"I love how you're enjoying life right now," says a voice cutting through the white noise over my left shoulder.
I redirect my focus off the carved and worn down surface of the bar, to a younger fellow, posing with his head cocked and his arms crossed, showcasing bleached teeth through a half-smile. Is my aura that obvious? Slouched demeanor? Check. Punched out eyes? Check. Too many empties in front of me for a Monday? Check. Either way, I'm no enigma. You can tell the type a mile away. Tonight, I am one with them, and this is my moment to sulk in its glory.
"I'm Channing, and you?" I force a smile.
I hate guys. All too easy to snuff out an agenda. The way they stand or flex their muscles when they lift their drink.
"Can I buy you a drink?" he offers. I turn my face back towards the bar.
"Nah man, I'm cool." I'm obviously too much work tonight.
"Okay, well you have a nice night, Channing. It was nice to meet you." And he disappears off into the crowd.
Getting dumped sucks, and there is rarely any solace in the care and comfort from other people. Mostly because nobody gives a shit. Maybe if you've had a loved one die, or if you've been stricken' ill, or perhaps lost your job, then people are more inclined to take some time for you. But not if you've been kicked to the curb. It garners about as much interest out of people than the score of last night's Twins game. I think people realize that you can't control death or sickness or jobs as much as you can salvage a relationship. So you're expected to just get on with it. If you happen to disagree, ask yourself if you've ever felt sorry for, or shed a tear for the poor bloke singing a song on the radio about his girl leaving him.
Yeah, I'm sure you're just dying to hear this one. A naive, young boy finds love and all that nonsense. Then it is ripped away, with the wrath of a badger. A very cold, callous badger. And love escapes like a gazelle on the prairie...now I'm rubbing elbows with all the other bitter, piss-drunk, black-hearted bastards at Ralph's Corner Bar. This is me at my worst. No wait...come on...I was only joking...don't stop reading! Honestly, things turn out alright. Just keep reading...I'll explain...
I used to listen to Weezer's sophomoric classic, Pinkerton, with religious fervor in my last two years of high school. Pinkerton represents probably the same thing to me as it does to anyone who discovered the album in their high school years. The album was written by a mid 20's, sexually frustrated and emotionally wounded Rivers Cuomo. And not surprisingly, Pinkerton appeals to the typical sexually frustrated and emotionally wounded high-schooler in all of us. It was my one true friend. I had other albums that pulled my strings: Cheshire Cat, Mellon Collie, and even Somery. But not as much as Pinkerton. But it was only a matter of time before graduating to something else.
I once loved a girl for almost two years before we met personally. I threw myself into fantasies of talking to her one day or getting to hold her hand. Then we met and started to hang out quite often. She quickly grew interested in me, and after a while, we started dating. I thought we would always be together. We dated for two months. She tried to let me down gently, but there was nothing gentle about how I felt inside. For the long road ahead, I tried movies and books, ice cream and walks, but nothing brought me any solace. The only thing that marginally helped me to digest and cope was the album Adore by the Smashing Pumpkins. The songs on that album were both comforting and terrible reminders of young love lost. I am still reduced to a rubbery mess on the floor when I listen to that album.
"What'll it be, Chan?" Garth offers from behind the bar. Besides being a good friend, Garth is a throwback to the old fashioned barkeep/counselor genre.
"Nah, I think I'm going to finish my pint and bugger off." I lament. Garth offers a sympathetic, straight lipped smile and extends his right hand forward. I think he'd hug me if there wasn't a bar between us.
There's no use in faking it. I've taken the all too familiar route many stoic, strong hearted men have traveled since the dawn of time. To the waterhole, and the bottom of a mug. The inevitable sad-bastard conclusion to this crap night. The expression of self doubt one feels after the horizon sets on a relationship. There are some details that I haven't worked out yet. I continuously search for clues. Was it me? Was I a bad boyfriend? Am I boring? Was it another guy? If so, who? When? Why? These are the kind of questions that drive a guy nuts. I need a change of scenery. I bolt for the Fryn' Pan to consult my discman and a good book, and perhaps find some truth.
Being lovesick is similar to other types of sickness. Like the stomach flu, for instance. You go through phases where you're feeling better and things seem like they'll be alright. The next minute you're hugging the toilet and praying to die. The only thing you can do is wait it out, or just get it all out of your system.
I've made a habit of watching the movie High-Fidelity (starring the finely acted, lovesick typecast John Cusack) after the last couple of relationships I've had folded. Rob Gordon (Cusack) is a mid-30's record shop owner who pines over his past relationships in regards to his latest alliance-gone-awry, all done from a male point of view. But this time I needed the book version (Nick Hornby) to keep me company for the long haul. Something to commiserate with. And to enhance the sordid predictability of it all, I'm listening to Pinkerton. Fucking hell!
I've tried movies, books, drugs, music, and even weblogging to help me through some rough times in the past, but these things aren't so much as crutches, as they are distractions. And I'm tired of this whole charade. Honestly, tonight can be a new start if I can just let go. Stop being a victim. Stop listening to sad-bastard music and put this book down. I can write my own story. One where the characters find happiness and don't fall apart when the chips are down. And I'll make sure to include a happy ending. Because I'm no longer resigned to not finding a silver lining. Not choosing to be happy.