Did you ever notice that the only times we honestly hope for being 'just fine' are

the bedridden, coughing, slimy hours of illness and disease? One of these dusty old bars. Think Humphrey Boghart or even better: don't. Three lines into this thing and you already getting yourself pushed around by somebody who didn't even deem it necessary to introduce himself. It must be a chore to be you. Did you ever notice that the only times we honestly hope for never being fine again, are the heartbroken, whimpering hours of heartbreak and grief? Still there? Good. Or not so good, depends on the perspective you're inclined to take. No holding hands this time. Can't guide you through every nook and cranny of this mess, so try and get used to putting up with it the way it is. If I learned one thing in my overextended stay on both this planet and in this bar, it would spell something like, hell, what does being fine even mean? And whatever that shit is, I'm not gonna be it, since there seems to be nothin' but trouble in that bag. Blimey, the introduction. Well, let's try not to turn all our manners on the loose here, you'll start. The strong and silent type, huh? Figures. Guess I'll have to handle your part of our little tete a tete here myself from now on. And don't you start on bawling, it wasn't me who decided to turn all still air on you there. So, once we're here, lemme come clear with you. That direct speech earlier - all me. And I hope to whomever you might hold holy that this dawned on you earlier. Come on, I didn't even try: Boghart? Ask any kid these days and I betcha a dime for any single one of them who could name you a movie he was in. Grumpy old man zipping on his scotch? Rather overused, ain't it? And who told you I was even old, grumpy, hell, let alone a man? It might baffle you, but women do swear. Sometimes they would even go as far as to, you know, be a little rude around the pages. But I am of course not intending to claim I am female. That is for you to decide, my dear. So, what else do we have? Setting: time and space. This ain't exactly rocket science. The time is now, or then, and then it's the new now, and then it's; you guessed it. Space. Final frontier? Well if a piece of paper is your personal pet frontier, so be it. Am I focalized? Blimey, who isn't? Are you a robot? A plot you say? Oh how conventional. But then again, open your eyes, contemplate for a few seconds and rattle the clogs of your interpretation center up there and you should be more than able to come up with something. I'm not your grandfather, reading to you about curious jumping frogs or whatever Toms, Hucks, Harrys and the likes his lap might have had in store for you in front of that chimney. Who I really am, you ask? Can tell you just one thing, mate: I'm fine, thanks. What? This is no short story yet? How would you know, dear implied reader? And how would you even know that Im talking to you and not that guy out there in the rain, strolling down the streets in merry mindlessness? Does it even rain? How would I know, I am not real. Or am I? Maybe this is

some wicked kind of autobiographic enigma, written by your late grand grandfather? Some sort of displaced war story, mourning the downfall of mankind in its mockery of, well, you name it. Literature is not supposed to ask questions, but to answer them, you say? Oh come on, cut me some slack. Why does everything have to be of the same brew? (See, I did it again, and even commented on it in parenthesis. The insolence!) What happened to the questions raised in the first part of this little narration Ive been sporting for the last few lines? Lemme come clear again. I am not here to answer your, mine, or anybodys questions. I am the question. And remember, I am fine with it, thanks. So, where are we by now? Should be somewhere around the second act, things ought to be shaping up to some kind of climax. I think we know each other well enough by now that you might be able to infer that I wont grant you that box to calmly dispense of this brainchild of someones. Lets think about this whole theoretical, structural, analytical thing instead. Assume youre going to see your average Hollywood flick. Youre expecting an exposition, rising action, climax, falling action, and denoument. Still youll most likely expect to be surprised. Still youre very likely to be alienated by a twist in the structural myth you used to believe in. Ironic, aint it? How this has been any kind of story, you might ask. Lemme tell you one thing, and listen closely. There are stories everywhere. Everything is narrative. Take a close look at the story of you reading this here story. Didnt your imagination sometimes turn wild on yourself? Didnt you expand upon the boundaries of this piece of paper? Didnt you give me a face? Didnt you imply answers for at least some of the questions I raised? Isnt that the real story of this thing? I am just a vessel - and you know what? Im fine with that. And whether you are full of grief, full of joy, or full of emptiness, theres always a story to be told. And each of these stories will be your own, or, if you decide, serve as a vessel for somebody else. And you know what? You should be unflinchingly fine with that. Now take a seat and order a scotch already. This nights not gonna last forever.