The Back Booth at The Reisender
Matthew Ryan Fischer
Joe was drunk, as he so often was. It was how he spent most all of
his days. He found beer to be an exceptional alternative to foods and other
stuffs. He knew it was rot on his stomach and rot on his liver and rot on his
brain and rot on his life... but it didn’t matter. Rot was good. Rot meant
things were slowly ending. That there could be an end. There wasn’t much to
live for anymore. There was no future. Not for him anyway. All there was, was
this shitty hell of a present. There was no reason not to drink and drink and
drink some more.
Joe drank his beer and stared at the front door. He wouldn’t admit
it, but the one act was an unconscious contradiction to the other. Watching the
door meant there was something he believed in. Something on the other side of
that door. What? Was it hope, or a desire or a wish or a prayer? What it was,
he didn’t know, he didn’t even realize he was doing it. But watching the door
meant someone could walk in that could make a difference. Watching the front
door meant that he still believed in a world that could change. That his world
could change. That it might not be set in stone. That maybe, just maybe there
was still a future out there somewhere.
But waiting was not an easy thing to do. Waiting was the worst.
Waiting was forever. He waited and waited and waited and it broke his heart and
it drove him mad. Waiting was easier if he didn’t have to think on it too much.
Pouring countless pints of booze down his throat made time just speed on by.
The Reisender was a German Tavern, full of sharp and strong German
beers, sharp and strong German food and a sharp and strong bartender behind the
bar. Reisender was German for traveler. A perfect name for a tavern, for
who else but travelers came through that front door? Who else but travelers
needed a safe haven, a place of peace, to pass away the time and drink
themselves to death?
Things here were made out
of dark woods and low lights, and the brew came in thick and heavy steins.
There was a broken dartboard on the wall without any darts. There were electric
signs with bulbs missing. There was always a faint smell of urine mixed with
other unpleasantness. Nobody cared to change things. Nobody here cared all that
much at all.
There weren’t a lot of smiles or conversations to be had. The
people here came to drink and be left alone. Broken people with broken dreams,
trapped in despair, helpless pitiable creatures with not a future among them.
Joe fit in well. If he could have friends, these would be they. But Joe didn’t
have friends. There was no reason to. No hope. No future. No reason at all to
try and build a relationship.
Just because Joe was satisfied to speak to no one and know no one,
didn’t mean others didn’t try to get to know Joe. Joe tried not to listen. He
tried not to care. Everybody had a sob story. Everybody had a past or a future
they were running from. Nobody here was any different. Didn’t mean Joe had to
hear what they were saying. If he could get a cool buzz going, he could blend
them in with all the other background noise and not really hear a thing.
But for that, Joe needed another drink. And for that, Joe would
need more money. And with no job, and no prospects, that wasn’t always
something Joe had.
Joe was a beggar. A self-effacing, self-loathing beggar. Not the
best combination when it came to getting money. Can’t apologize enough, and I hate to ask, but blah blah blah, please
don’t ignore me. Sometimes he could yell or rant or cry like some of the
others. Sometimes he could lie and tell a good tale of woe. But for the most
part, he was really bad at it. Most might think that a fight-or-flight sort of
response would kick in and he’d learn to smile or learn to guilt or develop
some desire to survive that would see him through. But that was all a thing of
the past. Joe could barely muster up the energy to come in and out every day.
He was a walking zombie, shuffling from one place to the next, trying not to
think too hard, trying not to dream, trying not to try.
Sometimes he could find money. Sometimes one of the other
Reisender patrons would take pity. Sometimes some socially conscious person
would try to fulfill their civic duty and give him food or clothes or a place
to sleep or something more. Sometimes. It didn’t matter. It didn’t change his
outcome. It didn’t evoke any change inside him at all. He might as well die, he
told himself. A seemingly simple enough thing. And yet years had gone by, and
it had never happened. Surprising. Not that that was really some true goal. For
to have a goal would mean he had initiative towards something which might mean
he believed that the future was a thing to at least consider, and Joe no longer
believed in the future. He knew he was trapped and that was all there was to
it.
Joe wished he had studied more. He didn’t know what good it would
do now. But maybe something. Probably nothing. One more thing to hate himself
about. One more corner cut that came to bite him in the ass. He was obsolete.
Broken like the machine. He was a waste of time and energy now. Nothing to
change that. No one to change that. He could have tried something. He didn’t
know what to try.
Joe drank the last sip from his beer and looked around the room.
Familiar faces. All around. There were the regulars. They knew his story. They
lived his story. He needed someone new. Someone different. Someone that
wouldn’t know. He could trade his story for another beer. As he had done so
many times before. As he would have to do again and again. He wasn’t even sure
it was a good story. Probably wasn’t worth the cost of a beer. But he knew it
by heart. He lived it. It meant nothing to him. It was hard to tell what would
or wouldn’t matter to someone else anymore.
Russ and Larry and Mel and the others. If he couldn’t find someone
new, he could probably beg a dollar or two from one of them. They looked out
for each other. He wasn’t sure where they got their money. They didn’t look
like beggars. Not like him. Not at all. They looked like they had places to go
and people to see outside The Reisender. He should ask them about that someday.
Ask them where they went. Maybe it would matter. If they had a present they
must think they had a future. If they did, could he? He should try hard to
remember to ask, the next time he was sober. But he was pretty sure if he got
that next drink he would forget all about the questions.
At the bar, somebody new. A young face. Stubble. Not enough time
to shave. A busy man with a busy face. And yet he came had come in here looking
to kill some time. Hardly anybody new ever came in here. Joe knew he needed to
get to him before the others did.
Joe took his empty glass to the bar and sat himself down next to
his new best friend.
“I can tell you a secret. Sit and listen and I can tell you my
story.”
The man was already sitting but that didn’t matter to Joe. It was
all part of a rehearsed speech anyway. The man didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t
seem to listen or to ignore Joe. Joe could work with that. He could warm the
man up. As long as he was listening a little and not ignoring it all. As long
as there was a spark of interest, Joe could work something out.
He began counting out crumpled dollar bills and pocket
change. Satisfied he had counted
correctly he looked back up at the man. “Sit and listen and I’ll lower my voice
and I’ll buy you a cold one for your troubles.”
The man sighed, which Joe took to mean as a sign of consent.
He straightened the few bills out and pushed them towards the bartender.
They weren’t enough. The bartender didn’t seem to notice or care. He had seen
this routine so many times. Joe could offer to buy a stranger a drink, but soon
enough the man would be buying his. The bartender knew he would get his money.
Even if it didn’t work out today, Joe was always good for it at some point. The
regulars always found a way to drink their deaths. The bartender could spot Joe
a second or two on that tab.
Joe winked to the bartender and then began to tell his tale, his
secret. He was not a man from around here, no not at all. He was a traveler,
trapped in this city, trapped in this bar. He was a long long way from home. So
very far and so very long. In space and in time. Stranded now. Stranded in the
bottle, stranded in The Reisender, stranded in the past that wasn’t his own.
“I’ll tell you how I got here… but first a toast. First we toast
and take a taste of our beer...”
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