The support group for lonely men meets every second Wednesday in the hotel lobby. At five minutes to five, suede shoes and pastel pants lift up their lonely soles, out from the rain and the damp Sherbrooke streets. Shaken and bright, they take their places in a motley row; leather seats creaking under pressed cheeks; shifting comfortably as the conversation starters make their round along the countertop.
The taps run nostalgic. They break the ice as they twirl the rocks in their cups; myrrh for the torporous congregation. Waxing memories like shining bronze, they make reflections out of everything and wash each other’s feet in bombinating discussions; bucolic distractions for the modern man.
One slaps the other’s back, tells him the story that they’ve all heard before. There’s a little house with all the kids in it; some time spent with the dog in the yard; Sunday morning walks with the wife when all you want was another hour of sleep and two Tylenols to take away the pain; the pounding headache, the guilty memory.
An empty glass clinks against the counter. One more round to get them through the night.
But the men are only human; bodies only ephemeral. One can only drink so many memories before the edges begin to blur and calm goes to confusion. One flicks his coaster against the wall; another picks at the peeling edge of the stool. A glass shatters, and the man in the black shirt tells them to knock it off.
In protest, they rise and stumble, drifting one by one into the mounting acedia of the moonlight. As the last of their members stumbles his way back through the lobby, past the plants, hand against the wall, the young man collects their tips and rinses their cups. He’s twenty-seven years old and finishing his final year in college. He’s half their age and knows half of them by name, which is almost as much as they know about themselves. In the closing hours of the night, he’s alone but hardly lonely. He sees his reflection in the mirror by the bar, smiling and tired.
He knows he’s nothing like them, but he wonders if he isn’t perhaps the same.
Maybe as we get older we dejectedly feel older, as we rum out time we only make it worse, until loneliness makes us angry and old , or maybe another rum would help? Good one
“One can only drink so many memories….” “Cheers!”
Don
Struggling for words to describe how much I like this story. It’s creme brulee: simple yet rich with contrasting texture and taste. Seconds, please.
Cheers! Well done, thanks!
The poetry of this story strikes me deep within my heart. Mr. Nachaj is a phenomenal writer and I hope to read more of his work.
The story is bucolic melancholy. The language however didn’t work for me as it was a mix of British and American English. As the fancy words leaned British I would have gone with paracetamol and pubs instead of Tylenol and hotel lobbies. One editor accused me of writing with arrogance when I used too many highfalutin words. It is unfortunate, but good advice for both of us in the future. I bet you drive a Morgan (lucky guy).
A really beautiful, thought-provoking piece which I thoroughly enjoyed.
Lovely piece.
I liked the story, since I am at the point of being one of those old men. However, I agree with Kieth, it felt like an American ex-pat telling it, or some mixture and that took away from the early portion. The ending was near perfect, for youth knows little besides the arrogance of being young.
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