I’m sitting in a bar filled with an assortment of misfits. I am alone. I’m here because I have nowhere else to be. By that I mean I have nowhere else I want to be. When I am in this bar I don’t have to think about who I am or even who I want to be. There are so many different people that come to a bar. And by that I mean there are so many stories floating around in this bar.
For example, that man sitting in the far corner, underneath the picture of the moose with a badly drawn mustache sketched across its snout in permanent marker. He is old. He is grizzled. In his eyes I can see the reflection of the ocean, the waves rippling through the lines in his cracked face. I can smell the salty, fishy smell of the air, bitter and tangy, stinging his nostrils, as he lifts his head to the wind. Clouds swollen and gray ride the crests of the wind, their sides bulging and shimmering in the tumultuous currents. His calloused hands grip the rough strands of the supporting ropes on deck. His voice is smoky and gruff as he yells to the hands.
“All men on deck!”
“Aye, aye sir!”
“Secure the sails!”
“Aye, aye sir!”
“Keep her straight mates!”
“Aye, aye sir!”
Creamy foam crashes against the bow of the ship, trickling down through the rough barnacles. The storm is electrified in his eyes. The wind whips his hair, swirls across the lines in his face. He has never felt more alive.
The man below the moose picture with the sharpie mustache turns his head as the bartender addresses him.
“Another long day at the factory Tom?”
“Aye. Wool don’t sort itself. Speak ‘un of, I oughta head home for the evening afore the missus gets too mad.”
He shuffles his arm into his jacket and squishes his cap onto his head. The lightning sparkles in his eyes as he walks past me and he leaves me with the salty, sulfurous smell of ocean storm as the door closes behind him.
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