Undone

I pushed through the double doors out of the chilly night air and into the nearest bar. The interior was not surprising—the dim lighting did a poor job of covering up the greasy countertops and the dirt-layered walls. I walked quickly past the rows of bar stools, feigning an ignorance to the stares I received from the swiveling faces. A row of four booths sat upon the far wall and I slumped into the one most inviting—the small green lamp on the wall still shining brightly despite its antique surroundings. The vinyl was cracked and hard, its edges curling up sharply and scraping the backs of my bare legs as I adjusted to a comfortable position.

A skinny blonde girl was suddenly at my side asking me what I wanted. Her long hair was pulled straight back into a stringy ponytail and her apron fell lopsided against her faded blue jeans as she cocked a hip to one side and looked only slightly interested in my response. I skimmed the short menu quickly and ordered a cheeseburger and side salad. Her plain face, pretty despite the lack of make-up, remained impartial as she scratched the order quickly onto an old diner’s pad.

“Out of salad. Onion rings or sweet potato fries ok?”

All of my thoughts seemed to be closing in on me, clouding my surroundings and making this bar seem much smaller than it already was. I was struggling in this stale air. I was suffocating.

“The fries are fine…and a Coke please.”

I answered and she was gone.
I thought about my waitress and her ordinary appearance and what seemed like a miserable existence in this grimy little bar with the constant cloud of smoke and the old men's sloppy gazes resting on any available cleavage. I felt sad for the girl a moment before jealousy overtook my compassion for her. Hers were easy problems to solve. Get a new job. Move to a new city. Stop hanging out with old disgusting men. I was sure her life was more complicated than that, but at that moment—I was suffering from tunnel vision and nothing seemed nearly as impossible as my life . My feelings of hopelessness washed over me and I blinked back tears; willing myself to hold on to my feigned calmness. I swallowed and stared hard at the opposite wall, fidgeting in my booth to lean against the wall and extend my legs out on the rest of the seat. I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing; running through my plans for the next day—not for lack of organization, mostly to keep my mind busy.

I opened my eyes slowly and was surprised that someone else had joined me in this corner of the bar. An older man, not much more distinctive than any of the others at the bar, sat in the booth beside me. He scratched some words onto a napkin; a beer dripping onto the table in front of him. He seemed involved and it allowed me time to study him without notice.

His beard, long and full at his chin, was patchy along his jaw line and fading into grey toward his temples. He wore a worn gray t-shirt that strained against the bulge of his belly, landing just short of the top of his jeans. His hands were tanned and rough with dirt shoved deep under the fingernails; a laborer no doubt. His right hand gripped the pen that aggressively carved words into the napkin below it. He finished the sentence and added the napkin to the stack accumulating next to his beer.

He took this pause to look up and I attempted to nonchalantly avert my eyes to the abandoned popcorn machine across from where I sat. I squinted, as though concentrating on the machine with great interest, hoping he would continue on with his writing. He couched roughly and spoke.

“ She’s broken…Been that way for years.”

I felt the truth of his statement sink in; stinging. I looked at him and then back at the lonely machine.

“Looks that way.”