Going
We join our proud protagonist in his apartment, hearing only his end of a phone call with his boss. He is being fired from his position at the local coffee shop. “What?...Says who?...Cut me some slack!...I took three machines; three broken ones at that!...No, I wouldn’t—...Well if you just—,” The phone was getting heavier and heavier in his hand. The words flying in his head were telling him he needed to keep this job—that some semblance of stability should keep his life from totally spiraling.
“Oh god, please! All I’ve ever wanted to do was pour coffee…Yes I know people can do it themsel—...Joe, come on ma—sorry, sorry, Mr. Dovesham; I’ve got no other prospects. When I leave every day all I do is think about work. I think about the beans, the cups, the filters! I think about the rattling sound the grinder makes—I actually use it to put me to sleep! I even—...Please, please, I just—,” It was here our proud protagonist began to weep to his, now former, boss over the telephone. Just tragic, isn’t it? “Alright, yeah, no, I’ll be fine…No, I’m fine. I’ll be over there tomorrow to return my uniform…I’ll keep it then…No, I need those too…Not stolen, borrowed. Don’t go calling the police now, please Mr. D, I–…Oh, you go to hell!...No I don’t mean it, I’m sorry…Alright, goodbye Joe.” The phone clunked back into the receiver, sounding like even it was tired of the conversation. So there he was, our proud protagonist with no prospects, nor ‘pot to piss in,’ as he might say (though he had quite a few pots actually, and even a toilet). Where does one with no direction go but out?
Our proud protagonist entered the pub just around the corner from his apartment. He slapped a wad of cash down on the countertop like he was trying to sober it up before a drive home. “I’ll have a gin and rye, four finger’s worth, and one of those big, square ice cubes.”
“How about you start with a beer, sport?” The bartender, Patricia, sported an affectionate snarl upon noticing his dejected state.
“Fine, if you must patronize me.”
He slunk into the weathered leather barstool and shot a fast scan around the bar. Hardly anyone there. 10 P.M. on a Tuesday wasn’t exactly known to yield an expo’s-worth of people, but it seemed especially quiet. At the time his scan was completed, Patricia skated the glass of beer a few feet down the bar. It stopped as it met the backside of our proud protagonist’s unwelcoming fist. “I wouldn’t mind being handed my beer for once you know,” he whined. “My sincere apologies, lord of the mopes. What the hell has got you in such a funk?”
“My dream job is gone, Pat. Just this morning, I was—or was it yesterday? No, it was—oh hell I can’t remember. Point is, these hands have poured their last Americano. It’s all they’ve ever been good for!”
“Oh, come on kid. That’s it? I’m surprised you made it this long there in the first place. What was it, three weeks?”
“Thirty-two days, Pat. Best thirty-two days I’ve ever spent.”
“Right, right. And the sixty-however many days at the pet store before were a life-changing experience just as well.”
“In fact, they were! Where else could you play with a puppy one minute and an iguana the next? That’s real life, Pat. You can’t have that kind of experience reading through textbooks.”
“Oh, kid. You just keep finding new ways to keep me young and make me feel just about old as hell at the same time. Why don’t you have your drink before it grows legs and walks over to someone thirstier.”
And so our proud protagonist did as was prescribed, though it only made him feel marginally better. And that margin was mostly occupied by the tweaked nerve in his neck that was now soothed by the early effects of the alcoholic buzz.
“You’re right, Pat. I have no clue what I’m doing.” Our proud protagonist stared straight ahead, looking up above the mirror going across the back wall and way off into the imaginary distance that began to manifest in the dark brown planks near where the wall met the ceiling. Pat leaned on the bar with her elbows propped up on the tabletop, resting her chin in her hands and watching him stare through the wall. Then her eyes diverted to her feet. “I think you ought to go.”
“Go? I just walked in five minutes ago.”
“I mean really go. Like, go far from here and not look back.”
Our proud protagonist looked at Pat, then down, then at the bar like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “No, no, I couldn’t…Go–Ha! Right, right. I don’t think so…Well, I don’t know.” Patricia sighed. “Well, alright. I said it. Now you just think about that.”
There was a long silence between them. He sat where he always sat, and she cleaned glasses standing where she always had, but suddenly the distance felt much greater than ever before. “Maybe I could go? Where though; I really have no idea. Just go, just to go, though. Just to be able to say I’ve gone. ‘Me? Yeah, I went.’ Yeah, I could see that.” He tapped his foot a bit and a smile began to rise on his face. “Alright so I’ll go then. Should I? Yes, yes! Ok, ok. Pat, close me out, I’m going!” She replied with a snort.“That one’s on me, sport. Go ahead.”
“Right, yeah, O.K….I’m going then! I guess I’ll see you when I see you! That’s it, I’m really going!” He jumped out of his seat and burst out of the front door just a few seconds later. Patricia didn’t pick her head up to watch him go. She just kept cleaning glasses. The hot water on her hands made her feel warm. And even though it was already about eighty-eight degrees, it felt good.
Not five minutes later, the front door to the bar creaked open. Our proud protagonist returned and assumed his position in the same seat at the bar.
“Well…I went.”