No Reflection

Jimi jukes the joint, setting the rhythm with “Hey Joe” as even cue balls clack in beat to the soulful message.  The ache in my back seems to thump along as well; the bar stool digs like a torture device of knotted oak.

Only the clock above the bartender keeps a separate beat.

I stare into the mirror behind the bar.  The Buddhists believe the moment of enlightenment is achieved when you become a mirror that looks inward, instead of reflecting; or something like that. I could be butchering the concept, but there are many versions.  Somewhere I’m sure I’m right.

I stare into the mirror behind the bar.  My eyes don’t acknowledge my presence, like I’m a phantom leering at the honky-tonk girls from beyond what they know.  Girls long past their prime long before they even hit it.

Some are taken, some aren’t, and most don’t care.

The bartender has placed a new beer before me, like an offering to a wayward God, before I even realize I’m finished with the warm stale remains of the one before.  The new one is cold, but seems to hold its prime as long as the girls I watch.

Tom Heller walks in and sits down next to me.  Like every night, I warn him not to sit too close.  Like every night, he tells me not to flatter myself.  Like every night, we laugh and then slap each other on the back.

He grabs the beer as it appears in front of him.  Lots of wayward Gods to keep satisfied tonight.

Then we eye the girls through the mirror as the bottles appear and re-appear.

For some unexplainable reason, I look at the clock.  I mention the novel I can’t finish writing—another dead end.  Tom rolls his eyes and tells me to write a movie.  “Makes more sense.  Money and all.”

I nod with a shrug.

I look at the clock again without seeing the time.  I think of my son who knows me only as a child support check.   Doubts fight dreams and clash on a collision with fate.

Tom looks deep in my eyes as concern touches his own.  He laughs.

Tom calls the bartender from his routine and orders two shots of good cheap whiskey.

I smile.  The refraction through the amber liquid sparks like a comforting fire.  I knock it back and the flame anesthetizes everything it touches—from the flesh of my body to my soul.   It burns of such sweet hell.

A clean cold beer chases it down.   The bubbles scour my throat fresh and the fire and ice mingle and fight—perhaps I am the victor.

I sink into the oaken barstool, soft as a pillowed throne.  I belong.

I stare into the mirror behind the bar– without being.