The Pub at the End of the Universe

You’re an idiot. That much is clear. Has been since the moment you walked in the bar. And don’t think they can’t see it. Everyone can see it. Mostly everyone that is, the ones that were looking anyway. Like her over there, by the jukebox, she can see it. That guy, over there standing under the Bud Light sign looking at his phone, he can see that you’re an idiot too. And that group over there in the booth and these two over here at the bar. They all see it. The bartender? Yeah he could see that you were an idiot the moment you sat down. He even said as much as he went off to pour it, muttered it under his breath like, “Jesus Christ that guy’s an idiot.” Yeah, you’re an idiot all right. So the question then becomes, if nearly everyone in here can see that you’re an idiot, why can’t she?

She’s been sitting here, after all, at this bar on this stool, next to you, talking to you for what you will later claim to be “like at least an hour dude,” but is in reality quite a bit less. Still, given that everyone else spied your idiocy the moment you stepped foot in the bar, any amount of time in your company should have led her to easily see the same, right?

Maybe it’s the alcohol, the booze, the great equalizer. Maybe it’s masking your idiocy, clouding her judgement, not letting her see the obvious. She’s had what? 2? 3? Of those greenish blue drinks, what did she call them? An AMF? But then again, you’ve had what? 5? 6? Of those brownish yellow drinks, what did you call them? Coors Light? And if history has taught us anything, it’s taught us that the more you drink, the more of an idiot you become.

So beer goggles, AMF goggles, Jello shot goggles, vodka tonic goggles, whatever goggles, can’t accurately explain why she’s still sitting here, talking to you, laughing at your jokes, smiling at you, brushing her hair behind her ear and scrunching her nose at you. This is the kind of unexplainable event that leads scientists, academics, historians even anthropologists around the world to throw their hands in the air, admit defeat, offer up some aside about mysteries of the universe and reexamine their faith in the unknown.

Maybe you’ve turned a corner. Maybe that’s all it is. Maybe you’re finally hitting your stride, learning how to talk to pretty girls without drooling all over yourself. You’re putting one word after another in remarkable fashion. You haven’t once laughed too hard, letting a little snot leak out your nostril. You haven’t once opened you mouth to say something only to have the words catch in the back of your throat and send you into a fit of coughing. How are you doing it? This isn’t like you at all.

Your past attempts to talk to pretty girls could be a study of abject failure, a heavy leather bound book, volume 1 of… tucked away in the back of the library, pages and pages of failure, the fossil record of rejection.

Recently there was, of course, the cute blonde girl that sat next to you, but really only because that was the only open seat at the bar. You remember her right? You asked her if you could by her a drink, “umm, umm do you… would it… couldIbuyyouadrink?” and she looked at you like you had just killed her father and kidnapped her mother. What did she do next? hurriedly place her hand over her glass, saying, “no I’m full” and then scurry away down the bar.

There was the bachelorette party that wandered into the bar a week or so ago. Girls in dresses and tiaras and high heels that they should have practiced in a little more. Lots of shots and screeching and cheering and dancing to Rod Stewart coming out of the jukebox. There was the group photo. Girls in some sort of two-layer setup, the girls in front doing their best hand on knee, arched back pose thing that all pretty girls are taught to do somewhere between high school and college. You, inexplicably standing nearby, offered to take the picture for her so she could join in, “do you want me to… hey I could take the…” and she glanced at you hurriedly with frantic eyes before turning away and accosting some random bro walking by, “hey could you take this picture?” And he was more than happy to. “Allright ladies let’s see some smiles.” And there was a chorus of giggles and some screeching. And there was you, frozen, trapped in the corner between the wall and the group photo, unable to move, a deer in the headlights, standing there, wishing a brain aneurism would take you right then, smiling and staring like some creep.

And there was of course the girl the other night, that angel, the most beautiful girl in the whole world, at least right then and right there. You were… sitting in a booth, trying to keep the world in focus, a couple friends, a couple friends of friends and then acquaintances of those friends sitting there as well when all of the sudden standing before you was… an angel. Perfect in every way. You had no idea what she was doing there, too pretty for any of your friends, or friends of friends, or acquaintances of friends. Too pretty for this world really. And you couldn’t help it. Overcome by her beauty, your heart ready to burst, you did the only thing you knew to do. You reached your hand out from across the table (people will say you were trying to shake her hand) held it there suspended in air for a good 5 seconds, everyone staring, before finally blurting out, tongue hurrying to get the words out before your brain could stop them, “ohh wow you’re so pretty.” You can’t remember what happened after that, you blacked out, your brain smartly shut itself off and you woke up a few days later covered in sweat in an empty warehouse somewhere.

So it’s understandable that you’re sitting here now, wondering how this happened, how she hasn’t laughed in your face yet and walked off to find better company. It’s also understandable the you’re… hell that we’re all wondering how, how long can you keep it up?

So far so good. You’re hitting all your marks expertly, timely jokes when called for, a little touch of sarcasm when needed, some unexpected but light-weight introspection if necessary. You haven’t spilled any beer on yourself or anyone else for that matter, you haven’t opened your mouth to say something only to let fly a small payload of spittle, you haven’t laughed at a small joke using more nose than mouth and accidentally evacuated a couple of patiently waiting boogers. It’s almost as if you’ve been coached, as if someone is directing you, like a script was put in front of you and all you had to do was read off of it, nod your head and smile at the camera.

And it’s going so well you are even starting to look ahead, to see how this might end. Flip a few pages forward in the script and see what happy ending they wrote for your characters.

You and her, back at your place. You and her, getting coffee in the morning. You and her, walking hand and hand down the street. You and her, sitting in the park laughing, staying in late to watch movies, cuddled up on the couch, going to the beach for a minor getaway, meeting up with friends together, looking for a puppy to adopt, looking at apartments to rent. You and her. You think you like the sound of that.

But before you can get that far ahead, before you can plan the rest of your life together you must attend to the matter at hand, an empty glass of beer, and empty glass of… whatever it was she was drinking. So you move to wave down the bartender, then pause, how presumptuous. So you ask her if she wants another drink expecting that she’ll scrunch her nose, brush her hair behind her ear, tilt her head to the side and say, “yeah” before letting out a cute little laugh that will just kill you. But she doesn’t. No? No, she doesn’t. Instead her eyes dart around a little, she turns on her stool, she looks for something, something better, something else and she says, “umm, umm…” and you’re panicking now, searching for something to say, something clever, something charming, something that will make her stay, but the alphabet is jumbled in your brain, words are caught in the back of your throat. Where’s that script when you need it? Where’s the Director to feed you lines, to tell you what to do, what to say? But there’s no help to be found, you’re on your own. So you mumble and stumble some words out and she says she’ll be right back, she needs to just use the bathroom she says and then gets up and walks away.

You wait for someone to yell cut, to end the scene, to reset and tell you that they’ll do it over, give you more lines to say, give you a second chance. But no one comes over, no one tells you what to do now, no Director or Producer or Assistant Director at that. So you just sit there, chewing on the inside of your lip, staring past your reflection in the mirror behind the bar, wondering why you are such an idiot, the scene still playing out, the cameras still rolling.

The bartender breaks you from your stasis, standing over you, arms crossed, towel across his shoulder, asking you what you want with his stare. What do you want? True love? Romance? A wild fling? A shot of tequila? “Yeah, just the well stuff,” you say.

The shot of tequila burns, of course it does. But it doesn’t burn nearly as bad, not in your throat, your heart, your soul, as what you see going on down at the other end of the bar, past the pool tables, in a dark corner near the restrooms.

There she is, the girl you had just moments ago decided you were going to spend the rest of your life with, or at least the rest of the near future with, laughing, smiling, giggling but not with you, with someone else. Some tall asshole with a beard and a beanie on his head, a white t-shirt and black jeans and some kind of dumb bracelet on his wrist and a small chain on his belt. You can’t believe what you are seeing. Really you can’t believe it and you rub your eyes in hopes that maybe your visions is just a little cloudy, maybe your sight just a little blurry. But when you look again, there she is (that’s her right?) and there he is (that’s not you right?)

So now you look around again, frantic eyes darting this way and that, where’s the Director? Over there by the craft services table, loading up on little smokies and artichoke dip. “Is this a new scene? This isn’t how things were during rehearsal. What’s the deal? What should I do? What’s my next line?” but he just gives a thumbs up and nods his head like keep it going keep it going and puts a handful of baby carrots on his plate.

And someone puts another shot of tequila in front of you and this one burns but a little less. And you chew on the inside of your lip and you stare at your reflection in the mirror behind the bottles of liquor and you think to yourself, “Fuck it. Improvise.” You don’t need a script, you don’t need anyone to tell you what to do, you got this far all on your own after all.

So you take a couple of deep breaths and then a couple more and you check your face really quick in the reflection of your phone screen and there’s no time to call the makeup person over but that’s ok, nothing seems terribly wrong. It’s now or never, so you hop off your bar stool and waver for only a second before taking your first fateful step forward, a step that will be remembered as one of the greatest of your life.

You move with purpose through the bar, the crew diming the lights just a bit, wanting to give this scene more drama, more romance. And the speed slows down just a bit, the camera hangs in close, profile on your face, you look cool as hell, moving in slow motion towards destiny, towards true love. And somewhere in the background they cue the music, bring up the volume and drop out the sound of the bar around you.

Daa Da Da Dtee Daa Da Da Dtee. Bass line. Daa Da Da Dtee Daa Da Da Dtee. Fuzzy guitar squelch. The familiar drum beat of “Just Like Honey,” giving agency to your steps as you move across the bar, the background actors, the extras, they all move out of your way, giving you thumbs up from the periphery as you pass, no one seeming to care that the crew is basically just ripping off that scene from “Lost in Translation.”

Drum beat — Daa Da Da Dtee Daa Da Da Dtee. Vocals — “Listen to the girl, as she takes on half the world, moving up and so alive, with her honey dripping…” You approach and they turn and see you. The cool guy, the bro, the antagonist, he knows his lines, he knows what he’s supposed to do. And this particular version of the script calls for him to understand, to nod and back away. He knows true love when he sees it so he quietly exits the frame. And now it’s just the two of you, you and her, two celestial beings destined to come into orbit, to come into contact and light up the night sky. You know what to do, whether it was in the script or not, whether it was directed or not, you know what to do. So you lean in, moving to feel her lips with yours, to feel the universe expand and explode in majestic fashion and…

“Eww what the fuck?” and “yo what the fuck bro?” and chaos and commotion. People staring now, people glaring now. Someone pushes you away. You don’t understand. You shuffle your feet as you back up, nearly losing your balance, then someone puts their arm around you and leads you away before things get out of hand.

They are walking you back towards the front of the bar, past the craft services table, over towards the row of monitors.

“hey bud,” he’s saying.

And “I don’t… what… I don’t,” you’re saying.

But, “I know, I know,” he says as he sits you down in his chair, the one marked Director, in front of the row of monitors.

You try to explain. Improvising and character development and, and… and he just nods and motions to the AD to cue up the tape and someone thrusts another shot of tequila into your hand which you toss down your throat as the crew works to set up the monitors for review.

The monitors spring to life and the Director points your attention towards the one in the middle. The footage is rewinding now, towards the beginning. Then it starts to play and you sit slumped in your chair, the world swaying against all axes. With dead eyes you watch the footage as the director takes you through it.

“See this scene here…” and “here right here, this scene” and he’s pointing at the monitor, pausing here and there to highlight a specific shot, point out all the flaws, the idiotic things you did wrong. And now we move forward, skipping past a chunk in the middle and, “what happened there,” you ask, but, “technical problems,” is the reply.

“Here watch this scene here,” and now you’re looking at yourself sliding off the bar stool, not cool and suave like you thought. You nearly fell, teetered back and forth, hopped on one leg before finding your balance. And now you are watching yourself work your way through the crowd, stumbling and lurching, people quick stepping to get out of your way, fearful of your potential to projectile vomit. And now he’s pointing out this close up shot, “you see this here?” it’s your face, not cool and confident at all, but pale and sweaty, the texture of a dead fish.

And now you get to the last scene, the one you thought was some poetic display of true love and destiny, a cinematic masterpiece. How did you put it? Celestial bodies? What an idiot indeed. No it wasn’t that, not even close. It was you, stumbling, mumbling, launching yourself

puckered lips first at some poor unsuspecting girl. It was her, pushing you away, it was some bro, telling you to fuck off, it was the bar, staring and glaring, it was you, looking like an idiot.

Now you just sit there, with your head in your hands while the Director pats you on the back, “it’s ok,” he’s saying, “we’ll shoot the scene again,” he’s saying, “we’ll hire another actress,” he’s saying, “have another shot of tequila,” he says, “we’ll reset and do it again.”

But you’re not sure you can do it again, you don’t think you have it in you. The footage has made it clear, you’re an idiot. The only thing for you to do now is drink this next shot of tequila then crawl home and fall into bed and hope that a long feverish sleep will erase any memory of tonight. Maybe that’s what you need to do, erase any memory of this, maybe when the Director turns his back you can erase the tapes. Destroy the evidence. Maybe nobody needs to know that you’re an idiot. Nobody but you that is.