The Midnight Writer's Club

Misunderstanding, I have found, breeds loneliness.

And the cure for loneliness, I’ve also discovered, is writing.

At first, I could only journal. It started with a single page and a pen that spewed inky black liquid whenever I wrote with it, requiring me to blow on the wet, schizophrenic lettering that was my handwriting before I could turn to the next sheet. I jotted down my feelings for each day; every piece of emotion that pierced my heart was written about as if it were some grand historical event shaping the course of human history. It didn’t matter what emotion, whether it be the joy in celebrating a close friend’s birthday, or the sadness in learning that another friend was moving away. Of course, there were promises to maintain said friendship, but I’d learned from prior experience that once consistency is lost, contact becomes harder to maintain.

Not that I had many friends to begin with. Once we all completed university and went our separate ways, there was little reason to remain in relationships we’d only formed because of convenience and common locality. Once we lost those two variables, what other connections did we have? What other topics kept us enthralled to one another?

I ask these questions in my journal. I sit back in my chair, lifting my pen from the page, as if thinking that the journal might respond, might offer a bit of insight into the complications of modern adulthood.

It did not, but I appreciated that it was willing to suffer through my writings and offer me an ear when no one else was around to do so.

As the months pass, I find myself growing tired of venting the highs and lows of my life. It feels demoralizing, as if I were living in a constant state of victimhood perpetrated by my own pity. I need another topic. Something fictional. Something hopeful. But nothing immediately came to mind, and so I spend my days staring at the blank document on my laptop, the blinking cursur seemingly taunting me. Frustrated, I close my laptop and decide I’d rather go for a walk than do nothing. At least a walk would feel productive. At least a walk would burn some calories from the extra sandwich I’d devoured out of boredom because I could think of nothing else to write.

I exit my apartment to the downtown streets of the city below. It's a little after eleven, the day on the brink of becoming the next. I don't usually venture out this late. While I think owls to be the superior animal, I was born to be an early bird, rising well before the sun did on most days thanks to my body's natural rhythm.

But I find myself too riled up this late in the night to sleep. Because, while I may have been born a bird who woke early, I was also born a bird who found it difficult to fall asleep. Especially when my mind is too wired to give way to rest, as it is now. My usual routine in these cases was to turn the television on to some mindless show that would ease my way into slumber. But I didn’t want to be mindless this night. I didn’t want to numb myself to a potentially good story. It's there, somewhere in my brain. I can feel its thirst for life, its desire to be born. And I was its mother responsible for bringing it into the world, a process that would be long and delicate, like the birth of most children are.

Cities promise endless streams of connection between people. And it is possible to find those connections, but I’ve discovered that the loneliest individuals tend to live in the densest areas. I’m not sure why that is. Perhaps so that we can participate in a little bit of pretend. We like to believe there's no possibility we could be lonely surrounded by so many people. How could I be when I can hear the neighbors upstairs panting and moaning as their bed squeaks? Or when the bros next door decide that two in the morning on a Tuesday is the appropriate time for a party? How could I be so alone when I’m surrounded by life?

Life that I wasn’t invited to be a part of, I remind myself.

Oh, yes, that’s right.

The streets are quieter than normal at this time. Cars drive by, but not as many as during the day. People walk the sidewalks, but these sorts are the questionable kind, and so I keep my distance whenever I cross paths with a less than savory character.

If my mother were to know my whereabouts at this exact moment, no doubt I'd soon hear the blistering sirens of a squad car along with the flashing red and blue lights. I can hear her screaming voice in my head, littering me with questions without allowing me to answer them, the way most parents do when they’re upset with their children. But I’ve lived in the city for almost a decade now and I’ve never run into trouble. Well, except when my apartment was robbed while I was at work. That was a pretty terrible experience, I’ll admit. Terrible experiences, however, happen everywhere in the world, and though the robbery was one I don’t care to repeat, it wasn’t enough to scare me from the city. I don’t want to move to the suburbs or, worse, the countryside where people live miles apart from one another.

Because if I wasn’t feeling lonely before…

I pause that thought as I walk past a window, peering into what looks to be a restaurant. There are the usual tellings: tables, chairs, and a bar at the front. There’s also a waitress scurrying back and forth between tables, taking orders on a pad of paper with a pen in hand.

But there’s something… off about this establishment. The first clued is that people are either working on laptops or writing in notebooks. As I stand there, a few people lift their heads from time to time to talk to the person seated across from them, if there is one, but full-on conversations are not to be had here, it seems. This doesn’t appear to be a restaurant where food and drink are the appeal, because no one seems to be enjoying either the same way they would at any other place. Rather, the drinks are carefully set aside and nothing larger than a small plate with a tiny morsel of food atop exits the kitchen.

I take several steps back so that I can see the name of the place I’ve stumbled upon. Across the top of the building in neon, the letters “MWC” shimmer sinfully red. Since living here, I’ve never seen or heard of this place. Maybe it’s a pop-up. Those happen from time to time here in the neighborhood; places that stay for a few weeks before moving on to somewhere else. No matter. I’m intrigued. So I place a hand on the door and push my way inside.

An ambiance unlike anything I’ve ever felt before washes over both my mind and body. A peaceful acoustic set plays over the speakers, with very little chatter from the customers in the room to drown it out, making it that much more noticeable. Immediately I feel the urge to write something down. Anything. A grocery list, a haiku, a letter to my last boyfriend. I scratch at my head instead to give my fingers something to do as I make my way towards the bar.

There’s one stool left in between two men furiously typing away on their space gray MacBooks. Their appearances are so similar to one another that they might be brothers. Or very close cousins at the least.

I’m not able to give much more attention to this thought before the bartender clocks my arrival and, eager for a good tip (or maybe his personality was just that friendly) approaches me with a wide, welcoming smile. I don’t do well with people I’ve never met before, and I unconsciously shrink in on myself underneath the weight of his cordial glow.

“What can I get for you?” the man asks.

He’s dressed casually, in jeans and a dark gray button-up while his ginger hair is combed to one side in a single fell swoop. The freckles on his cheeks form constellations I try to map into fictional stories. They help to disarm me, and I straighten my back, committing myself to a confident front.

“Could I do an espresso martini?” I ask. It’s one of my mother’s favorite drinks and the only one that comes to mind.

“Of course,” the man says.

I watch as he makes my drink of choice, fascinated by the process as it plays out before me. There’s an aspect to bartending that I find magical. It involves a type of wizardry that is as delicious to watch as it is to taste once the final concoction is complete. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what makes an espresso martini apart from the espresso. And alcohol. But what kind of alcohol that is, I can't say.

The bartender takes no less than three minutes to mix my drink. He places it in front of me in a triangular martini glass, then stands before me, waiting for me to try what he’s made. He looks at me with the hope that I’ll enjoy it. I pick the glass up by its fragile stem and bring the rim to my lips. I take a quaint sip, and drink is probably the best thing I’ve tasted in a long time. I take another, and then a third, before I place the glass back down on the bar.

“Delicious,” I proclaim.

The bartender smiles. “Good to hear.”

I reach for my wallet, but the bartender stops me, knowing already knowing what it is I mean to do.

“We don’t do cash here,” he explains.

“That’s fine. I have a credit card,” I say.

He shakes his head. “No, that’s not what I meant. We don’t accept…” He thinks on the word. “...currency.”

“Oh? Then how am I supposed to pay?”

“With a story.”

“A story?”

“A story.”

I’m not sure that I’ve heard correctly, but the bartender has confirmed twice now the required payment. In a world where money is king, where everyone is fighting to horde as much of it as they can, how does an establishment survive on stories? How does it make a profit? How does it pay its employees and its rent? For its food and drink, and the materials to make them?

The bartender laughs.

“You’re thinking,” he says.

“How can you tell?”

He points an index finger at my face and draws a small circle in the air.

“It’s written all over you.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I just have so many questions.”

“That’s fair.”

“What kind of story am I supposed to write?”

He shrugs. “Whatever it is you want."

“That’s it?”

“That’s all.”

“And then what?”

“Come back again until you complete it.”

I’m reminded of the urge in my fingers. They start to shake as if I’ve had too much caffeine today, but that isn’t possible. The martini is the only drink I’ve consumed with a lick of it. Still, the rest of my body follows suit, and I find myself vibrating so forcibly I grab the edge of the bar to keep from falling off the table.

The bartender laughs, then kneels down and disappears from sight as he retrieves something from behind the bar.

“Here,” he says, setting down a yellow pad of legal paper and a pen in front of me.

The edges at the top are torn, leaving me with a slim stack of paper leftover. The cap of the pen is also missing, but when I pick it up and draw some squiggles on the front page, ink dispels from the tip.

“I see you didn’t come prepared,” the bartender explains. “We always have a few of these in stock for when a new one walks in.”

“A new what?” I ask. I’m hardly paying attention anymore. The words are escaping me left and right, and my hand scurries across the page in a series of illegible scribbles that only I know how to decipher.

“A new writer. They find this place, but they always come ill-equipped. I need to speak to Darius about this.”

I’m halfway down the page. “Who’s Darius?”

“The owner.”

“Ah.”

The bartender leans over, eager to get a glimpse of my work.

“Looks like you’re off to a great start,” he comments.

I lift my pen from the page, examining the writing I’ve done so far. In the span of a short minute or so, I’ve filled the page. I read the first few lines, and then a few others after that. It’s good. Not great, but there’s promise here as long as I continue to pursue it.

“Thanks,” I say. “I’ve never had so much...enthusiasm before.”

“That’s what happens when you come here.”

I set the pen down and glance around the establishment, examining each individual person until I’ve had my fill of them. They’re all like me. Or maybe the better phrase is that I’m like them now. Writing away, filling blank pages to the edge with fantastic stories from a variety of perspectives and cultures. The buzzing returns to my fingers, urging me to continue on with my own work.

“What is this place?” I ask, turning back to the bartender.

“Didn’t you see the sign?” he replies.

“What sign?”

“Above the bar?”

“You mean the 'MWC'?”

“Yeah, that’s what this place is.”

I turn my head sideways, confused. “I don’t understand what that means, though.”

“This is the Midnight Writer’s Club, newbie. Only writers allowed here.”

“But I’m not a writer.”

The bartender taps on the legal pad filled with my handwriting.

“According to this, looks like you are.”

I stare at the page, unsure of this newfound feeling blossoming inside me. Should it be one I’m afraid of? Or should I be hopeful of it? After all, I’ve stumbled upon this place, and suddenly I don’t feel so alone anymore. I don’t feel as if I have nothing to show for the life I’ve lived so far. I can come here and write it all down, whatever it is I want to. And that sounds so freeing to me, to escape from my apartment, to escape from the evidence of my loneliness. I don’t know if I’m a writer. The bartender seems to think so, and my mind betrays me by believing him.

Believing in me.

“How long can I stay here?” I ask.

“Until the sun rises.”

"When can I come back?”

The bartender laughs, and I feel foolish for asking such a question when the answer is staring me in the face.

The clock on the wall strikes midnight, and suddenly, I know what it is I need to do.

I pick up the pen, flip the page over the pad to a fresh one, then continue on with the story.

From my peripheral vision, the bartender smiles. I return the sentiment.

I think I know how this story is going to end.