The Sober Revolutionaries

The first day I waltzed into this new, alcohol-free place on the outside of town (The Lion's Paw), the first thing I noticed on swinging open the stain glassed doors, was the absence of the familiar nostril assault of old, spilt alcohol soaked into the cheap paper, thin carpets and upholstery. I can't begin to think of all that booze I spilt and wasted over the years during outbursts of jovial cheers and toasts, and drunken stumbles, pint in hand, bumping into walls, slot machines, and half-caked patrons like myself. In place of the reek, the place smelled pretty good, like a church - you could only smell the furniture and some bleach. Yeah, a real stench of cleanliness, purity. It was good. It didn't awaken no dormant appetite for booze in me at all. I used to get to a boozer and soon as I whiffed that residual stink, it would activate somethin' in me, like some hound dog that caught the scent of blood. Booze stench was kinda like an aromatic starter to me; it made me anticipate and desire the main course - pints and pints of booze.

Anyway. So I sees a bartender serving a line of stool-sitting hunchbacks who rested their elbows on the mahogany bar staring down into their drinks as if in prayer, and I starts heading their way, seeing a free stool in the middle of them all, and I sits myself down giving greeting nods to all of 'em like an alcoholics not anonymous. Who are we kidding? Said the eyes of every person who'd meet mine. Still, we were here and that was something. I told 'em my name (Stevie) and settled in until the barkeep saw to me, taking looks around the place like a meerkat as I sat patiently. The place had all the usual sideshows- dart board, jukebox, pool, and slots - but seemed to have books and chess and stuff, which was new to me, but I guess you'd be pretty challenged to try those if you were caked.

The barman, who I later found out was called Pete, is a six foot something guy, who wore a flannel shirt with rolled up sleeves and jeans, warmly greeted me with an, "Alright pal, what can I get for yer?" He leaned in and deposited his arm on the bar as he said it, while the other arm fumbled for a clean glass below. I had to think and my eyes wildly darted left to right at the selection of buzz-free beers on offer, and not really knowing what's what, I couldn't make my mind up. Seeing Pete's impatience, and for time's sake, I pleadingly asked him ,"What would you recommend?" He looked at me with tired eyes as if getting bored of being asked the same question a hundred times day, then not saying anything back, he got straight into action with his hands beginning to pull one of the non-beers into the glass that was clenched in his other hand. I had no idea if he chose the best or just chose anything, hey ho, time will tell.

I watched the beer from pump until its fizzing, frothing fluid was put before me. Anyways, thinking you shouldn't judge a book by its amazon reviews and all of that, I went in open-minded an all. It sure looked the part but my first sips instantly explained the mood and misery of the place - it was buzz-less, with a capital B. Not to be deterred I continued to sip this dreadful, cold fluid whilst pulling wretched faces, and focused on watching Pete pour and hand out pints to his audience of hunchbacks, who didn't do or say much apart from, "another," pointing their fingers at their empty glasses. All in all these guys seemed pretty depressed, even with the new company. It felt like I was huddled within a bunch of lifeless, cold turkeys who were too engaged in their own internal battles against their urges to notice me or any other environmental stimuli. So, feeling bored already, I attempted to liven things up and tried speaking up to this old geezer to my left, who looked like a worn out shoe, he smelled like one too. I looked right at him and opened up with some small talk, by telling him " Geez, the booze tastes like shit, no offence, Pete," but the old sneaker straight up ignored me, or didn't hear me. Not even looking up at me to acknowledge my existence or nothing. It was like he had no concept of politeness, or just decided he'd reached that old age where he didn't give no shits for social customs no more. The old slipper just grunted to himself like some ape I'd just awoken from meditation, and grunted up, making smaller grunts with each movement before walking away mumbling, taking his half drunk pint away with him. Tough crowd.

Pete seeing my discomfort, slid on over and told me (comfortingly) not to mind him, and let me know that he doesn't talk to anyone, and then got to sharing his name and life saga, like all good barkeeps. He was a real hero in some ways; a recovered alcoholic that set up this place to help others. He lost his family to booze and wanted to help others, so here he is, the owner of the only alcohol-free boozer in town. As is custom, I shared my name and my story, telling him I am a labourer and I came here because my old woman made me (he laughed at that), and went on to explain how she gave me one of them ultimatums - cut the booze or she's cutting me (he laughed again). Pete told me, "She was a smart lady," and putting an arm on my shoulder declared that, "Every pint without alcohol was a sip to success," like some preachy church type, trying to sell the nonsense doctrine they needed to spew, to justify their existence. He did kind of did look like a preacher now I think about it. I nodded at him and feigned a smile back at him. I liked Pete.

I ordered another of Pete's recommendations' and decided to leave the bar to mingle, but as I was about to alight from my stool and turn away , Pete told me to, "hold on, I got something for you," then proceeded to dig around in some recess above his till, where an assortment of sport and nudey lady photos hung. Out of this hole he pulled out, with a big smirk on his face, some shiny stickers, you heard right - stickers- and offered me one which said 'My first booze-free day', in glossy curvy text. Pete handed it to me like I was some sort of kindergartener; an empty vessel devoid of any self-belief, and I felt kind of awkward at the thought of being handed some glossy adhesive paper, but I took it anyway, not wanting to seem rude and all, and put it on my left nipple. Seeing Pete smile some fatherly pride at me as I stood there all goofy lookin' with my child's sticker on my man teat, and it somehow manifested some pride within me, right there, for once in a long, long time. Whooda thought it? Some sticker and an ex -alcoholic showing some belief in me actually made me feel good , goddamn. I guess we are all still kids who want to feel proud about shit we do. So I ate it up and wore it with pride, smiling like an idiot as I strode around the place, buzz less beer in hand, like some veteran who'd just been awarded a medal of conflict.

So I'm up and around the place, looking for conversation or a game of something, just something to do, you know? I stride around looking at people, smiling at 'em to initiate some convo, but there seems to be no takers. I sees people playing chess, others sitting in content solitude, and a few guys engrossed in quiet and calm, whispered conversations as if they were discussing war secrets. No real lively chatter you'd usually see in a bar full of buzzed up people. It reminded me of some old gentlemen's' club or a retirement home. Kind of lifeless.

So I finally sees a lively group of ten or so guys of all ages, all seated at a large table with a one guy at the head of it talking, almost dictating, to the others around him, who had their heads ducked down, noses to the grindstone, scribbling away notes with pencils, like they were a bunch of monks transcribing the word of the chosen one or something. I stood for a minute or two and listened in a bit, but not being able to hear anything much, I shuffled closer in, with the hope of catching the topic of conversation or maybe even being greeted in some ways. My presence was finally noted and I got a couple of acknowledging glances, not like 'hey' but like 'wuh?', as to say they noticed some new, insignificant object in their vicinity and they didn't like it - kinda territorial. A couple of the guys starting looking up more and more at me, wondering why I was stood there like an idiot nosing in on 'em, and began to twitch their heads in my direction to indicate to the speaker, who was clearly too engrossed in his rant to notice me, that some intruder was about, and he needed to deal with me in some way.

Seeming unbothered, likely engrossed by his passionate oratory, he pushed on and I managed to catch a final few concluding buzz words like justice, community, and payback, which caused spit globules of saliva to eject from his mouth, like some venomous animal. One he'd uttered those finalising words, he bowed his head to indicate to his pious scribes it was 'fin', which his audience took as a cue to erupt into gentle, slapping, finger claps. Without instruction, the Lion's Paw monks started putting away their pencils and scripture into various pockets and were dismissed by the leader who was now seated and dabbing his sweaty brow. The guys dispersed and walked past me, not really acknowledging me, even though I looked right at 'em, and when I looks back at the table, I see the orator guy looking at me with squints of suspicion. He stands back up to assert himself, then looks right at me and asks me ,"Hey pal, can I help you?" pointing his finger accusingly.

I told him friendly as I could that," I'm looking for a good chat and all", to which he grins right back at me, and asks, "What do you think of politicians?" I look down to think and then I says to him, "I think they're all crooks," to which he grinned even more, then told me," I'm Mr Greek, and I think you'll fit right in, alls I talks about is politicians." I shrugged my shoulders at him, not really sure what he wanted me to say to that. Disappointed by my reaction maybe, he says nothing either and just turns his back on me, flinging his leather jacket over his shoulder as he did. As he drifted away casually out of the place, he shouts over his shoulder, "Come back tomorrow and bring a notepad and pen," the door slamming behind him on exit, to punctuate the end of the conversation.

Kind of intrigued, I go back there the next day and join the monks at their desks with my pencil and notepad. Mr Greek announced my joining of the group and told 'em all I was one of them now pending the checks went ok. When I asked him, "What checks exactly does he mean? Like a prostate exam or something?," he smiled at that, then informed me that, "I could be a spy from the council or an undercover FBI agent, for all they knew," and of course I told 'em straight back I wasn't, but he still needed to do his checks -everybody had the checks. Even though I protested he said, "that's what a spy or FBI agent would say," looking at me all suspiciously now. So they told me to strip down and show I wasn't wearing no wires or nothing, and giving into peer pressure, I began to undress there and then. It was kinda ridiculous. They watched me with keen gazes and Mr Greek started humming the Full Monty stripper theme, to which the rest of them joined in - tapping on the table in rhythm and everything. Here I was putting on a little strip show for some middle-aged men on a Tuesday evening. The places you end up in life, huh?

Eventually, I'm standing there in my y fronts like a ridiculous idiot, and turn around three sixty degrees to show 'em I'm wearing no wires or anything. Nobody talks but all collectively nod in silent agreement that I'm good, and Mr Greek comes over to embrace my almost naked body, then gestures me to sit in my spot (still half naked) while he performs tonight's speech. I sat and listened keenly, writing all of his words down like a good little scribe, and was now beginning to get the gist of the group. Mr Greek talked on and on about the the inherently corrupt and devilish dealings of the the whole city council, and how it is ,"Rotten to the core," and ,"needed culling for the betterment of the community etc etc" I found his speech very rousing and logical, and very quickly came to admire his well-constructed verbal essays exposing the truth about the people that managed the city. By the end of the session, I felt I had awakened from some long sleep of denial, and felt myself brimming with fury at the counsellors and the institution as a whole, as if they'd personally betrayed me, a hard-working tax payer, and someone (us) were finally gonna do something about it.

Now inspired within and feeling a sense of public duty, I decided to go back there the next day and every day until the 31st (the end of my personal drinking prohibition), and I made notes like the rest of the monks and soaked it all in like a big, excited sponge. The various corruptions listed would make any good citizen angry as hell. They robbed our pensions, underpaid workers, de-funded social care so poor parentless kids suffered daily, all while these counsellors lined their pockets and awarded themselves big bonuses, living lavish lifestyles, instead of providing good services for hard-working people like us. Cockroaches.

Overtime, the whole group came to wearing berets, sunglasses, Viva la Revolution t-shirts, sunglasses, crocs, and keffiyehs. We almost seamlessly transformed into a gang of Cuban revolutionaries over the course of the month, without any utterance or suggestion that we would do so. A couple of the guys even had beards of varying maturities, to add to the already ridiculous image in your head. Towards the end of the month, more and more talk was dedicated to the revolutionary act (now we looked the part), and how we'd go about it. Plain and simple we were gonna take over city hall, gain media attention and share the knowledge of corruption, which would lead to a public outcry for systemic change in how the city, and more widely, cities country-wide would be run. When the final day before the big day came upon us, Mr Greek gave us each a slip to memorise for the next day, and instructed us to, "Do what we were born to do," before slipping away into a shadowy part of the bar and shouting, "Viva La Revolution," from the darkness.

This morning was the day, Revolution day. I took the bus all bright eyed and bushy bearded, with my my picket sign 'Corrupt Counsellor Pigs' which got a few looks from fellow commuters, and headed over to the rendezvous point which was right outside the City Hall entrance, for 4pm, which the instructions told me to do so. So I wait and wait for the others, and there seems to be nobody else here apart from a hot dog vendor, who eyed me hopefully for business. I figured the others are putting on warpaint or something, so I wait 10, 20. 30, 40 mins, but no show. Nobody. I eventually decides to call Mr Greek on the burner number I had to memorise, but he doesn't answer or nothing, and now I'm concerned.

So thinking on my toes, I decide to heads down to the Lion's Paw to see if they are there or maybe ask Pete. I gets there and no Cubans to be seen, I ask Pete about 'em, and he just laughs at me. He didn't realise I was in with those guys and callled 'em a bunch of idiots etc, which kinda pissed me off, because I knew these guys were serious and I told him so, but he still looked at me as if I was some joke, guffawing at me and exclaiming, "Those guys?! They do the same thing every year," he tells me," they get all sober, plan a revolution but at the end of the month, they're back on the drink and they forget all about it. I'm getting red in face now and real pissed at Pete, and he seeing my face all beetroot coloured, decided he needed to calm down the situation before my fists got involved. He heads over to his recess and pulls out a sticker for me, the final one,'31 Booze free days,' and hands it to me with that fatherly smile, and I lose all my anger, and stand there all teeth showing with a big 'ol grin on my face, as he puts it on me. Those guys distracted me long enough to forget I was even off the booze, so all was good I guess - the revolution can happen another time.