The Irony of Winter Miss

There are ironies in this world, and there are ironies in this world. And then there is this..

To be perfectly honest, I have no idea what this statement really means. Its probably just another careless sentence, carelessly thrown together by a careless mind. Well, in my case, most probably a bored mind. I’ve been wiping this counter top for the Nth time, at first just making sure that its nice, shiny and appealingly clean to the next customer who comes here at The Village Perk. The task seems important, but after my 7th wipe, I realize that I’m just bored. And with this boredom, random words are being born at this very minute, connecting one with the other till something that resembles coherence takes shape in my mind. So, while my head starts arranging words to produce something that seems artistic or witty, my hand is moving on its own, wiping this wooden countertop as if the very balance of world economics, its future and survival, rests solely on the degree of cleanliness my unmindful hand can achieve. I’m pretty sure, if another person can take a peek at what I’m doing and thinking, they would certainly feel stupid and insulted. “Hey, dickhead, will you please do us, the rest of the thinking races, a favor and stop doing that? You make us look bad.” I look up, fully expecting someone, anyone, to be staring at me, with a crinkled nose or doubting lips. However, I’m still alone here. Just me, the rag and the music playing at the background.

I shouldn’t even be working tonight. It’s the first week of March, and I have a lot of things going on at school. Term papers, assignments, upcoming exams, plus my Comprehensive Oral Exams are almost here. I don’t think I’ve made any real headway in my studies, so I decided to ask my boss, the owner of this bar, to give me a week off.

“Come to work this Friday first, then let me see what I can do.”

At first, I thought tonight would be one of the busy nights, so the boss asked me to come. Well, judging from the seating occupancy, I guess people don’t feel like drinking; probably due to the winter storm raging outside. And thanks to this storm, nobody else reported to work. Also, my boss called me a while ago.

“I’m not coming in tonight kid, you’re on your own. Keep the place clean.”

So it’s just me versus the incoming customers. I’ll be cook, waiter, cashier and manager tonight. Good thing Peter Cat is small compared to other bars in our strip, seating 14 or so customers. The place can accommodate the full occupancy perfectly with three workers. I stop my mindless wiping, and I make a head count of who’s in here tonight. A grand total of none. Even our stage is empty tonight. The only performer that we have for now is… I don’t know his name, but he is playing right now in the CD player attached to the Bose surround system installed all over the place. The saxophone recording can be heard all over the place, and from the way it's played, I can feel a sense of urgency and madness. The music sounds random.. but it progresses smoothly as the night drags on.

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There’s a small, unadorned stage for the live performers hired by the boss. They usually play jazz (I only know this because that’s what my boss told me), and although most of the regulars enjoy this kind of music, unfortunately for me I never learned to appreciate it. For what it’s worth, I’m guessing our scheduled players are doing pretty well, since it’s precisely this unadorned stage that has become the highlight of this bar, drawing in our regulars.

“Do you listen to jazz, kid?”, my boss asked me once. We were smoking at the back alley, right beside the door leading into the kitchen.

“Not really. I’m not really big in music anyways, and it’s not just this particular type of sound.”

“Hmmm.. ” He took a long drag of his cigarette, all the while looking up at the clear, evening sky that night. He reminded me of a kid who stares at the empty ceiling in his room, wide-awake, wanting nothing more but to sleep. Yet he wasn’t sleepy. At that very moment, my boss gave me this impression.

“Maybe someday I will. However, for now, I just work here.” I lighted my second cigarette.

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Taking the not-so-wet rag from my hands, I give it a good wash at the sink, then I squeeze it to remove the excess water. I am about to refold it, when I hear a familiar chime, made when the wooden entrance door opens, jiggling the small bell attached at the top. I leave the rag at the sink, wipe my hands dry, and I step out of the kitchen. My third customer for the night.

She removes the hoodie from her head. She blows her warm breath through her frozen fingers, giving her some comfort against the cold weather. She then scans the bar, and, satisfied by whatever condition she has in mind, she wipes her black boots by the entrance and walks, approaching the countertop, sliding comfortably at the barstool.

Her short, black hair is peppered by snow flakes, like the stars twinkling at the darkened sky. She has adorable eyes, brown and moist, yet I can’t help but wonder about the puffy eyelids. She looks really young, probably as young as me? Despite her looks, I would think that she is in her forties, only because she exhudes these minute expressions typically seen on people who have been on the long run of life. Still, my gut convinces me that she is a lot younger than she seems, and her being cute is not such a bad thing.

She wears a thick leather jacket, and a hooded sweatshirt with a “Columbia University” written on it. Levi’s Jeans and a pair of leather boots complete her attire. I may be wrong, but I’m guessing that, for tonight, she just puts on whatever is near her, and that she didn’t plan on coming here. I have this faint image of a runaway girl in my mind.

She crosses her legs, propping her chin on her fist, while resting her elbows on her leg. I take a fresh towel from the cabinet below the countertop, and I offer it to her. She weakly smiles at me, and, taking the towel, she wipes some loose, melted snow from her shoulders and legs. Finally, after wiping her hair dry, she folds the towel neatly in front of her.

“Thank you. I’ll have a Tom Collins please.” Something is playing at the speakers, and again I’m not sure what song it is. The saxophone increases in crescendo.

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As a bartender, I’ve heard about the clichés: we are supposed to be good listeners, lending a sympathetic ear to the folks who sit at the barstools across us, nodding at the sad stories the poor saps pour out, and maybe offer some sound advice. We are supposed to be good conversationalists, ready to initiate some sparkling conversation whenever needed, entertaining our bored patrons, and thus they proceed to ordering drinks, fattening the cash register. I don’t mean to sound too utilitarian, but that’s the unwritten part of the job description. And, I don’t want to sound like bragging, however I’ve developed a third skill, very important in my line of work. Most bartenders know how to listen and to talk, however despite these skills they tend to annoy customers, leaving them frustrated and confused. “What went wrong? I did everything right I think..” Still, without this third skill, the mouth and the ear will never know when to go to work.

I know when a customer neither wants to talk, nor wants to talk with. And, looking at this beautiful, young woman sitting across from me with this distant, world-weary look in her eyes, sipping the Tom Collins I prepared for her, I’m pretty sure she’s not here for the conversation. So I’m wiping the countertop again, away from her. It’s clear that this misery doesn’t want company. There is a wide river separating me and this woman. The current is too strong for anybody to swim across. Not even the fishes would want to swim here. I’m on this side of the river, she on the other.

“Excuse me, can I have another one please?” I take my shoes off, roll up my pants, and I get my feet wet. The water is cold, most probably this is melted snow coming from the mountains upstream.

“Sorry ma’am, but do you have a certain preference to your drink? Like do you prefer brandy, or whisky in it?” She looks at me without expression. I can hear her holding her breath, as if she’s waiting for a continuation to my question. I return her quizzical look.

“Miss, are you okay?” She gives me another one of her weak smiles. “I haven’t heard that in years.” She reaches out, grasping my hands else I’ll drown and be carried downstream by the current.

“Excuse me?”

“Nah, my drink is fine. Keep using gin sour please.” She holds my stare, and we lock our eyes. I wonder what she sees in me? Because over here, on this side I see those brown eyes. And, I swear, those dark pools are like collapsed stars in our universe, drawing everything that surrounds it into darkness. And whether those things have a say or not, they have no choice but to be drawn in. I felt fear at that very moment; if I get sucked in those dark pools, I might lose myself there, rendering everything else on this side meaningless.

I wonder if she sees anything in me? Does she know that I am drowning in her stare? I look away. “Sure thing ma’am”

“Call me ‘miss’ please? ‘Ma’am’ sounds like I’m too old to wear jeans, and I’m hardly that.”

“Hehe, of course miss.” I mix her drinks, mindful of the amount of alcohol that I use.

“Say, what’s your name?”

“John.”

“John….?” Again, that expecting expression of hers. I decide not to disappoint her.

“John Smith. Here’s your drink miss…?”

“Hahaha!”, she giggles aloud; it’s not one of those insulting laughters that we hear. This one is of pure joy and amusement. “So you REALLY don’t know me then? You know, I don’t want to sound like bragging, but I’m famous here and elsewhere. I thought you’re just playing dumb, then this settles it.”

“….” Even if she didn’t mean to insult, I still feel it. Or, rather I felt dumb for a second.

“I’m sorry, please don’t give me that look. It’s just that I didn’t expect someone like you not to know me. I’m a celebrity of sorts, you know?” From the tone of her voice, she sounds glad, yet disappointed, at the same time.

“Well I’m very sorry if I shot you down, miss. I rarely read the news.”

“Aw, no please really, I’m sorry.” She avoids my eyes, while biting her lower lip.

I accept her apology. “That’s ok miss. I’m the one who’s supposed to apologize. But, I’m going to be honest with you, I really don’t know who you are. You’re probably an actress right?”

“Uhm, no. Why’d you say that?”

“I’m just guessing. You have this certain look about you. It’s something that other people don’t have, and that something is what makes you important. I'm just guessing that you’re an actress because... hmm because you look good, on camera and off.”

She gives me a small smile. “Thank you, but I’m not an actress. I’m actually a singer. Do you like music John? Wait, can I call you John?”

“Yes you may. Well, I’m not really an audiophile. I usually listen to whatever feels right at the moment. So, I usually station surf my FM radio. Unfortunately, with all the commercials playing in each station, I just give up generally and turn off my radio.”

She looks down at her right hand. “..So you just go ahead and feel.. whatever you’re feeling at the moment, without music to share it with? That’s sad.” The look in her eyes reflects what she just said.

“Thanks for your sympathy, but I’m ok I guess. I’m more worried about you though.”

“Really? Why?”

I take some cheese sticks from the mini-fridge under the bar, and I serve them to her. “For starters, you come here alone. And, from what I can observer, you intend to be alone. Am I right so far?”

She smiles while she takes a sip of her drink. “I like where this is going, John. Go on”. Her dainty fingers then reach out for those cheese sticks.

“Ok, so a lonely girl walks the cold streets at night, hoping to clear her head. She has a famous face on her, so she wears thick clothing to hide her features. And, she chances upon a small, watering hole with no patrons inside. So, she steps in, finding nobody there, except for the bartender.”

“Wow, sounds like a plot for a TV drama. Say, do you have some cigarettes there?”

I reach into my pocket for my Marlboro’s. She takes one, puts it in her lips, while I strike a match, lighting her cigarette. She inhales a small breath, then she puts her cigarette at the ashtray which I place in front of her. She smiles again. “I don’t really smoke.”

I ask her, “Why start now?”

“Just want to see what the big deal is. My husband enjoys it so much.”

Husband? I look at her right hand, no wedding ring. Although there is a small mark on her ring finger, a sign that there used to be a band there. I may be imagining it, but the river seems to have grown wider. The music coming out of the speakers eventually stops playing.

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A lot of people hate silence. Most of us feel that the absence of sound is equal to nothingness. And for anybody who is so used to the 21st century lifestyle, the idea of nothingness is unacceptable. Cellphones, MP3 players, computers, self-braking cars, everything around us is designed to make us feel that everything revolves around us. They insist on making a sound, no matter how minute it may seem, to resemble life. This is not a bad thing, I guess; materialism is just an expression of what man really fears, of what man strives to avoid. Darkness. The nothing. The absence. Loneliness. Eventually, Death.

In the midst of this silence, the woman sitting across me gradually fades into nothing. Where is she going? At the same time, something starts to gnaw inside me. A something that resembles human flesh; however it’s not MY flesh, it’s not a normal part of me. Still, as the silence pervades the whole place, as the silence continues to stretch in time, so does this awkward, growing flesh continues to spread. It’s as if the silence, the absence, exist in order to breed and nurture this growing cancer. Pulsing with un-life, it continues to beat and pump, outpacing even my own beating heart, defeating even my own pumping veins.

I look at her; she has this faraway look in her eyes, staring at her right hand, at her ring finger. Her features begin to fade, like dust suspended in a dark, unoccupied room. I can see her ethereal shoulders sagging at the invisible weight that she carries. She tries to take a deep breath; she only manages a shallow sigh.

I feel the alien flesh finally reaching my throat; nauseous for a second, I take a bottle of water from the fridge under the counter. I twist the cap of the bottle, fully expecting a cracking sound: I hear nothing. After taking a few swallows of the chilled water, I try to talk to her. But I don’t know her name. What should I call her? I try to stretch my hand, however this alien flesh finally takes over my whole body; it won’t let me move without it’s permission.

“It’s going to be fine, friend. She’s so far away anyways; she’s got nothing to do with you. Just look at her: you can practically see through her. There is no substance in this creature you’re looking at. She's gone to a place that she really wants, along with her incomplete desires, and whatever guide that she had now turns gray.”

Eventually, this widening river that stands between us becomes an ocean, dark and deep.

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“How much do I owe you, John?”

“Don’t bother, it’s on me.” By this time, her lighted cigarette is nothing more but gray ash. She only took one puff from this stick.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to sound like an ingrate but..”

“No you’re not. For some reason, I feel like I HAVE to give you this. Don’t worry.” This is the only thing I can do for you after all.

She smiles at me. “What do you mean?”

“Honestly? I don’t know either. Sorry if I sound vague, but please I insist, okay?”

She stands up from her bar stool. “I don’t want to sound vague either, but somehow, I feel that I know what you’re trying to tell me. It’s just that.. well I really can’t say it into words, but I swear, I can feel it. I.. I know that I DO need this. Whether I’m referring to the free drinks, or something else, I’m not quite sure.” The ocean shrinks into a small stream, yet something was left behind. The foreign flesh that took over my whole body disappears, vaporized into steam.

I shrug my shoulders. “We have an understanding then, I guess.”

“John, I really don’t know how to say this. The only thing that's certain is that the choices I made will lead me somewhere. Wherever that may be, that I can't be sure. For now, the only thing I can come up with is ‘thanks’. I hope you accept it.” She turns around and starts to walk towards the front door.

“When you come back here, tell me your name, and everything else that goes with it.”

She looks back at me. “I may sound like I’m pushing you away, but the distance will only make us stronger.” She then looks ahead, and opens the door, leaving behind her the Peter Cat and everything on this side.

"..The only thing that's certain is that the choices I made will lead me somewhere. Wherever that may be, that I can't be sure.." There's an irony right there.