The Authentic Eclectic
The Reader, the Writer, and the Storyteller
Escapism, passion, and observation.
A reader walked into the pub and took a seat center bar. Before placing his drink order, he browsed the array of bottles adorning the shelves. He inhaled the fusty air with a wrinkled nose. The patina, generated by years of spilled liquor, mingled with the lingering stench of decades-old cigarette smoke. It was such ambiance that spoke of a reckless era. Yet, there the odour clung, now a ghostly mirage issued from the battered wood the smoke infiltrated decades ago.
His gaze landed on each bottle as he anticipated the different flavours, experiences, and intoxicating warmth that would soon be his. The reader took his time — he sought an experience.
Finally, after much consideration, he made his selection. He would not regret his choice, for the reader knew that there would be a next time, and even as he savoured the first blissful sip with closed eyes and a long sigh, he kept in mind what he would order next time.
Such is the way with readers.
The second character to enter the bar was the writer. Both a reader and a writer, he was a busy fellow.
It is said good writers are always readers. That truth, however, does not work in reverse. Nevertheless, among readers, it is often agreed they could do so with ease should they choose. After all, how hard could it be?
The writer occupied the seat at the bar, closest to the door. Unlike the reader, who meandered into the darkness, he entered at a brisk pace. Even as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he selected his seat. It left him a clear view of the door, a clean exit, and minimal chance of interaction with other patrons.
With swift, economical movements, he reached first for his wallet with one hand and pulled a laptop from the bag that hung on his shoulder with the other.
As whiskey was his drink of choice, he ordered in the same efficient manner. “Jack. Neat.”
With that, he tossed the money on the bar, opened the laptop, and settled onto the stool. He accepted his drink with a nod and half-smile, his eyes fixed on the monitor.
Odd duck, the reader thought to himself. Probably a writer — such an introverted lot.
As the reader considered the pale features of the writer, in walked the storyteller. He took a seat around the corner of the large bar, turning on his stool to brace his back against the wall.
Seated as he was, the storyteller had a panoramic view of the entire establishment. This was his seat, and there he would remain for the next hour or so.
The storyteller was a curious fellow. Some had said, and he had agreed with their assessment, the storyteller was more an observer than a participant. He was a regular and knew most backstories. Today, however, was a different crowd and precisely what he sought.
That was the way of storytellers — life was grist. He ordered his drink with little thought. None was required as it was flavourless on his tongue — a means to an end — and would turn warm in his hand as time wore on.
The storyteller came only for the characters who occupied such an establishment on a sunny afternoon. He knew many, although they’d never met.
Seen as dark and depressing by the tech-addicted masses, the dingy little pub brimmed with tales of love lost, angst, and hardship — sometimes, the latter, still to be overcome.
The storyteller had learned long ago, within this darkened chamber, and all like it rested the beating heart of humanity — the story.
The reader looked toward the storyteller and found nothing of interest there, so he decided to engage the bartender. It was then the storyteller learned the young barkeep’s wife had given birth, and the reader asked to see the new photo set up behind the bar.
The writer finished his drink and closed his laptop. He took no notice of the bartender. With a furrowed brow, he left the pub moments later without comment.
The writer was a busy guy.
The reader, however, listened politely to the bartender, taking the photo of the newborn in his hand.
“Well done,” he said to the beaming bartender and passed the framed photograph back with a smile. He listened for a time, then finished his drink and prepared to leave.
Storyteller stayed silent, noting the glint in the bartender’s eye and the way his chest got a little fuller when he spoke of his new son. He alone noticed the expensive frame and light grey matting.
The storyteller noted the gentle touch of the reader when he accepted the photo of the new babe. By such tenderness, one could expect he was about to handle the swathed infant itself. He watched the reader tilt his head upward ever so slightly to inspect the photograph through his bifocals.
He also noted the two middle-aged women who occupied the corner booth, the knowing smiles that warmed their faces while they eavesdropped.
Storyteller watched, and throughout it all, his attentiveness hid behind a placid tired face and a gardener’s hands. He savoured, as a connoisseur savours a fine Scotch whiskey, the slump in the bartender’s shoulders when the story of the new boy, now thoroughly told, must await further narration. He noted how the bartender’s eyes flicked restlessly toward the door with each passing shadow.
The teller of stories watched and felt the barkeep’s anticipation of another opportunity.
The storyteller empathized with the barkeep and his need to share his tale. He identified with how the words stoked the fires of the young father’s fascination and love for his child.
New parents often believed their love, brand new and wondrous, was unmatched, rare — likely the most extraordinary love there ever was. He relished the new father’s yearning to speak of it. He too began watching the passing shadows, waiting for someone to push the heavy door wide and enter.
From beneath the brim of his baseball cap, the storyteller beheld the deepened colour beneath the father’s eyes, the mussed hair. He smiled to himself, remembering.
His fingers tapped against his glass as characters and story questions swam in his mind. Too soon, he thought. Thus, he focused on how the proud papa’s handsome smile stood at the ready, that simply knowing the child existed was enough to keep his lips curled. His fatigue he wore as a badge of honour — a rite of passage for all new parents.
The storyteller caught the warm smiles of the two older women who listened to the bartender’s story. He especially enjoyed the brief downcast eyes as memories of their own babies softened the edges of their faces and voices alike.
The storyteller noticed that the reader did not ask about the wife, but the two women in the corner booth did when they paid. He further noted the almost reverent tone of admiration, tinged with wonder, when the bartender spoke of his wife, the mother of his child.
Within his proud expression, the storyteller heard the tell-tale sounds of her labour. The low moans, murmured words from unseen lips, just audible above the blips and whirs of medical machinery. He was transported to the quiet of the case room, where only the mother’s Lamaze breathing displaced the silence. Perhaps, there was a clatter as something metal hit the floor. Finally, a single word — ‘push.’
Finally, the ice, long melted, his drink more water than booze the storyteller left the bar with a full tank. Hands sunk deep in his pockets, he returned home.
Where the storyteller was also a writer and a reader, he alone was all three. He didn’t choose to be what he was — it was simply the way of such folks. He trundled into his cramped and disorganized office and dropped into the chair to wait for the computer to boot up.
Bathed in blue light, he began the journey without a clear idea where it would lead.
Nor did he care.
It simply must be told.
