A Darker Shade of Ale

            It had been a long day at the office for Zachary Cristo. He stared through the rain at the building across the street. A bright, blue and green neon sign adorned the side of the building, flashing off and on randomly. It simply read: The Dead Ales Bar. Every Thursday night, Zachary walked from his apartment two blocks up and met the other regulars here for a few hours of social drinking. It had become a ritual. He quickened his pace while the rain continued to spatter him from above, half-skipping to avoid diving into the deep puddles of water. As he approached the door of the Dead Ales, it swung open, revealing a bouncer, who in turn greeted him warmly.

            “Heeey, Zach! Nice to see you again.”

            “Hey, Paul, how’s it going?” Zach replied, a little startled by the bouncer’s actions.

            “Pretty good. Come on in, you’re late. Man, it’s raining cats and dogs out there.”

            Zach stepped inside and the bouncer quietly shut the door behind him.

            “Zach!” the patrons of the bar shouted as Zach was removing his water drenched jacket.

            “Evening everyone.”

            “What do you say, Zach?” asked the bartender, wearing a green apron and a warm smile.

“Any cheap, tawdry thing that'll get me a good glass of wine,” replied Zach, and the two shared a hearty laugh as the bartender poured a glass and placed it in the rain-soaked man’s usual spot on the corner of the bar.

“Aah, heaven,” sighed Zach, as he eased down on the corner stool and downed a gulp from the crystal glass, “This is just what I needed.”

Several hours passed before Zach had even noticed the man opposite of him wearing a sullen face, a five o’ clock shadow, and bloodshot eyes. The man glared at the empty beer mug in front of him, every once in a while pausing from this routine to give Zack a sharp “Mind your own bee's wax” look, mostly because Zach had a severe staring problem. Eventually his curiosity overpowered him. Zach called the bartender’s attention and asked about the melancholy man.

“Who is that man?” queried Zach; “I’ve not seen him around here before.”

“Him?” the bartender asked, as he gave a quick thumb gesture toward the man opposite of Zach, “That’s an old friend of mine. Name’s Mark Conerg. He said he needed to talk to me about something, so he stopped by. Started drinking and never got around to it, I suppose. Between you and me, that was his ninth drink since he’s sat down. Maybe I should go talk to him.” 

            The bartender approached the man and tried to strike up a conversation.

            “Another drink, friend?” the bartender asked innocently.

            “I’ll tell you…YOU,” stammered the man pointing a work-worn finger at the bartender, obviously heavily influenced, “when I’ve had enough! Give me one more…mmm…my head...”

            The bartender reluctantly pulled a beer from the tap to his left and placed it in front of the man. The man snatched the icy mug, took a large swig, and sat it back on the table with a somewhat pleasant grunt. The bartender shrugged at Zach, and went about wiping the counter with a worn white cloth. By this time, it was getting close to last call, and in the stale air of the bar there were very few people remaining. Most of the regulars had already left.

            “I’ve never seen you like this before, Mark Conerg,” said the bartender, scrubbing a speck of hardened ketchup off of the marble counter.

            “I’ve never really been like…like this, John,” the man named Mark replied, giving John the bartender a “just look at me” hand gesture. Zach was intrigued, and found himself leaning closer to get full earshot.

            “Why not tell me about it?” John questioned, “You know that John Mist is here to lend an ear.”

            “Haha, after all these years, you still use that…corny….thing,” Mark replied, struggling as the last few words came to him, “Why do you care so much?”

            “Haha, after all these years, why would you think I wouldn’t?” the bartender retorted.

            “Touché, touché,” Mark said, admitting defeat.

            A few moments of silence passed, immediately followed by a few more. Small clicks could be heard softly in the background, and Zach looked to his right to see an older man and woman playing chess in the corner. Zach concentrated on the couple, pretending not to pay attention to John and Mark, more or less afraid of another menacing glance from the latter. Finally Mark broke the long silence:

“You see those lucky guys?” he pointed at a group of men, who at that moment were horsing around and proceeding to the exit, “I know some of those guys. Those guys there, they get to go home at night to…to family and wives…and…and children that love them unconditionally.”

The bartender was obviously not catching the drift.

“What exactly do you mean by that?” John asked, as Zach was beginning to piece together Conerg’s trouble in his mind.

“You know…exactly...what I mean by that, John, don’t…be stupid,” his voice had a slight taste of spite.

“If you haven’t noticed, I’m not the brightest bulb in the lamp,” John defended.

“She left me, John. She left me,” Mark made his point clear and blunt.

“Who? That Elli girl you’d been dating?” John asked. Zach could tell from their tones of voice and knowledge of each other that the two were pretty good friends.

“Yes.”

“What was her last name again?”

“Who?”

“Elli.”

“Who?”

“The girl that left you.”

“How’d you know Elli left me?”

“I had a hunch. What was her name again?”

“Eileen Noir.”

“Eileen Noir…I think I know her uncle. Good Navy buddy of mine.”

“Yea, well just because she’s in the Navy doesn’t make her any less of a jerk.”

“No, no, her uncle Grego...”

Mark interrupted, “Don’t you dare try to defend her, being Navy buddies has nothing to…nothing to do with anything at all whatsoever at all.”

John gave a patient sigh and continued to listen as Mark resumed his story.

“She left me, she left me, she left...”

“I understand she left you, but why? For what reason? For who?”

Mark came to a long pause; Zach could see a tear forming in his left eye.

“I don’t know John. I don’t know. Everything was great and good and wonderful and fine and okay and….and…I loved her, John.”

He fumbled around in his jacket’s right pocket and pulled out a small jewelry box. He lightly tossed the box onto the marble counter. John reached over slowly and picked up the box. He gave an acknowledging nod, and then opened the hinged lid to confirm his thoughts. Inside the scarlet jewelry box was a ring, studded with a ruby and many small diamonds. He closed the lid of the box and gently sat it back on the counter.

            “I don’t understand, John, and…and the more I try to understand, the more…the more I realize that I never will.”

            “Tell me the entire story, Mark.”

            And he did, though in his drunken state it naturally came out very slowly and very slurred. Apparently, Mark Conerg had been dating Eileen Noir for several years. He had fallen madly in love, and from what he said, she felt the very same way. They had done absolutely everything together, as all love stories go. He continued to tell John everything, from their first date and their first kiss, to their last outing and last kiss, and absolutely every tidbit in between. In short, they met, they laughed, they held on fast, and finally they said goodbye. Poor Mark was left holding the bag and was incapable of understanding how something so sweet and pure could have been snatched from the very depths of his soul. He was stricken and hungry-hearted. Eileen had apparently left Mark for one of his “friends” by the name of Tim Mangarthew, who by chance happened to be an athlete. A rich athlete, who was also considerably better looking, with more money, and had everything that Mark apparently hadn’t. Or so he said.

“But, why him?” asked John.

“For one, he’s a lot better looking than me. For three, he’s rich. Didn’t I say that already?” he paused. By the time Conerg had finished his story, almost everyone remaining in the bar had left and many of the employees were bustling about cleaning tables and stacking chairs on top of them. It was well past last call, which in this town happened to be 2AM. The older couple was still deeply engrossed in the game of chess. Zach began to down his third glass of the house special, 1937 Red Wine (which, on a total off note, wasn’t the year of the wine, but the name of the brand). He gave a relaxing sigh after finishing the last gulp and was promptly surprised by a waitress draped in a feathery costume. She quickly snatched the wine glass, giving Zach a dirty look in the process.

“That’s it?” John asked.

“What do you want from me, John? I don’t know exactly…for sure…exactly why she left me.”

“Did you ask her?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“What did who say?”

“Eileen.”

“Oh, right,” he paused again.

“Well?”

“Come again?”

“Why did Eileen Noir say she left you?”

“She gave me the “classic.” She said she didn’t want to hurt me.”

“Bleh, I suppose she gave you the “I just want to be friends” bit too, eh?”

“How’d you know?”

“I can’t say I haven’t been there a few times, but it’s never been as bad as your case. Two years. That’s just cheap of her.”

“I wish women understood how much it hurts to be ‘let down…let down easy’,” Mark struggled to form quotes with his fingers. He shot another look at Zach, this time seeming to be some kind of acknowledgement rather than menace. Mark cleared his throat and began again, “Once you’ve gone so far, you can’t just be fr…friends, John. Especially platonic ones.”

“Exactly. She probably knows that.”

“But, John, we had so much. I think I could…I could probably understand…if her heart had changed. If it belonged with someone else…but the things people have told me, and overhearing her in public talk about how horrible a person I was to her...” he trailed off.

“Were you horrible to her?”

“No, and neither was she.”

“Come again?” John asked as he gave the feathery waitress a dirty look. The last part of Mark’s already malformed sentence had been drowned by the sound of the feathery waitress dropping a large stack of serving trays on the floor. Zach followed John’s lead and promptly returned the dirty look the waitress had given him earlier.

“She wasn’t horrible to me. Far…far from it.”

“Why would she say those things then?”

“I wish I knew. I wish she had just dropped me, and gone on.”

            “Don’t worry about it, she’s just a cold-hearted fish.”

            “It’s easy to…easy to say that, John. It’s easy just to call her names and move on. It’s…it’s too easy. But, once you love someone, you love someone, John. You can’t undo that. Maybe…maybe she never loved me.”
            He began again before John could get in a word.

            “Or…or maybe…maybe she’s saying these things to make me angry. She’s saying these things to make me angry, so I’ll harbor hate for her, and move on…but wouldn’t that mean she loves me, if she wants me to move…to…move on and be happy?” Zach’s mouth was moving faster than his mind at his point.

            “Perhaps.”

            “Or maybe she’s a shallow cur…with…who only cares about looks and money and sex, and money, and herself. And money.”

            “Perhaps.”

            “Or maybe, maybe I’m inadequate. Maybe…maybe…you know…I’m not…fit. I’m not of a high enough caliber, or something.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous, you’re a charming guy.”

            “What the hell do you mean by that? Am I that bad?”

            “No, not at all.”

            “Whas wrong with me then, John? Why…why can’t I k…eep women?” Mark stumbled over his tongue.

            “Admittedly, you aren’t the most handsome guy, and you aren’t the richest or the most athletic, but no one is.”

            “What?”

            “You’ve got plenty going for you. Charm, wit, intellect, character, sense of humor, nice hair.”

            “You’re just…being nice.”

            “And honest. I don’t know why a woman wouldn’t want you. You’re going to make some woman very happy some day.”

            “My mother…said that once…before she passed away…she also told me that all women really want is the same thing that men want.”

“Which is?”

“To feel loved. Isn’t it funny? That that’s all that men really want…men want, too?”

            “Smart woman, your mother. Unfortunate loss.” Zach was puzzled, and to this day still doesn’t understand what the bartender meant by “unfortunate loss”.

            “What did you say about my mom?!”

            “Nothing, nothing at all. Relax.”

            “If men and women want the same thing, why must there be so much pain, and grief, and torment, and wrenching, and rending…and…and…”

            “Heart break?”

            “Exactly!”

            “Woe?”

            “Right!”

            “Agony?”

            “Bingo! Why?” demanded Mark.

            “I don’t know,” replied the bartender. Zach heaved a sigh of disgust.

            “Don’t know what?”

            “Never mind. How long has it been since she left you? It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, you being out of town all the time,” John accused.

            “It’ll be two weeks tomorrow, Friday the 18^th,” Zach responded.

            “And you’re still this heartbroken? She must have actually meant something to you.”

            Zach gave John a cold glare, “Obviously.”

            “You know what I meant, Mark.”

            “What did you mean, then?” Mark retorted.

            “I meant that for you to be so heartbroken that…well…I don’t know what I meant…” John paused.

            A brief silence fell over the bar.

            “Check,” said the old woman in the corner. The old man raised an eyebrow.

            As if on cue, Mark continued, “I know…it sounds awful…but I wish women would have their heart broken…sometime…for once…so they know what it’s like. Just…just because I’m a man doesn…doesn’t mean I’m a machine. My heart is like any other. I have…feelings…and emotions…and…and…tears. Any more…I feel as though my heart is calloused. It hurts…it hurts too much to love again, John.”

            “Check,” said the old woman again. The old man placed his hand on his forehead and sighed.

            “I know what you mean, Mark.”

            “Mark?”

            “You.”

            “Oh,” he paused again, and began once more right as John was about to speak.

            “But you know, if I can’t have a girl…woman…girl…that likes and loves…me for me…for me and what I have, my charm and wit and character then I don’t want any at all. Have you heard that saying?”

“Which saying?”           

“It’s better to have loved and…loved and lost than to never have…never have loved at all?”

“What about it?” questioned John, a little lost by the quick change of subject.

“It’s garbage. I was happy before I ever loved, John. I was happy. I was ignorant.”

“Ignorance is bliss?” asked John as he tried to add a proverb of his own to the conversation.

“Exactly. I was happy. I was happy…”

“You shou...”

Mark interrupted, “I was happy. When you’re ignorant, you don’t know what it’s like to not be. When you’ve never loved, you’ve never lost. When you’ve loved and lost, your heart, your mind…and…and…your mind, it aches.”

            “Well, I…”

            “And there’s no point in wanting her back, because if she wouldn’t be happy with me…if she wouldn’t be happy with me, what’s the point?”

            “You’re right, it’s a waste of time.”

            “What’s a waste?”

            “Nothing…” John replied.

            “Check,” said the old woman a third time. The old man gave an acknowledging nod and moved a black rook across the old chessboard.

            “I want to thank you John, you’re…you’re the best friend a guy can have.”

            “It’s not a problem, Mark.”

            “Who? Oh. By the way, would you mind if I kind of sort of slept upstairs tonight? I don’t want to drive like…like this,” he made the same “just look at me” hand gesture again. The bartender chuckled.

            “It’s not a problem Mark, go ahead. I’ll wake you up in the morning. We’ll grab some breakfast.”

            “Huh?”

            “Checkmate,” said the old woman.