Don't Let Me Remember

Chapter 2: The World Around Me

I climb into my faded red 1993 GMC Sierra extended cab pickup truck, the one I've had for almost 7 years now, I crank the engine 2 or 3 times before finally getting the engine to catch and the truck roaring to life, and head out to town.

I drive in silence and solitude towards the local bar, "Thoughtful Evenings" though there's nothing thoughtful about it. It's more of a "wake up the next morning next to someone who may or may not be of the same gender." Type of bar.

But, I digress. The place is of nice quality with cheap drinks and cheap admission. Right in my budget range. I walk straight in, dropping the man at the door a $10 bill and walk out into the venue.

The odor of alcohol mixed with sweat hits my nostrils as a man with a few too many drinks stumbles around me. Fucking heretics. Who am I to talk, though? Here I am about to get plastered with pills in my system.

I walk up to the grimy bar, one I doubt has been cleaned since the previous night, and ask for screwdriver on the rocks. I'm the type of guy that drinks the hard liquor instead of the beers. Just my style I assume.

The man takes an extended amount of time making such a simple drink. Maybe I should make it. Just hop the counter, start shaking and rattling and pouring and mixing, making my own concoctions. Am I the only one that ever gets those random urges? Like hop a counter at a restaurant or bar, or even think "I could so rob this place." I wonder.

The man finally hands me my drink after my daze in lala land. He looks for a tip but I can assure him he's not getting one. Sorry, my money will be blown on pills.

I turn away from the bar to survey the sad excuse of a dance floor this bar has. It's a small, maybe 15 by 15 area, where it's mostly overweight women and overweight men avoiding each other because they hate what they see in the opposite sex but not when they look in the mirror. Hypocrites.

There are a few cute girls, don't get me wrong. Most of which are with men or too drunk to carry on a coherent conversation. That's the thing, I'm not looking for love, I never can find love again, but I do like studying. I like watching the way girls act, how they flirt, how they get free drinks, etc. I'm just an observationalist.

I down my drink and ask for a refill and the bartender begrudgingly does so. Im still facing away from the bar when a young blonde, no older than 21, sits down next to me. She's dressed nice, in a sea of wannabes, a bit on the tall side too, maybe 5'7, and that's just judging based on how she seems to be just 6 inches shorter than I am. Give or take some.

I take my screwdriver and sip on it, barely even acknowledging she's there. She seems to get frustrated at this. I find it a bit funny. So I play the game. I turn away from her, where I'm facing the opposite direction.

"Wow, this club has seen better days."
What a soft voice. It's weird hearing someone's voice for the first time. It's never what you expect.

"Are you talking to me Ma'am?"

"I guess just anyone that will listen."

I turn back around, not facing her but to where I could look at her easier if need be.

"Yeah, it's seen better days. This club has been worn down for years. I used to come here when I was 16 when everything was so busy they couldn't check for I.D's. Now they just don't care."

"Really? It used to be that way?"

"Oh yeah. Then there was a sexual assault that happened, and they never recovered from it."

It's been a minute since a girl has came up to me, odd.

"Oh wow. That seems pretty rough."

"It was."

There's that silence that I was waiting for. It happens whenever you meet someone new. Always. I wait for her to break it.

"So what brings you here?"

"Depression."

She seemed a bit stunned by my answer.

"Depression? Shouldn't you be home? Isn't that what most depressed people do?"

"Nah, that's a common misconception. I want to get out and get drunk but I want to be left alone while out. Make any sense?"

"Not really."

She's obviously not understanding this simple thing. Ugh.

"Just- just yes, I'm a sad man that likes to go out. Sorry."

"No no! Don't be sorry. I'm just a little messed up wrench myself."

With that she pulls her little frame up on the bar stool beside me.

"I'm Clarie, Claire Verdon."

"I'm a bad time."

She giggles like I said a joke. Clearly she thinks I'm just being a bit funny. Poor girl, and I had high hopes for her.

"I don't think so. I think with a little bit of time, you'll feel differently."

"Oh? Is that what you think?"

She pauses. She does the typical cute girl thing where she smiles and looks down and looks back up. I've been around the block chick. I'm here for booze and that's it.

"I think so. What are you doing next week?"

"Work. Like always." I grunt, studying more and more.

"Hm. Too bad."

She writes something on a napkin and sets it face down on the bar infront of me.

"If you want to hang out, call me, Mr. Bad Time."

With that, she slides off the bar stool and walks out. She didn't deserve to be at that type of bar anyway. I set my shot glass on top of the counter.

Okay, let me shoot it real. That didn't actually happen. What did happen though, was we talked, I told her I wasn't interested in anything more than acquaintances, she left. No phone numbers, no smooth comebacks, just the real world and a real life disgusted look.

I drank enough to make a Scot drunk, and decided to sleep in my truck. I had a shower before I left, I have a change of clothes. Why not? With that, I decide to climb into my truck, lock my doors, and sleep.