Nothing to Offer

“I regret…no, on second thought, regrets are meaningless trifles,” I looked askance, bracing for her to cry or laugh. To exhibit dismay or disbelief. Anything but silence.

I knew she had a weighted grief, but I also knew that I couldn’t help her. That’s why I chugged down the lukewarm beer that tasted like a handful of pennies. Three hearty gulps and a bitter after taste. I hated myself for it.

The worst decisions are the ones that cut. They are felt instantly, a sensory haunting. But then again, we are all trapped, whether it be the slow death of neglect or a trauma that comes hurtling like a meteor. Words fall empty. Actions futile. I wanted her to know, to be able to relay that sentiment. It held on my tongue. I couldn’t find the words to release it.

She sat next to me. A flowing movement of hair, gangling arms and legs. There was something beautifully tragic about her energy, as if it sprang from a suppressed current. As she swiveled on the barstool, the room moved into focus. A tightening of the lens. It was poorly lit. Shadows hiding the worn upholstery of the adjacent booths. A griminess that was less visible but felt. I slid my pint glass across the sticky countertop and pointed to the scotch. A signal that I needed something with more bite.

“The tarot cards said it would be okay,” she let out a sigh of resolution.

“Placing your trust in magic, are you?”

She smirked. An overture. She hadn’t placed her trust in anything since the day it happened, I suspected. A gentle sip on her Bloody Mary, swirling it around her mouth. The requisite celery leaves at the top of the stalk, drooping into the tomato and vodka mixture. I waited for her admonishment. But it didn’t come.

“I could go with tarot cards or your advice. What do you think is best?

“Probably the drink you’re wasting,” I laughed nervously.

“You want a cigarette?”

“Why the hell not?” I replied, sucking down my newly poured scotch. I had switched to the harder stuff to mirror the growing mood.

“Man, that lady who doused her husband earlier with wine was crazy, huh?”

“If you say so,” an adversarial voice, hoping she would be turned off by my curtness.

Repel. That’s my instinct when faced with the inexplicable, when I can't rise to the occasion of the emotion.

“You don’t think that was a little off?” she poked. An empty darkness.

“Well, that’s a fine way to judge people,” I replied with as much smugness as I could muster through my scotch-induced haze. I ordered another round, passively agreeing to remain a participant in the conversation.

“You seemed much friendlier when you first got here,” she looked away, accurate in her assumption.

Taking a drag on the borrowed cigarette, I inquired, “How would you know? You really don’t know the first thing about me, and that was several drinks ago.”

She looked through me like she was watching time. Then she unleashed a hurried mess of words, stumbling on each other, “Isn’t that great? I have a shitty day at work. All I want to do is unwind a tad, and I have to share a drink with an asshole. Fitting end to all this bloody crap.”

“How poetic of you, considering you ordered a Bloody Mary,” I tried to play off the growing heaviness.

“Asshole,” she mumbled.

We sat listening to the Frank Sinatra song, playing over the outdated bar speakers. I pretended to be absorbed with my drink, watching the ice melt into the Glenlivet, all the while stealing glances at Laura. I wondered if she really thought I was an asshole.

Unexpectedly, she turned toward me, “Do you believe in God?”

Being a long-suffering bartender myself, this instance wasn’t the first time the austere question had been thrown out for debate.

“Yeah, I believe in God, but as of tonight, I no longer have expectations that he believes in me.”

She mulled over my answer, “Hmmm…no one has ever responded that way. That’s an interesting approach.”

“Do you?” I asked in return.

“Do I what?”

“Believe in God?”

“I did until my sister died from melanoma two years ago. I believed fervently. Now, I’m kind of lost,” her thoughts retreated into her memories.

“I’m sorry.”

And I was sorry. Death being random in its distribution. I had no real reason to feel emotionally responsible for her loss, but I did.

“Yeah, I’m sorry too because I wanted to keep believing. It was somehow safer that way.”

“Yeah, that's the crux of it. Religion creates a faux security, relies on fear, caters to those who are scared. It gives them an anchor or leverage to avoid accountability, so that they don’t have to face their ugly choices and actions. When you quit believing, you discover freedom, a way to own yourself.”

She tossed her head like she was shifting it around the corners of her mind, my adamantly held viewpoint that had taken form in the last few minutes.

“Doesn’t it help to trust in some protective, universal force like angels? I haven’t let myself be rid of all hope. Not yet. Not now,” she yearned for my agreement.

“It’s a comforting thought that we’re all assigned angels to follow us around…detour us from harm. I haven’t met my angel yet. I figure I would have by now.”

“A true cynic? That’s okay. I guess I haven’t met mine either.”

The woeful mourning of the saxophone filled the void. I closed my eyes.

“Maybe there aren’t enough angels to go around.”

It was the only answer my mind was capable of producing in the midst of a brewing alcohol storm.

She ignored the preposterous conclusion.

“None of it adds up. You can throw as much good karma into the world that you can rally, but don’t expect to have it reciprocated.” After another swig of my scotch, I said, “I’m definitely at a low point.”

“Really?” she bemused.

“I know, I’m not really entitled to espouse my views since my mind is rather warped. Do you want to know my best advice?”

Nodding, she took a bite out of the celery, a soft, crunching noise.

“God isn’t to be trusted.”

She bobbed her head in exaggerated agreement.

“Anytime I’ve opened up to the possibility of a deity, he’s fucked me.” Laughing boldly, I continued, “And do you know what the real kicker is?”

Laura shifted her body closer, an inward pull. She was captivated by my blasphemous rant.

“I’ve never asked God for anything obscene or impossible. All I ever wanted was some miniscule direction – a small sign. I didn’t ask for a cure for cancer or to be the next Pulitzer prize winner. I just wanted a sunny day, or the bus to be on time, or to win my bet on a racehorse. You would have thought that I asked for the world to be wrapped up in a package and delivered to me.”

A locked pain was emerging, and I bit my lower lip to avoid it.

Laura placed her delicate hand on my back and said, “I didn’t mean it when I called you an asshole.”

“You had every right to call me one.”

We stared at each other for what felt like an indecent amount of time.

“Well, I better be going. I start a new bartending job tomorrow, and I don’t want to feel any worse than I already do. It was nice making your acquaintance.”

My last statement was corny, but I meant it.

“Thanks for the drink. Maybe I’ll see you around,” she said, looking like an angel with flaxen hair and an innocent poise.

“It’s doubtful, but then again you never know,” I started to leave and then stopped, “Hey, out of curiosity, why did you ask me about believing in God?”

“Because you looked as lost as me. I needed to confirm it.”

It was my turn to nod, and I left her sitting at the bar, listening to the gentle refrain of a Harry Connick Jr. ballad.