Left Alone

Left Alone

 

I was sitting in the corner booth of the bar nursing a Johnnie Walker Black. It was 1 in the morning and the bar was filled with a typical late Saturday night crowd.

 

 

At the booth next to me three college guys reveled in their invincibility. Beer splashed across their table as they recapped the NBA championship. Loud and boisterous as only someone not yet touched by the tragedy of life can be.

 

 

Two couples sat together at a table near the bar. A tall dark haired man in a Hugo Boss suit leaned into a pretty blonde dressed all in black. They exuded an air of comfortable togetherness. The other couple was clearly on a blind date. He was a stocky guy with brown hair cut just a tad too long for his conservative Brooks Brothers outfit. The woman with him had jet black hair and a bored look on her face. Brooks Brothers was trying hard to impress her and failing. He saw me watching and gave me a shrug of a smile: what's a guy to do? I raised my glass to him.

 

 

Over at the bar an underage redhead thought her low cut blouse made her look sophisticated. It didn't, but it kept the attention of the guy with her.

 

 

A couple of regulars were at the other end of the bar. A bundle of nerves called Ice Pick was talking with Sammy D. Years ago Ice Pick stabbed a guy with -- yeah, an ice pick -- and did some time for assault. Since then everyone called him Ice Pick. Which as prison nicknames go is a pretty good one.

 

 

Sammy D was a 40-year-old alcoholic in a 60-year-old body. Sammy was a local sports legend. All State in three sports in high school, he spent a couple of years in the Cubs minor league system before his dreams drowned in a sea of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Now he spent his nights trading stories of going to spring training with the big club for drinks.

 

 

I got up and headed to the bathroom. Threw some water in my face and looked in the mirror. Didn't particularly like what I saw, but who the hell does?

 

 

On the way back to my booth I passed the redhead. She was holding a phone in one hand and using the other to pull her blouse together. Tears streamed down her face. She was asking someone to come pick her up. I hoped they would.

 

 

Back at the booth I noticed that Brooks Brothers seemed to have made a breakthrough. His date had one hand on his arm and was laughing at whatever he was saying. When he looked my way he gave me a little wink.

 

 

A blast of cold, wet air filled the room as two people entered. The woman was on the short side and not what you would call pretty, but she exuded sexuality. Every man in the room, and half the women, stopped to look at her. The guy she was with had the casual bearing of an athlete. Soccer player maybe. He put his arm protectively around her as they took two stools at the bar. I watched as he bent over and said something to her, and then kissed her gently on the cheek. It was a kiss that sizzled with eroticism.

 

 

She seemed to sense me watching and looked over. Her deep blue eyes took my breath away. They always did. A year ago it would have been my arm around her shoulders. My lips caressing her neck.

 

 

I gulped the rest of my scotch down and got up to go. All the different noises in the bar had merged into a single minor chord playing over and over. It was the sound of heartbreak.

 

 

I walked through the cold rain to my apartment. Sat heavily down onto my bed, wet coat soaking the sheets. I looked around and found the stereo remote. Flipped through the CDs there and found the perfect one. Mal Waldron's "Left Alone." Set it to continuous play and sank back onto the bed. Feeling sad may not be the best thing in the world, but it beats not feeling anything at all.

 

Maybe.