With Love, From Me

CHAPTER EIGHT

I hadn't really intended to end up at a bar, but I took a wrong turn while taking a shortcut and it seemed to be waiting for me to walk through it's doors.
After waiting for my mind to decide whether or not it wanted liquor I finally got out of my car and entered the wooden double doors, and instantly the familiar welcomed smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke filled my lungs.
I walked up to the bar and sat down in the metal stools, looking around the rather empty bar.
In one corner sat a man who looked only half alive with a glass of what looked to be whiskey in a similar half giempty state like it's drinker.
His dark eyes also looked empty and glazed over as he stared into seeming nothingness, God knows what pacing inside his mind.
On the other end of the bar was another man, younger and cleaner looking, sipping on Jack Daniels with a bottle close to him, he was talking enthusiastically about something that the bartender didn't really seen to be interested in and instead nodded her head with an occasional 'yeah' or 'no totally'.
She saw me and flashed a quick smile and held up a finger to let him know she'd be back.
"What can I get you?" she asked me and looked at me expectantly, arching an eyebrow.
"Vodka," I said pushing my damp hair back from my eyes.
She poured the liquor into a shot glass and slid it over.
Immediately I picked it up and shot it back, savoring the Jarring taste and felt the liquor soothe my throat.
Vodka is my drink of choice for most times that I drink alone or at a bar, beer is my drink for the rare hangout times, and wine or champagne is my dinner drink.
"Looks like somebody had a rough day,"
She said smiling at me, "but that's okay cause you came to the right place."
I looked around wondering what made this place so special.
"I know, I know," she said nodding her head, "it doesn't look like much but there aren't many costumers so if you're antisocial then you'll love it."
"That's one way of seeing it," I said and slid my glass forward to the bottle, "I'll have another please."
She poured another shot for me and jerked her head to the left as a phone rang, gripping the edge of the bar white knuckled. I could tell she tensed up as it happened but then she seemed to relax as the moment passed.
As I was wondering why the phone had scared her so much, the only other man sitting at the bar - yes the one who never seemed to shut his mouth - slid off his stool and walked over to sit next to me.
"How ya doing mate?" he said, looking me in the eye.
I blinked and considered telling the truth, but realized I didn't want to waste my breath on this guy.
"Good," I said nodding slightly, "a long day is all."
A long day indeed, it was only two in the afternoon and I had already been screamed at, pushed off a cliff, hit by a rock, - well to be fair I hit the rock first - almost drowned in a freezing lake, and gotten lost before heading to a bar to do some well deserved drinking.
"It's two 'O' clock," he said, obviously not believing me.
"I had to get up early and help my mom move," I lied, "she has back problems and can't lift heavy things."
"Well my best regards to your mother then," he said lifting his glass and taking a swig.
"So what's with the whole phone thingy?" I asked, nodding towards the bartender.
"You see that long scar right on the side of her neck there?" he asked.
I looked and saw it, on the right side a long pink scar, stretching from below her ear to her collar bone sticking out like a sore thumb from her tanned skin.
"Where'd she get it from?" I inquired.
" Afghanistan," he stated, she was in the Marine Corps and on the last mission a few days before she got to go home there was some sorta bombing."
I watched her touch the scar, probably out of instincts a she talked on the phone, answering questions about renting space above the bar.
"I forget the story sometimes, but anyway she got a nasty cut on her neck from debris, got stuck under some bodies for a few hours, and ended up going home early."
I tried to imagine what it would be like. To be trapped under bodies for a few hours, trying to keep my blood inside my own flesh.
"It must've been horrible for her," I mumbled.
I actually wouldn't wish that upon my worst enemy. To not know I you were going to die or live, not knowing if you were ever going to see your family, friends, and having to deal with that fear.
"Imagine how many people she's killed.." he trailed off, transitioning to a gulp of whiskey.
The bartender turned around and greeted a new costumer with a forced welcoming smile, this one quiet and shy but didn't seem to notice the acting job.
I understood completely.
Acting was something I was used to, because I do it every day if my life.
It's why I like being alone usually. It's always extremely exhausting to smile and look okay or even half alive.
In my teenage years I just kind of didn't care about people knowing how I felt emotionally but then I realized that explaining things or lying when being asked about my mental state was a lot more exhausting than simply acting like I was simply a quiet person.
With some things however, like job interviews will require a social personality depending on the job.
From the age of seven to about 14 I had done community in a small town that I lived in until I was almost 16.
Eventually my family and I got tired of the drama and quit doing it.
I would've been okay with it had it not been for the unprofessional and immature nature of the shows that I was usually in.
I was an actor not an disease to society.
Beside the parts didn't seem to require actual work because all the other people were simply amateurs.
At any rate it did give me something to do because I didn't have much of anything in my life.
I understood how she felt just by watching her interact
with The customers.