One of Us

It's half past eleven in the morning. Thirty minutes before it's socially acceptable to have a cocktail- but the place is open and a Vodka tonic called me there. I drag the wooden stool back and order. "No lime, please." I say to no one in particular. A short glass of my poison is placed before me. I treat the first gulp like mouthwash then swallow hard. Before I can settle into my crowded brain, the door swings open and an older gentleman ambles towards the bar. He draws closer to me. Life has weathered his mahogany face. He needs a drink less than I do judging from the scent emanating from his pores. "Single malt if you have it," he says to the barkeep. I'm not surprised at all. He turns to me and asks if I want to hear the truth. I shrug. He walks over to the jukebox and drops in an endless supply of coin.

To the sounds of Little Milton, he launches into the aforementioned truth. I listen wordlessly while staring at the bubbles that find the top of my bitter liquid. Between sips of Glenfiddich he speaks of an ordinary life. Married for 32 years. Widowed 8 years ago. Three grown children spread across the continental U.S. Seven grandchildren between two of them. His eldest son- the one in San Diego, is a 'Fly Boy'. Lives out there with his partner. No kids, obviously. That one has his namesake if I can believe it. And I do. I ask if that bothers him at all. "Well, it did for a while...but he's still mine, you know?" His eyes appear to be looking thirty years into the past.

There's a pregnant pause between us and then I hear it. By the time he croaks out an admission you seldom hear a man of his age make- the guitar strings of R.E.M 's Everybody Hurts are coiling through the air. "I had to love him that much more... cuz his world was that much colder." For the first time since our conversation began, my mind wanders back to my own thoughts. What brought me here in the first place. Freshly sacked from a loathsome job I really needed, my car wanting overpriced repairs and enough past due bills to wallpaper my entire apartment. None of it matters. I gaze at the mirror behind the rows of bottles at the bar. I look like a stranger to myself and incidentally, the stranger's reflection seated next to mine looks oddly familiar. I begin to wonder why I've sat this long listening to him. I look to my left to find him gone. Joan Osborne's One of Us is the soundtrack to his exit. I push three singles towards the napkin holder. As I get up to leave it occurs to me that I was there to hear my own truth, not his. I step out against the lunch rush into a new, unknown world.



“Be not forgetful to entertain strangers; for thereby some have entertained angels unaware..”- Hebrews 13:2