Respite

The bar opens at eleven. Bart props the door open, lets fresh air in. He wipes the tables, bags whatever trash wasn't cleared the night before, and sweeps the floor. I slip in when he's not paying attention. But then, most people don't see me, unless I want them to. Then they are surprised that I'm a petite woman with long red hair and coal black eyes. I'm not unpleasant to look at, I think.

It's not long before the first of the regulars arrive. There is John, 81, a retired mail carrier. His gait is worn, his eyesight is going, his wife of fifty-four years already gone. He lives with his daughter and escapes when his great granddaughter gets too loud. I'll be back for him in a year or so.

He waits for Pete, 79 a retired schoolteacher, math. They play chess. They're slightly below average in skill and not likely to get any better. Pete's memory is fading. Some days he gets lost coming here, though he'd never admit it. He doesn't know it, but his wife follows him, just to make sure. John walks home with him. It's just three blocks extra. Most days that's not a hardship.

And Nick, 77. Always ready for a chat, as long as it is his topic. Will mooch a pint off anyone, but rarely has more than three. He lives across the street, boards with Mrs. Baker who keeps him fed and his clothes clean. Nick wanders in and out all day, depending on whether he can find a willing ear. He'll come with me tonight.

Josh and carol stop in for lunch. They'll bring their own sandwiches, but get their pint from Bart. Carol used to have a good voice and still sings along with the juke box, not quite as strong or clear. Her days are numbered. She hasn't told Josh yet. I wonder if she will.

After lunch, Terrence and Derrik, both 76, come in to play cards. Penny-a-point gin rummy and argue about politics and the game from the day before. They have been friends since grade school, worked at the same plant, retired in the same year. Bicker and tease like an old married couple but deny vehemently being a couple. "Just mates, mate." Everybody nods and keeps their own counsel.

Alice drifts in somewhere between two and three to help with the after-work crowd. She's thirty-four and takes no gruff off anyone, except her husband. She's been saving her tips, plans to leave. But she's had that plan for fifteen years.

By three-thirty, four at the latest, they make way for the younger crowd. By four-thirty the bar is a different place. The noise flows and ebbs, at times deafening with dozens of conversations, laughter and shouts over the juke box. I watch the ballet of endless pints pulled, shots poured, drinks mixed, and glasses washed. I try not to recoil from the used scent of bodies pressed close together. Too much perfume, too long since soap.

I see over-eager grins, hair flung back flirtatiously, lashes lowered, arms rubbed, waists pulled close, asses squeezed, hugs and kisses and I wonder what they are looking for.

There is Vanessa who's ignoring the persistent pain in her lower back. And Dillon rubbing his eyes. His first seizure is next week. Neither wants to know what I know.

By six, seven for sure, the crowd thins. They will look for a fancy bistro and later a bed. Their own or someone else's. The neighbors wander in, just a quick one after the dishes are done, before their program starts. Some settle in for a game of checkers or dominos. The music mellows, an oldie, never forgotten. Heads bop without thinking.

I listen to gossipy news; did you hear about, did I ever tell you, how's so-and-so, your turn to get this round, in'it? Bart smiles and nods at Nick, who's been waiting to continue his old tale of seeing a mermaid. "You want me to freshen that for you?" Bart asks, nodding at the flat beer I've been nursing all day. I smile, though I fear I'm a bit out of practice and shake my head.

"So, here I was leaning over starboard heaving my guts up. Praying I'd die. Didn't think I'd ever find my sea legs."

"Did you?"

"Did I what?" A bit irritated at being interrupted.

"Ever find your sea legs?"

"Oh, right. Yes, or I wouldn't be sitting her now, would I?"

"Tell me about her. The woman in the water."

"Oh," Nick sighs with pleasure. "Didn't she have the most beautiful, long flowing hair? I'd swear it was red, like yours. But the water will distort, you know. And her eyes were dark. She smiled at me. It was warm, like a mother's smile, you know. She told me to stay on board. To live my life. To find love." He drains his glass. "I did, you know. I had a good life. Found a good woman. Miss her though, my Marie." Nick falls silent, stares at his empty glass.

It's time. I lean into him for a whisper. I can feel his surprise, the jolt of fear, the sigh of resignation, a flicker of hope and finally a nod.

"I'll be going now."

"You bet, Nick. I'll have one waiting for you."

I put my hand under his elbow and steer him toward the door. When Bart looks, he will see Nick still sitting at the bar, slumped over.

^*^*^

I slip in unnoticed when Bart opens the bar just for the regulars to have a pint in Nick's memory. After the rush, he sees me perched on the same stool, away from the others. I know he can't remember pulling that pint for me. Pensively, he turns to me.

"Who're here for?" he asks quietly.

Flicking my eyes at him, I'm surprised that he sees who I am. "No one. Just want to hang out a while. See what life is like."

"So, you're not taking any of them?" He tips his head at the old men.

"No, not today."

"Was it you, Nick saw in the water?'

I'm surprised at his insight. "Maybe."

He pulls a pint for himself and one for me. "So, what do you wanna know about life?" His question sounds casual as he lifts his glass for that first swallow.

"What's it like?" I watch him closely, wanting to learn.

He's quiet for a while, then sets his glass on the counter and turns to me. To my surprise he cups both hands around my face and kisses me, slowly, deeply, demandingly till I respond, till I melt under his touch. Then he bites my lower lip.

"Ah!" I protest. "Why did you do that?"

"Life can be unbearably sweet and god-awfully painful and anything in between. If you don't feel anything, you're not alive."

"What's in between?"

"Everything." He shrugs.

"Sorrow when you lose family or a mate. Joy when you play. Hope of finding an end to loneliness. Despair at ever finding it. Regrets over missed chances. Pride which is often misplaced. Delight over beauty. Anger, mostly at ourselves. Hatred, born from ignorance and fear."

He sighs.

"Passion and the possibility of losing ourselves in it keeps us going. Pain and pleasure often confused. The sweet music of a toddler's belly laugh. And rivers of tears.

And so much more.

"He takes another swig from his beer.

"But the scariest thing is." He looks around, then faces me again. "Taking the risk to say what you feel to the one you need to say it to."

He puts his empty glass on the bar, stuffs his hands in his pockets and tips his head toward the mourners.

"Look at them. They've been around for a while. Some are ready to walk out with you, others not quite. They are smiling at the memory of Nick. They are also thinking about who they'd leave behind. They wonder how well they have loved life, and did they take enough of what it had offered them."

He turns back to me.

"Because when we are young, we're ignorant, selfish. We don't worry about those things. But when we get a little older, we realized that we've let people slip away. We think there is time to go back and find them." He shrugs, toys with his empty glass.

"And can you?"

"Usually not. People don't wait around for you." Bart pulls another pint for himself.

"Have you let someone slip away?"

He nods. "I'm human, selfish, callous and have made mistakes. Given time, I'll make more." He drinks greedily.

"If you could, if you had the chance to find that person, would you take it?"

Bart looks at the ceiling, blinking furiously. "I have little to offer, just this bar. But yes, I would."

When the mourners have left and Bart has closed, he looks pointedly at my glass. "Can I pour you something you'd rather?"

I shake my head. "I like the smell of hops." I confess. "Tell me why you let her slip away."

He leans against the bar again, arms crossed tightly around his chest. "She was not a classical beauty, but when she crossed a room, all eyes followed. When she spoke, people listened, when she laughed, everyone laughed with her. And yet, she was totally unaware of her magnetism. Believed she was forgettable, average. She told me she was not worthy. To go find happiness elsewhere." Bart scoffs. "And I believed her. I was so young, so stupid. How could I have believed her? Why didn't I see?"

"Let's go find her."

*^*^*

The breeze lets the shadows flirt with the empty street.

"That's her house." I point to a bungalow across the street.

His anxiety and self-doubt radiate off him.

A car turns the corner, slows and swings into the driveway. The door opens, she steps out. Bart's breath hitches. She looks a little tired. Lines around her mouth have set. Her shoulders may be less self-assured than he remembers.

I nudge him and he's halfway across the street.

The woman starts when she hears his footsteps, clutches her purse, reaches in a side pocket. Bart stops, lifts both hands, palms out. "Cloe?"

"W-who?" She stammers, looks left and right, no help is about. She squares her shoulders.

"It's Bart, Cloe. Bart." Despite his nerves, he sounds calm.

Her lips form his name. A frown twitches above her eyes. "Why are you here?" Her voice is thick with sudden emotions.

"I want to ask you a question."

The frown deepens. "What question?"

He has slowly stepped forward, is standing near the tail end of her car. "Do I have a chance?" Another step, he's next to the driver's door. Just a few steps away from her.

"Chance?" She backs up.

"Let me ask you, have you ever regretted something, Cloe? Do you ever lie awake or stop and look around, realize that part of you is missing? Have you ever wished you could go back and take one step in the other direction? Have you, Cloe? I have. I should not have let you send me away. I should have fought for you then. I want to." He takes another step. "I'm jumping into something, somewhere I've never been. I'm asking if I have a chance. Or am I too late?"

He stops three of four steps away and waits till her hands relax their grip on her purse, till her shoulders follow. Till her head tils in question.

"Why now?" She whispers.

He shrugs, his hands palm up. "I was young, stupid, ignorant. I took you at your word. Didn't give myself a chance to convince you. Am I too late, Cloe. Is there someone who's keeping you warm at night?"

She smiles, shyly. "No, just my pushy rottweiler. His name is Bart."

I admit, I'm still puzzled. I think I'm just barely beginning to understand what Bart meant by taking risks, having the courage to say what you feel. I think being human means looking for a connection, which baffles me because it's risky, makes you vulnerable, open to pain and rejection. I think being human is messy, complicated and dangerous to your peace of mind.

But they all seem to want to hold on to it so, it's good that I won't be back here to collect for many years.

However, my break is over, after all, death really can't take a holiday.