This city’s too cramped for everybody to spread their wings. That’s why most of us keep everythin’ tucked away somewhere deep down. There ain’t no room to fly, so keep your arms down, and your head too while you're at it. Gotta keep it cozy down here.
I’ve heard it’s even cozier once ya forget how cramped it is. Go numb. That’s what most people do, and it seems to work wonders. Not the life for me though, no sir, my shell just ain’t hard enough not to feel everythin’ that comes my way.
Even now I feel it. Walkin’ down this familiar street I feel the lifeless concrete scrape against my mismatched socks. I couldn’ find my shoes before leavin’ the house, but it’s no concern to me. It’ll take a lot more than this to make me crack.
I feel these pushy raindrops tap-dancin’ across the brim of my hat. Light pressure, steady in its inconsistency.
I feel the temp start to dip, the subtle heat wave of the past few days simmerin’ down with the help of heaven’s tears.
I feel a stranger’s eyes locked onto me, their gaze pressin’ against my back like the barrel of a gun. They been followin’ me for a while now, bet they think they’re slick. I’ll let it slide for now, no need to make somethin’ outta nothin’.
I’ve walked down this street countless times, passed the same bakery, the same overpriced men’s wear boutique, the same busted lamp post, nothing changes. Walking through the wilds I woulda created my own beaten path by now. But this sidewalk treats these feet o’ mine like a stranger just passin’ on through. It shouldn’t bug me as much as it does…but it does.
Maybe that’s why I do what I do.
Stormshelter Bar has been around for my entire life, and it’s sure to be around when I’m long gone. It’s a staple in this city. It won’t change. The people inside though? They’re always changin’. Patrons come and go, but they leave their mark. Broken furniture, etched initials, some even got drinks named after them.
Not me though. In truth I barely visited the place before I got this gig. As if my actual career didn’t take up enough of my life, I now find myself as the lone bartender of this place on weekend nights.
In my line of work, I only see people when their lives are cracked open, all their private moments spill out before my eyes. At Stormshelter Bar, though, things are different. Everything is bottled up, all I get is what they pour.
As I walk through the doors this evening, I steel myself to take another sip.
A bunch of colorful characters fill the bar as usual. Lords, criminals, soldiers, strippers, bakers, cashiers, and more. Each person takes shelter from the cramped city within an even smaller confined space. Somehow they find comfort in it. Somehow we all find what we’re looking for here.
The night is still young, though not quite as young as the bar’s youngest visitor. A small girl far more fixated on her doll than anythin’ else that happened to have been in the proximity of her existence. This includes the man, clearly her dad, who she’s sat with.
A man with a weary old spirit and a hat that don’t fit quite right. On his face he wears a look of perturbed peacefulness that I’d only seen prior in the mirror. They had no drinks other than a good old fashioned cup of OJ for the girl. They’re a duo that breathe a wholesome air back into these four walls.
Two young men sat together locked in dynamic conversation with nothing on the table between them except for a camcorder. The conversation seems fixed on a series of loud grandiose nothings spewing from the young man doing the most talking. The more reserved young man engaged earnestly in the chat, but in his every move lurked hesitation.
And of course, there’s the stranger that followed me all the way down the street and into this place.
Once I get myself behind the bar, I get a solid look at the guy. He’s nothin’ noteworthy. He’s got the charisma of an ink smudge, and the style of a blank space. Any other fella would overlook him, lose him in the sea of actually compelling folks here in these walls, but not me. Not Omlet Jones. As the only private investigator in this here city, I gotta be different from them.
I can’t be normal no more. All the years I spent starin’ down the most grizzly corners of this hot griddle of a world we live in are more than enough to spark change in a man. I don’t even remember when I became a PI, it’s just who I am, I can’t be different. I won’t change anymore. The heat of this world hardens my perspective, but that’s all, and that’s enough.
Not that much of anythin’ changes while I’m here at the bar. It’s a nice lil reprieve from, well, everythin’. Just another cozy day workin’ the nightshift, time to get to it.
***
The shatterin’ was violent, like a naïve heart hittin’ cold reality. I swear it almost echoed. That was the end of the nameless wine bottle. Maybe that’s all it was ever meant to be: a vehicle to end the monotony of hours spent tending bar.
Wait.
Why am I thinkin’ like that?
I ain’t no clumsy man, and this mind o’ mine is too stingy to spare any thoughts. There’s more pressin’ matters than a wine bottle slipping outta my fingers…
You see, dear silent observer, this wasn’t the first strange occurrence of the night. Far from it. Just a little while earlier, our dear bartender discovered a solid gold coin mixed in with the orange slices.
He was offered a tip from a customer in the form of a 5 pound bag of loam.
Someone in the bar received a phone call from a foreign dignitary, who promptly offered to buy everyone a round of beer whose name ended with a “Y”.
The lights rapidly flickered on and off, then briefly, ever so briefly, the walls started to ooze a green slime from several small cracks.
Most curiously of all though, was that the man sat at the farthest end of the bar quietly announced each event to the bartender just before it happened.
The same unremarkable man that followed the bartender, all the way down the street and into this bar.
And as if matters weren’t bizarre enough already…
“There ain’t no way. . .” I mutter to myself, hands still holdin’ shards of wine-stained glass. Lower to the ground now, I can see things clearly. Everybody’s footwear is standard for who they appear to be. The grumpy man with the kid has got dirty boots, prolly had ‘em for more years than I’ve been workin’ here. The two young men are wearin’ forgettable shoes that I’m sure even they could only describe by color.
But the guy that followed me all the way here? The kinda shoes that bastard have his grimy feet shoved into?
Mine.
The ones I couldn’ find earlier.
The ones I always kept tucked under my bed…
As the clock strikes midnight, and the number of the bar’s inhabitants slowly dwindles, our hero’s socks soak up more and more bloody wine. The night has just begun.
