House of Spirits
(Introduction)
Methuselah
“I’m serving a life
sentence with no chance of parole,” said the man next me. We were sitting at a
bar with an empty stool between us. I was hesitant to respond
because I did not want to get involved. Experience had already taught me, in
this world there are only three kind of drunks—happy, crying and mean.
Happy drunks are loud, uninhibited and the life of every party. Crying drunks are shedding tears in all the beers. Mean drunks—well, they're looking for a fight. And, as far as drunks go, the alcohol doesn't make them what they are, it just emboldens and embellishes who they are. It has a way of breaking down walls of resistance and releasing the demons. Manifesting wounds through chaos and confusion, holding prisoners captive. Often, for generations.
In all fairness, I did not know if he was a drunk and I did not care to find out. Believing a quick exit was the best strategy to avoid meaningless conversation, I tipped the Bar Tender, and stood to my feet, as he turned up a drink, and sat his glass back on the bar with a thump!
I looked down on him about the time he looked up to me, and as our eyes met he smiled and said, "If you'll stick around, the next few are on me.”
I was momentarily disarmed by the invitation and thought it another example of how people long for connection. It's like we're hard wired for fellowship. Some find it in church, many look to Social[CD1] Media, and others seek it out in Bars & Honky Tonks. I realize this leaves me sounding like a preacher, but don't be alarmed, that was in a previous life. One where I thought I had it all together, until my world fell apart and everything I believed was seriously challenged.
On any other day, I would have responded, "Thanks, but no thanks," then offered an excuse as to why I had to leave, but something about the look in his eyes resonated. So, I broke with habit and returned to my seat.
He reciprocated by sliding over onto the empty stool and asked, “What’ll it be?” To which I responded, “I’m not too picky.” Then he raised his voice a couple of octaves, and said, "Bar Tender! Two more Seagram’s please!" I was already wrestling with regret and questioning, "Why am I doing this?” But, that thought was interrupted when he reached forward to shake my hand and said, “Thanks for the company. My name is Methuselah.” Leaning in a little closer, he whispered, “I’ve been around for a long time,” then goosed me in the side with his elbow, as he threw back his head and broke into a belly laugh.
And while he laughed, I was thinking, “His name may be Biblical, but this happy drunk is going to light the place up before the night is done and become everyone’s friend in the process.”
I had seen it before. The bar scene seldom changes. I had sworn it off, but kept drifting back, though I wasn’t sure why. Probably out of sheer loneliness, or just for the atmosphere. In the background I noticed Hotel California playing on the Jukebox.
The Bartender sat two glasses in front of us and poured the drinks. Methuselah reached for one with his left hand while pushing the other to me with his right. I wondered if he was ambidextrous, or just really experienced. I was opting for the later when he said, “Here you go Pete. Bottoms up!”
I looked into my glass, then slowly turned my head toward my new acquaintance and asked, “How did you know my name?”
“Oh, just a lucky guess. And, you look like a guy I’ve known for ages. He name is Peter also, and there was an occasion when he felt as low as your feeling tonight. And, like you, he spent a little time beating himself up. But, in the end, I was able to help him out. I could do the same for you, if you’d let me.”
I was caught off guard and didn’t know how to respond, so I asked, “You helped him out with what?” He leaned forward and whispered, “Jail.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, so I chuckled and asked, “What?”
He nodded his head and responded, “Yeah, that’s right. I busted him out,” then broke into another belly laugh.
“No way!”
“Oh, there was a way. In fact, chances are, you’ve probably read about it.”
“I don’t think so, but what does your lie have to do with my life?”
“Well my new friend, you shall soon learn I’m not lying. A number of years ago, I did bust a guy named Peter out of jail. Secondly, everyone has a story and the last few chapters of yours make for a rough read.”
His demeanor was offensive, so I stood to my feet, then asked, “Who do you think you are, and again, what does my story have to do with anything!”
“It has a lot to do with everything. I’m sorry if I offended you. Sometimes I come across a little brash. Sit down and let me buy another. What else is there to do, but go home, channel surf and hope the Detroit Lions make it to the playoffs again this year?”
I stood over the old man bewildered, unsure if I was being manipulated, or if in some mysterious way, he actually knew me. So far he had me pegged. Because since the accident, I had spent most nights alone and at home, channel surfing; vegging out until sleep found me, usually in the wee hours of most mornings. And, for the record, the Detroit Lions had been disappointing me for years. The anger had not yet developed into full blown rage, so I held it together.
My assessment of the situation was interrupted when he asked, “Are you going to hit me and walk out, or sit back down and be a gentleman? I mean, after all, there’s no reason to be rude.”
While I entertained no thoughts of getting physical, I did consider walking out. I looked around the bar, hoping I had not created a scene and was relieved to find no one was watching. Some were too inebriated to notice, while others were preoccupied with their own issues. So, I returned to my seat, looked him in the eye and asked, “What’s your dig?”
He responded, “What do you mean?”
“How did you know my name, and what were you suggesting with all the innuendo about my siting home, channel surfing and pulling for the Lions? Have you been stalking me, or is there something you’re after?”
“Pete, I’m not a stalker, and I’m not here do get anything from you. In fact, I’d like to help you find something.”
I sarcastically asked, “What? A night in the drunk tank?”
“No. I was thinking a little peace of mind would be nice.”
“Who’s to say I don’t already have it?”
“Actions speak louder than words and you’re life is screaming, “I’m out of control! Someone tackle me!”
“And how would you know that?”
He hesitated for a second, then said, “Bar Tender! We’re moving to that table in the corner.” Then looked at me and said, “Follow me. This could get a little awkward.”
I sat and watched him slide of the barstool and walk over to a table in the corner of the room and pull out two chairs, then sat down in one and wave me over. I stood up, looked in his direction, then headed for the door. I had heard enough, and thought the best thing to do was leave. For all I knew he was some sort of con man, or psycho path and I didn’t need any of that. My life was already complicated enough.
I was stuck in the anger phase of the mourning process— still avoiding family and friends, because I did not want to talk about things.
Happy drunks are loud, uninhibited and the life of every party. Crying drunks are shedding tears in all the beers. Mean drunks—well, they're looking for a fight. And, as far as drunks go, the alcohol doesn't make them what they are, it just emboldens and embellishes who they are. It has a way of breaking down walls of resistance and releasing the demons. Manifesting wounds through chaos and confusion, holding prisoners captive. Often, for generations.
In all fairness, I did not know if he was a drunk and I did not care to find out. Believing a quick exit was the best strategy to avoid meaningless conversation, I tipped the Bar Tender, and stood to my feet, as he turned up a drink, and sat his glass back on the bar with a thump!
I looked down on him about the time he looked up to me, and as our eyes met he smiled and said, "If you'll stick around, the next few are on me.”
I was momentarily disarmed by the invitation and thought it another example of how people long for connection. It's like we're hard wired for fellowship. Some find it in church, many look to Social[CD1] Media, and others seek it out in Bars & Honky Tonks. I realize this leaves me sounding like a preacher, but don't be alarmed, that was in a previous life. One where I thought I had it all together, until my world fell apart and everything I believed was seriously challenged.
On any other day, I would have responded, "Thanks, but no thanks," then offered an excuse as to why I had to leave, but something about the look in his eyes resonated. So, I broke with habit and returned to my seat.
He reciprocated by sliding over onto the empty stool and asked, “What’ll it be?” To which I responded, “I’m not too picky.” Then he raised his voice a couple of octaves, and said, "Bar Tender! Two more Seagram’s please!" I was already wrestling with regret and questioning, "Why am I doing this?” But, that thought was interrupted when he reached forward to shake my hand and said, “Thanks for the company. My name is Methuselah.” Leaning in a little closer, he whispered, “I’ve been around for a long time,” then goosed me in the side with his elbow, as he threw back his head and broke into a belly laugh.
And while he laughed, I was thinking, “His name may be Biblical, but this happy drunk is going to light the place up before the night is done and become everyone’s friend in the process.”
I had seen it before. The bar scene seldom changes. I had sworn it off, but kept drifting back, though I wasn’t sure why. Probably out of sheer loneliness, or just for the atmosphere. In the background I noticed Hotel California playing on the Jukebox.
The Bartender sat two glasses in front of us and poured the drinks. Methuselah reached for one with his left hand while pushing the other to me with his right. I wondered if he was ambidextrous, or just really experienced. I was opting for the later when he said, “Here you go Pete. Bottoms up!”
I looked into my glass, then slowly turned my head toward my new acquaintance and asked, “How did you know my name?”
“Oh, just a lucky guess. And, you look like a guy I’ve known for ages. He name is Peter also, and there was an occasion when he felt as low as your feeling tonight. And, like you, he spent a little time beating himself up. But, in the end, I was able to help him out. I could do the same for you, if you’d let me.”
I was caught off guard and didn’t know how to respond, so I asked, “You helped him out with what?” He leaned forward and whispered, “Jail.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, so I chuckled and asked, “What?”
He nodded his head and responded, “Yeah, that’s right. I busted him out,” then broke into another belly laugh.
“No way!”
“Oh, there was a way. In fact, chances are, you’ve probably read about it.”
“I don’t think so, but what does your lie have to do with my life?”
“Well my new friend, you shall soon learn I’m not lying. A number of years ago, I did bust a guy named Peter out of jail. Secondly, everyone has a story and the last few chapters of yours make for a rough read.”
His demeanor was offensive, so I stood to my feet, then asked, “Who do you think you are, and again, what does my story have to do with anything!”
“It has a lot to do with everything. I’m sorry if I offended you. Sometimes I come across a little brash. Sit down and let me buy another. What else is there to do, but go home, channel surf and hope the Detroit Lions make it to the playoffs again this year?”
I stood over the old man bewildered, unsure if I was being manipulated, or if in some mysterious way, he actually knew me. So far he had me pegged. Because since the accident, I had spent most nights alone and at home, channel surfing; vegging out until sleep found me, usually in the wee hours of most mornings. And, for the record, the Detroit Lions had been disappointing me for years. The anger had not yet developed into full blown rage, so I held it together.
My assessment of the situation was interrupted when he asked, “Are you going to hit me and walk out, or sit back down and be a gentleman? I mean, after all, there’s no reason to be rude.”
While I entertained no thoughts of getting physical, I did consider walking out. I looked around the bar, hoping I had not created a scene and was relieved to find no one was watching. Some were too inebriated to notice, while others were preoccupied with their own issues. So, I returned to my seat, looked him in the eye and asked, “What’s your dig?”
He responded, “What do you mean?”
“How did you know my name, and what were you suggesting with all the innuendo about my siting home, channel surfing and pulling for the Lions? Have you been stalking me, or is there something you’re after?”
“Pete, I’m not a stalker, and I’m not here do get anything from you. In fact, I’d like to help you find something.”
I sarcastically asked, “What? A night in the drunk tank?”
“No. I was thinking a little peace of mind would be nice.”
“Who’s to say I don’t already have it?”
“Actions speak louder than words and you’re life is screaming, “I’m out of control! Someone tackle me!”
“And how would you know that?”
He hesitated for a second, then said, “Bar Tender! We’re moving to that table in the corner.” Then looked at me and said, “Follow me. This could get a little awkward.”
I sat and watched him slide of the barstool and walk over to a table in the corner of the room and pull out two chairs, then sat down in one and wave me over. I stood up, looked in his direction, then headed for the door. I had heard enough, and thought the best thing to do was leave. For all I knew he was some sort of con man, or psycho path and I didn’t need any of that. My life was already complicated enough.
I was stuck in the anger phase of the mourning process— still avoiding family and friends, because I did not want to talk about things.
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