into a grin. Bursting out in laughter, he replies “er, I’m afraid we don’t have either, unfortunately”. “Seriously? Okay, what do you have for whiskeys then?” I replied. “We don’t have whiskey, man”.  

At this point, I look over at the glass shelf behind him. Reading off each decadent and finely polished canister, I see no resemblance of a whiskey bottle. The bartender noticed my eyes peer out behind him and he struts over to the shelf to read off what he had. “Well, let’s see, we have Strawberry Daquiri Syrup, Spicy Margarita mix, Sour mix, Grenadi—“. “Wait, those are all your mixers. I’m looking for liquor. What do you have for liquor?” I shout, letting my waning patience expel itself through my mouth. “My guy, we don’t have liquor”. “What do you mean you don’t have—-okay what’s on tap, then?”. “Er, we got a Hoppy Bunny IPA, a Golden Boy Designated Double IPA (that one’s my go-to), a Guinness Dry Jan-“. As he reads off the selection on tap, I can’t help but notice each label on the menu read “0% abv”. “Why do these have zero abv labels? Where’s your alcoholic selection?”. “We don’t have it”. “You don’t have alcoholic beer?”, I replied. “We don’t have alcohol, man. We don’t serve any alcoholic drinks at this bar, although I think O’Halligan’s just down the street might”. He stood there, just smiling with a painfully perfect set of polished teeth and prominent cheekbones. 

I quickly begin shuffling to collect my jacket from behind my chair and make my way to the door. As I collect myself and begin my strut to, I shout “You know, you really wasted my time”. Just before I could make it to the exit, I hear him mumble to himself under his breath. Enraged, I march back to the counter, demanding he repeat himself with clarity. Maintaining a tight, patient smile and unfathomable calmness, he repeats himself “how would you have liked to spend your time, then?” I look in his eyes, and then down at the ground, my hands clenching the shaky high tops of the bar.

 As I look out into the distance, the bartender walks back, grabs a mug from below the shelf, and brings it to the back room. After a few moments, the bartender returns with a steaming cup of fresh decaf. He waves his arm over to me as he makes his way to a booth in the far corner of the room. I follow him over to the table and slide into the soft, leather cushion seat. We both sit down across from one another, as he scoots the coffee cup over to me and smiles. As I clench the cup in my hand, I close my eyes and feel the table top. Yes, it was exactly as I remembered. The scratchy feeling of the surface, the gum sprawled out sporadically underneath, the cold metal siding covering the perimeter. It was all there again. I opened my eyes to see that the bartender had disappeared. The ambience of a bustling morning breakfast rush suddenly came to life again before my eyes. I saw the servers in their white aprons taking orders with cigarettes stowed behind their ears. I could hear the clanking of the order bell from the kitchen window. The bar was loaded with the townies playing wordle together over cups of coffee and French toast sticks. I could feel the nasty stains of butter and syrup all over my hands. And then, I hear the bell ring as the entrance door clangs open. 

There, peering in from the glass door, I see the most beautiful person in the world. Her hair is a luscious brown, her skin a supple porcelain. Her dress, a dark Forest green, tied together with a sleek brown, faux leather jacket. She tiptoes in, surveys the room, holding a polite and heavenly, little smile. Suddenly, we lock eyes and she springs out like a blooming flower as she rushes over to our booth, with arms wide open. I quickly spring from my seat and jump up in pure jubilation, as my arms clasp together around her torso. I sit in this for a moment, and inhale the sweet and blissful aroma of her cherry blossom perfume. Soon then, I exhale for what feels like the first time in three years. I grab onto her jacket, holding her even tighter now and begin hurling kisses at her cheeks as many times per second as my lips could fathom. 

I guide her to her booth and I sit down with her, just smiling giddily, like a schoolboy experiencing the warm embrace of his crush for the first time. Quickly I begin to scour the menu, looking for the Eggs Benedict with cornbeef hash, her favorite. Just before I could land my finger on the page, she lifts my hand from the menu and holds it in hers, dragging her long fingernails across my palm. She looks at me, tilting her head, and then asks “why are we here, John?”. I was stricken by her question. Without hesitation, I reply “It’s Sunday. This is what we do every Sunday morning, babe. Just you and me, remember?”. “John, it’s four-thirty on a Wednesday”, she rebutted. I slam my fist down on the table and look out the window in frustration, “I always do this, goddamnit. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m—”. She then interjects, grabbing both my hands this time. Holding them to her face, she gives them two gentle kisses and then gently brings them back down to the table top. We look in each other’s eyes, holding hands. “John, why did YOU come here, today?”. I look around, as the room starts to distort into a strange amalgamation of places and memories. Faces around the room begin to fade into obscure and unfathomable shapes. 

I look back in her eyes and say “I just thought it would be better than drinking alone again. I’m getting really tired of drinking alone. Especially on a day like today“. She then stands up as she takes my hand. We walk out of the bar, and I slowly escort her to the passenger side door. As the door closes, I wipe off the snow from the windows and hop in the driver’s seat. I pull out, flick my blinker on, and cautiously creep out into the icy black roads. I keep my foot hovered over the brake, driving with such careful precision. I studied every passing vehicle and oncoming light, like I once did as an anxious sixteen year old, with noodle arms quivering under the harsh grip of the leather steering wheel cover. I keep one eye on the road, the other on my speedometer, as I keep the ticker tightly in tune at thirty miles per hour. 

As I begin to make my turn, I feel a hand grasp onto my wrist. She had nodded off for just a moment but then looked up, her eyes barely peeked open under the weight of her exhaustion. She looks at me, and whispers “I think I might’ve left my purse at the bar”. Immediately, I get this intense rush of adrenaline as I prepare to make a swift three-point turn. Just before I could switch gears, she tapped my shoulder again and said “no, no, just keep driving. We can’t turn back now”. My stomach sinks into the floor, and with it a brief exhale is released from my lungs. I watch the road veer far outside my periphery. Suddenly, I am face to face with the roadside ditch and a bushel of leaves. I look up and watch the car quickly accelerate, seemingly on its own. I lose all control of the wheel, as the quickly approaching forest and tree stumps grow larger by the second.

Just then, a beam of light flies across my eyes before consuming my vision entirely. I hear the monstrous sound of a blaring truck horn pierce through my ears as the passenger side cascades into a shroud of metal shrapnel. The windshield glass nestles into my skin and cuts through my face and hands. I look over at her, as the precious life swimming in her deep brown eyes begins to drain. Her soft and delicate hand reaches out one last time, before falling into my lap from the dead weight of blood failing to circulate. Her lips, quivering with all its might, lets out one last murmur, as she whispers "Go ahead, my love. I just need to rest here".

Just as the nightmare reached its fateful climax, I opened my eyes. I am back. Back in that hokey bar of hipsters and overpriced burgers. Back on the shelf behind the counter were the same selection of mixers and sodas. And he is there again, the bartender. I feel a pool of tears rush down my face, just as the bartender comes around from his booth. He rushes to my aid and lends me a big, warm hug. He then releases me, looks me in the face and asks “how about a drink?”. I let out a subtle chuckle and reply “Ginger Sour on the rocks, preferably Schweppes, if you have it. Canada Dry if you don’t”. We both laugh for a moment as he walks me back to the bar top. “You’re always welcome here", he says, "After all, it’s never any good to drink alone”.