Someone recently remarked to me that I tend to tell stories in a sprawling manner; in such a way that leads me into other stories that may or may not help illustrate the story at hand. The ending might not be part of the original tale, or even relate to the topic that touched off a particular memory. "Choose your own adventure" he called it. I was at first quite convinced this made me a unique and interesting story teller. That I was more than a rambling tape recorder of overheard conversations. As I considered the implications of this statement I began to envy the purists. Those who never offer up the treasures of their lives in vain or selfish ways, but when coaxed into revealing the worth of their lives lay out a startling tapestry of memories and falsities that lands you a few steps closer to understanding them. They bring you in only when they choose and they do it with the singular idea and linear approach that makes everything seem more real. The friend that described me as a "Choose your own adventure" type is one such person. A purist. And over the years and the stories I've coerced from him either by means alcohol or empathy, I have learned a great deal. But upon further reflection of his statement I think that while I'd like to hold my secrets and trade them for enraptured audiences and the possibility of free drinks, my life, and my stories flow out of me unchecked by better judgement and incompatible with the traditional linear form. Life does not lie, for me, in straight lines.
The building was essentially the same. A few new chairs under slightly more scratched tables and one more dark string mixed in with the hanging christmas lights above the bar but for the most part it was as it had always been. Ashtrays overturned on freshly wiped tables and a tiny television playing a Braves game. Dark booths crammed with four people under the solitary light of a single hanging bulb talking loudly and drinking the house special: 24 ounces of PBR fresh from the can. It was, after all, a Blue Ribbon Winner. Warm weather had made the front patio prime real estate and aside from the bar trollers and the booth campers, the place was deserted. The center row of tables, flanked to the left and right by booths of red leather, sat peaceful and empty. The popcorn machine that dominated the back corner for so many years was removed to make room for a newer and subsequently larger jukebox. The sun was not yet low enough to entice the crowd from their homes and apartments. It was not quite the hour of commencement, but as sure as the sun would set over the Kroger and scream redyellow rays into the front windows for half an hour the throngs of bearded black tshirts and short dark haired cuties; the long stranded collared boys and baby-doll tattooed boppers; the bike helmet mustache boys and cigarette whiskey loveless; the classics and the mods would all begin to stumble through the front doors and make this place almost cozy.
Brian lived close enough to the place that even I could find my way back after a few too many rounds. For the first year that I frequented the place with my good friend and now roommate I don't think I ever used the front door. Honestly, I preferred the back. It was like sneaking into your friend's house after his parents were in bed. The path from his front door to the bar was well worn and aside from jimmying open the odd gate and dodging bushes and crack-heads, it was a straight shot. Later I learned that a few other people that I would eventually meet in Atlanta lived on the same streets that I cut through to make my way to the happiest place on earth. At one end or another there are places where you probably knew everybody, if you were quick enough to see it while it was happening.
I'd have gone there for only the waitresses had there been neither beer nor jukebox. I made no secret of the fact that I was in love with most of the servers. There was something obvious and honest about all of them. They bore a striking resemblance to each other on a purely aesthetic level: black rimmed glasses just large enough to be retro but without trying to seem trendy; long hair that smacked of inattention and immodesty; tattoos from the smallest hint of a flower to full-on sleeves and nude dancing hula girls. Each drink a smile. Every bill a sad goodbye. I often imagined what it was like to know any of them in real life. To see them out or run into them in the park. I thought of them every time I picked up dry cleaning or bought a six pack in a grocery store. I gave them each separate and distinct lives in my imagination. Some worked at the bar in the evenings while during the day they toiled in a local library filing and re-filing books while they took elaborate smoke breaks reading the Great Gatsby and saying lines out loud to no one. Another was a bass player and every weekend drove up to Knoxville to play in a band with her boyfriend and ex roommate in a band called Dance Overachievers to a crowd of eleven people.
I started smoking in that bar. Literally that was the place I decided to smoke. It was a joint effort actually, and in order to illustrate the most accurate picture possible, I must say that it was Brian's idea. Surrounded week after week by very indie looking kids with great hair and badass tattoos it became obvious that we needed an edge. Something that said hey, "we're not like you guys; we think for ourselves." Smoking was, in retrospect, probably not the way to go, and fortunately Brian did not take to it. For me, however, it was a bit more natural. I was on my way to become a full-on smoker. Immediately after I got into a bad relationship with a girl that smoked whenever things went wrong, and trust me, things always went wrong.
As my trips to the Local slowed to the pace of once every month or so – as my time in Atlanta was coming to a close – I noticed an increase in the intensity of each visit. Every new night seemed to yield either a greater high or a more disastrous twist than I would have liked, and thus I saw my time there more as surviving than anything. An evening without incident was rare, and usually only a brief reprieve from the tumultuous social environment in which I was entangled. For a city of significant size Atlanta can feel undeniably like a high school in some places. Trapped in a both one evening with an ex girlfriend in every room of the bar, I understood for the first time just how important it was for me to get out of this town. The place was good for realizations like that. I saw my share of heartbreak underneath the gruesome glow of yellow bulbs and been carried home by coworkers after trying to drink my weight in beer. I made confessions to strangers and told lies to loved ones for no particular reason at all.
So now here I am, right back where I started. In the same building that I'd spent so many nights in Atlanta. In the very spot at presumably the same table that I was when I left this city talking to people and drinking beer and smoking cigarettes – now more because I can smoke indoors but any reason is good enough really. Looking around from face to face, surrounded by people that I know and love, and all I can bring into focus is an intense feeling of regret. Of unfamiliarity. Everything is almost the same. I can hear the voices and imagine all the nights and drinks and conversations that still bounce off the wall so of this bar. I know that if I sit here long enough I will run into people that I didn't intend to, and it will be both pleasant and terrifying. I talk in loud tones about missing everyone but these aren't even the same people anymore. I miss that single day; that particular night; that sequence of events that led to the memory that I hold so dear. I miss the moment; everyone that was there is dead now, and all that's left are the ashtrays on the freshly wiped tables and one more dark set on a string of christmas lights above the bar.