Brian took another swig of his drink,
grimacing as the cheap bourbon set his mouth on fire yet again. He
preferred the smoother Irish whiskeys, but in a bar in Kentucky your
drink choice was more or less a foregone conclusion – particularly
when someone else was buying. He looked over his glass at John and,
catching his eye, raised it in the traditional salute of thanks.
Niceties achieved, he set the beverage down to give the ice some time
to melt and mellow the flavor.
Thirty. He couldn't believe it had been
so long. By some accounts his life was half over, and even the most
optimistic estimates only reduced the deduction to thirty-three
percent. Sixty years if he was lucky, of which the last fifteen to
twenty were likely just biding time. So call it forty years reliably.
He took another swig – too soon, as the heat on his tongue was
happy to inform him – and tried not to dwell on how he was spending
yet another night punishing his liver in the same tavern. Perhaps if
they had tried to class up the place a bit he could have stood the
monotony – sand some of the walls smooth, maybe stain the wood a
darker color than the tannish-brown that didn't so much reflect the
light as absorb it before casting it out into the world. Of course
that would offend the clientele, the hearty salt-of-the-earth folk
who liked their bars slapdash, their camaraderie boisterous, and
their whiskeys blazing.
And their music twangy, as Brian was
reminded by the jukebox happily blaring the latest blues-inspired
nothing from a country-western group whose last chart-topper was
released a decade ago. His melancholy allowed him to scoff at the
clear efforts of musicians past their prime, but his past years in
the country had helped him to develop an appreciation for the style,
finding some small comfort of home in the chord structures if not the
banal lyrics. He'd tried once, a couple years ago, to get the jukebox
to do more than lament the lives of cheating boyfriends and lost
tractors, but the death glares that he'd earned as the opening bars
of the one Rush tune that was available on the machine played had
been enough to abash him of any future attempts at culture.
He took another swig, this time more
satisfied with the spirit. Sure the ice watered it down a bit, but
sometimes that was the only thing that made the drink tolerable. He
smiled to himself as he remembered the hazy days of college, the
quantity-versus-quality binges Friday after class. Had that really
been nine years ago? It was odd – the gray hairs didn't bother him
at all, but when Brian realized how long it had been since he'd been
a student he shuddered with the weight of age. He still felt like
that wayward scholar most days, no idea where he was headed but doing
his best to not appear that way. Somehow fake-it-til-you-make-it
never made it past step one, and one of his more pervasive ridiculous
fears was that someone would expose his attempts at maturity for the
pathetic facade that they were.
Someone asked him a question, and Brian
took a second longer to process than was proper. With a small shake
of his head he gave a non-committal response, and received a hearty
clap on his back to go with the chuckles at the birthday boy who was
showing his inebriation so soon after the party's start. Conversation
resumed, and Brian went back to staring at his glass. Was this what
forty would feel like? Fifty? He went to take another swig, but
suddenly noticed that the glass was empty. Setting it down, he leaned
forward on his hands as he pondered.
Thirty years gone. Seven years a
professional, and what did he have to show for it? A slice of the
American dream, sure. For what that mattered, at least. The small
house on the edge of town was often a harsher task master than his
manager, with the grass that never stopped growing and the vermin
that never stopped burrowing. A job that was decidedly middle-class,
which in essence meant he was able to come out enough ahead every
paycheck to set aside a meager amount for those waiting years in the
coming autumn of his life. No loving wife, but a parade of women of
increasing age, with accelerating desires and relationship goals that
never seemed to align with his long-term plans. Plans towards which
he had, so far, made zero progress.
Another contained puddle of bourbon had
materialized at his elbow, and he gave a grateful smile to Katy –
the kind purveyor of the current round, and even kinder woman who was
the most recent of those trying to find a place to fit in with him.
Not that he had women lining up, but rather he understood what they
were looking for and how to provide it. He took a sip and shook his
head. That last bit was unnecessarily harsh. Katy was sweet, and even
if she felt the same pressures that had been put on him by others of
the fairer sex she gave no indication of the pushiness that others
had been all to happy to unlimber on him once things started to show
signs of progress. He thought he appreciated that more than anything
– sure she was looking for a future, but she wasn't using the
strong-arm to make it happen.
Brian took another swig, smiling again
as raucous laughter filled the table in response to some joke or
another. He'd never been much for birthdays, he realized that, and
his friends seemed to tolerate that well enough, but he knew he was
on the edge of stretching patience. He grit his teeth, smiled, and
jumped into the conversation – feeling out of place and awkward,
but still knowing what was expected of him and fulfilling those
expectations as best he could.
Perhaps the next thirty years would
hold the wisdom he seemed to be missing, or the sudden achievement of
greatness. He sipped the bourbon, made a random joke. Doubtful, but
he figured he'd give 'em his best shot.
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