Beautiful People Don't Just Happen
“We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.”
- Fyodor Dostoevsky
A musky scent soaked into the air of the dimly lit pub. Along the entire hall, empty chairs at empty tables awaited the warmth of half-corpses that walked in and out of that place leaving a trail of water rims as ghosts of the drinks they downed.
Fairy lights emphasized the packed stools with empty people lining the bar. There were hourly rotations while others seemed to simply never stray from their leather bound haven. Glasses and pints shuffled down the bar along with bills and coins wasted on forgetting what would come back in the morning.
Underneath the bright white lights stood the barkeep. A man with umber hair and a round face with silver eyes that sparkled when talking to customers yet were glassed over from hidden drinks stolen in between service.
His crisp white shirt, covered with a grey vest, was brought to life by a paisley lilac tie and whenever his hands shifted along the countertop the lights would catch his anchor cufflinks which held it all together – unmoving. From his vest sparkled a name tag: EAMON. His presence was overstated in a sea of sequins and illusions – a pearly rose complexion fragmented by light.
Each glass went toward a face not quite familiar yet not quite unknown. He gave smiles to these people, who slurring his name talked at him but never to him. Over that bar, Eamon had heard stories of past lives and broken childhoods pour out of wetted lips.
He stole a sip from the bottle of Bacardi in his hand and let his eyes wander to the spot where she always was. Her barley coloured hair matched the spotlights that caught the red of the flower in her hair. A single rebellious curl had strayed from the bun she’d put it in. He saw her show every day – her voice was the only thing that moved something inside him, her melody continued as he drank some more.
The orchestra was behind her and she looked at no one. Even when she sang, her glass coloured eyes remained closed. The lights danced on her porcelain skin yet she never saw them because as long as she kept them closed, they couldn’t hurt her. As she sang the The Parting Glass for the umpteenth time, she gave herself a bitter smile – sláinte.
Emerson could see both Eamon and Niamh perfectly from where he sat. Second row from the stage, third from the bar. His right hand shielded the third glass of whiskey – he was only getting started. They were all in drinking to feel nothing – drinking to feel it more.
From the door entered a woman. Her heels clicked in the breaths between notes. She stood still for a moment, on display to all, and seemingly remembering something, she was gone. Her presence lingered in the doorway like a dark soul invading the atmosphere.
In the middle of her song Niamh noticed her. Her eyes had opened at the sound of the door and caught the perfectly manicured hand shutting it behind her. She shut her eyes again but it was too late.
The lights were no longer caressing her, it was the hands of others invading her body. In her mind she saw her mum leaving with a man – a different man each night. She saw them come back, she saw him, she felt him. Her mother had let him in, she was responsible for her pain.
“Don’t open your eyes,” echoed in her mind.
Pulling the glass back to his lips, Emerson saw her too. His faded olive green eyes caught her as she walked away. His dad had walked out just the same way, like it was nothing – like he was nothing. Anger bubbled the warm whiskey resting in his stomach.
In the middle of a story Eamon saw her too. Somehow he’d became the guardian of all these stories yet strangers never knew why he never stopped them when they’d had too much – why he himself never stopped. With every emptied bottle and every closing hour, Eamon had nothing to return to but a cruel mother. His bad habits were all because of her.
The first time his mum had caught him smoking she gave him a thrashing that forced him into stiff warm sweaters in the summer heat. He wanted to escape her. He was saving up, or trying, but those damn cigarettes were getting too expensive yet he needed them – He. Couldn’t. Sink.
In Niamh’s head filthy men were still touching her, and her mother…where had she been? Where had she gone? Seductive looks and undress-me eyes that should never have been directed at a child flickered in her mind. Her far away eyes searched for a mother who had never been there.
“But since it fell unto my lot,” her words filled the audience, reached them – yet she was beyond their reach.
Emerson became somber, he offered the barkeep a half smile with sad eyes. A deep sigh. A life escaping. Another whiskey, pozhaluysta[1].
“There’s no pain at the bottom of a glass that’s never empty…just relief,” and just like that, he forgot his father, but hated him more.
The clicking of the heels haunted Eamon, he’d looked at the woman but hadn’t seen her at all. In his head it was his mother walking away, knuckles still closed from the beating. Just like the fleeting memories, a glass slipped from his hand and shattered at his feet. Her voice echoed in his head: “feckin’ eejit.”
“Hope left this place a long time ago. Everyone here has one reason to live for, and that’s their next pint,” keep pouring, then have a smoke.
“Goodbye, and joy be with you all,” Niamh sang her last line and slipped away.
She ran out and down the street. Her vision was blurring as the dams in her eyes threatened to burst yet, as she approached the bridge, she saw the glimmer of the anchors. From a puff of smoke her glass eyes met his.
He sat on the ledge facing away from the river and towards The Caged Bird. She climbed unto the cool, damp ledge and let her feet dangle over the water which ebbed and flowed ferociously beneath her.
A staggering Emerson reached the bridge and sat down next to them on the ground. He looked at the other side of the bridge, Niamh at the water, and Eamon at Niamh. They were all silent, yet they were all here. Strangers, broken – unwanted. Broken people clouded by darkness and thriving on smoke and mirrors to keep them safe.
“A smoke before you go?” Eamon’s voice cut the silence.
“I’m okay,” the words were quiet as they parted from her matted lips and her eyes looked at him with mistrust before turning back to the water beneath her.
“What’s your rush? Take a second for a smoke…then you can go. Who knows…I might go too,” reluctance followed his statement.
She looked at him once more and took the cigarette. He lit her up. They both inhaled deeply and puffed out a little smoke and a little life.
“One, and then I go. For so long I tried to put it off, but soon I’ll be lost to this world,”
“Lost to me…” Eamon said almost inaudibly.
Her eyes clung to the horizon and she took another drag. Eamon let his eyes part from her yet they remained unfixed. Emerson pushed himself off the pavement and climbed on the ledge. His body staggered for a second until he regained his balance with outstretched arms.
“By a lonely harbour wall, she saw the last star falling. Nothing matters Mary when you’re free. Sure she’ll wait and hope and pray for her love in Botnay Bay. It’s so lonely ‘round the Fields of Athenry,” burst Emerson’s voice.
“You mixed up the words…I should know, I’ve been singing the song at The Caged Bird for years,”
“What does it matter? We’re all going, right? That’s why we’re all here…weep no more, oh soul, for soon we’ll be nothing but victims of the currents,” shouted Emerson.
“You don’t have to go, but I’m going,” said Niamh, meekly.
“If you go, he’s sure to follow. I’m not going back to that cage alone…” Emerson’s voice trailed off.
“Why are you there? Night after night drowning in a sea of Jameson…what for? Why there?” Eamon’s eyes looked down the street at the pub.
“Because there I drink among friends! Ye, my dearest friends,” replied he with arms raised.
Niamh looked at Eamon and then at Emerson.
“Friends? But never a word has been said between us before tonight!” said she.
Emerson staggered and almost slipped were it not for Eamon’s quick hand.
“Spasibo, moy drug[2]. Now, who ever said a word has to burst forth from lips of strangers to make friends? Oh, do excuse my sentimentality, but when I am among friends how can I not say but what I feel? If not among friend then with who?” came Emerson’s voice.
“With no one but yourself. Your shadow is your only companion at the end of the day, and even it fades away,” retorted Niamh.
“Not when there’s light around…” said Eamon.
“Light fades too,” whispered she.
“We’re all rotten and broken!” a shout of exasperation escaped Emerson’s lips before he collapsed on the ground where he’d started out.
“But not all is lost!” rang Eamon’s voice through the darkness.
“It was for me…a long time ago…I tried…I…” Niamh’s body lurches forward but Eamon’s grip on her saves her.
“Nothing is lost to the light until it fades, until it’s….gone” he said looking at her.
“You speak of hope to me when every day you kill yourself between puffs and swigs!”
“As do I! How can we speak of hope when we all want to go? Why stay here in the rubble of our brokenness?” cried out Emerson.
“Because we can just go, but not like this. We can get in a car and just go!” Eamon said.
“Go where? Shadows always follow!” exclaimed Niamh.
“Oh, how right you are moy brat[3]! I will arise now and go…go where? Who cares! Even if we’re wading into the darkness I shall go with my dearest friends,” said a newly jovial Emerson.
“I can’t,” helplessly escaped from Niamh.
“Come with us. Every night I hear you sing as he pours something in my glass and there’s a comfort in this familiarity. Something less empty, less alone,”
“Please, is there anything that can keep you here, beside me, for just one more moment?” said Eamon and Niamh began to weep.
“There’s nothing inside me worth giving you. What little I had I gave and gave to those vultures each night. You can’t fix me!”
“I don’t plan to,” said Eamon.
“No, our broken pieces shall mix in the boot and we shall become whole in each other!” said Emerson.
“Some days you’ll hate me,” said she.
“Most days we won’t,” smiled Eamon.
“So, are we going?” burst from Emerson.
“Let’s go,” came from Niamh as she got off the edge and fell in their arms.
Notes:
[1] Russian for please.
[2] Russian for thank you, my friend.
[3] Russian for my brother.
