futurebird's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I�m no good at bars Click. Tone. I just stood there and listened to it humming. I resolved that if he ever called me I�d say �No I really don�t want to.� in that same half-sleepy voice he�d use for me. I tightened the blanket over my shoulders. Alone. I�ve never known how to handle this. My mind raced through the people I know (it didn�t take long) none of then were in town. Another evening on my own. I suddenly had a thought: I could go to a bar! I was 21 I�d never bothered to go to a bar alone, except one in London. Still there were three problems that made the bar seem unattractive. 1. Getting Dressed 2. Having Money 3. I�m no good at bars. I know that I�m no good at bars because the one time I went to one alone n London it was terrible. I went into the bar because there was a jazz band playing. They sounded wonderful and I could hear the bass and the bright shouts of the soprano saxophone out on the street. The masthead of the bar was polish silver and blue neon. It was is soho deep in alleys off of the high street. When I looked in the window I saw people who were just a little older than my age, They were bunched in threes and fours and the whole place was raucous with talking. I still had on my suit from work, but that seemed okay. These people were the young professionals who worked downtown in the television studios and design houses. The company I worked for was in Brixton, the south. Several trains from everything. Still, I stepped into the door and went up to the bar. I waited and waited, but the bartender just didn�t see me. He was a bright eyed young man with dark hair and his sleeves rolled up. He seemed to like his job. He darted from one end of bar to the other serving anyone but me. Some people got served as soon as they walked up but I had to wait and wait and wait. At last the business died down a bit and he turned to me and almost snapped. �Are you going to have anything?� �Well, Yes, I thought so. Yes.� I said. Then I realised I had no idea what I wanted �I�ll have a fuzzy Navel.� It was the only drink I knew the name of. Before I�d finished speak the drink, orange with ice was on the bar in front of me �Five pounds.� he said. I handed over a note. Five pounds was so much. The bar Catherine and George had taken me to only charged two pounds. I guess they have to play the band. Just then everyone was pausing to clap. I did to. It as wonderful music. I took my drink over to one of the strange puffy designer couches sprinkled throughout the place I sat down. I waited. This is the part of the story where someone speaks to you right? I sipped my fuzzy navel. Looked around tried to make eye contact. No one was looking. the young professionals talked and whirled around me. I wasn�t there. I listened to the music and sipped the drink through the blue bar straw. And when it was gone, I left. I couldn�t afford another drink. I stopped in the rest room on my way out. What was wrong with me? Why wouldn't anyone speak to me? And I was standing in my room with my blanket over my shoulders thinking of the whole thing. It was getting cold since the sun was sinking in Pittsburgh. Listening to the wind whip around the courtyard. I kept asking myself. how can I change? 15:56:16 - 2001-01-06 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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