Ive found life to be quite disappointing.

Just when you think youre making headway, you

hit a roadblock, an obstruction, and
then just like that youre back at square one, the
life you thought youd left behind sitting in
repose, a smile on its face, always sure
that you would be back, no wiser, back in
its clutches.
Peter, in a bar, a rock
in his throat, a third drink in his hand, a
sad yet disinterested look on his face.
Buddy, you look awful. When did you shave
last? Or eat? Or do you get calories
only from scotch?
You are, sir, an astute,
even perspicacious, observer. And
we are alone, and talking keeps me sane.
Does anyone come to this bar? I found
it by mere accident. I left my flat
yes, I use the word flat, I wasnt made
for this countryand just walked. Something drew
me hereI would often drive by, when I
drove, which is no longeranother reason
why laughing life casts a gimlet eye on
me. But, by accident; Id never
noticed it. It seems so empty, except
for you, and hima sharp nod of the head
towards the idle bartender, enrapt by the
poker tournament up on TV. I
guess Im lucky you were here, almost as
if waiting for me.
Im here most of the
time. Not much else to do, most days. Figure
Id finish off with killing my liver.
Thats a brave way to go. I dont have the
courage to do anything drastic, though
I could paint me with such faults as would He
trails off, head hanging down into his smudged
glass, the train of thought departed, or just

merely diverted.
Whats your name?
Silas.
Peter. I wont shake your hand now. I will
if I make it out of here standing up.

There is no break in Peters life; it breaks

simply, repeatedly; the scotch his salve,
and not even the good stuff, but the rotgut, leaving him ragged, razed into mere
Peter, a foundation for all thats failed.
Some are born into that condition,
the accidents of birth and station a
doom inescapable: dont bother, dear,
no, dont waste your time, its all set in
the smoothest of stone, no chips anywhere.
Whats it like to have no option, to know
the world is out to get you, oh yeah, out
for bloodyours or yours, it doesnt matter.
Blood will be had, and from that first spank, from
your first breaths wail, you were marked down.
Some are just marked deficient, sad to say,
but well, such is life; the way of the world
wends towards death, and some get there more quickly
jump! yes jump into space, accept it, as
if you ever had any other choice.
Then there are Peters: blessed lives derailed,
one thing, then the next, the God in league
with the AdversaryIs he faithful?
Will he bless my name in spite of the boils?
How far down, how far can I make him go?
A different doom, perhaps, a different

predestination. A time of hope and

plenty, and then: sackcloth and rending and
the why of why, the how of how, the cry
into a bottle of rotgut, in a bar, in the
dark, poker on TV, next to a stranger.

The thing is that its all fixed. Peter waves

his glass around airily, the liquid
in it sloshing thickly. Nothings sposed
to work out, at least for most people; see,
otherwise thered be too many chiefs,
and not enough Indians.
Thats a rather
dark view of the world. Although I cant say
as its a wrong view of the world. In here
its much safer. Out thereyoure right, its all
a goddamned mess.
The bartender, bored with
the new sport of cardgames, and making sure,
maybe, that his charges dont stagger out
and kill someone, which would redound to his
dishonor, turns and joins in. Youre right, youre
so right. An honest man cant get ahead.
Its all stacked up against us, just one thing
after another. None of us wants to
be hereme serving, you drinking
Speak for
yourself. My routines been upended, first
by him here, now by you. Theres no place
Id rather be.
Silas right. Things are warmer
in here, much more so. It was cold and wet
out there when I came in. Itll be cold

and wet when we leave. Itll be cold and

wet again tomorrow when we come back.
Thatll be the way of it forever.
Nothing like a warm bar, that tobacco
smell, and a drink to make it all vanish.
Peter raises his glass in salute to
Silas, who does not return it, his eyes
staring straight ahead into the bottlebedecked mirror running the bars length, which
reflects himself back to himself, through the
scrim of booze. But Peter doesnt notice;
Youre a good man, Silas, and Im sorry
if Ive ruined your day, but Im not sad
to have met you. He goes silent. Hours
have passed, one scotch after another, and
yet the ache hasnt lessened, nor has he
told of his ache, only of how he sees
the world: cold to be avoided for the
cave-like succor of the bar, abating
the cruel outside.
Peter, quietly, to
the bartender: On second thought, youre right,
Id rather not be here. But, Ive nowhere
else to be. And youre on my way to where
Im going, even if Im not sure where
that is.
Stay, he says, weve always the time.