Around the World

Part I

"I cannot believe that just happened," I thought to myself, over and over, like a scratched CD playing in my head. Snow flakes fell to my face, stung my skin like a million tiny knives that stabbed into my flesh. My breath was rapid, thick and visible in the blistering air of the Colorado winter night. I had left my jacket hanging on the back of my seat in the restaurant where I left her, leaving me in nothing but a short sleeve t shirt, foolishly unprepared for this brutally cold evening. The skin on my arms was rapidly changing from painful to pins in needles, and I was sure that numbness would soon follow.

This night in the middle of a Rocky Mountain winter was as unsympathetic as my former dinner companion. I had only been walking for a few minutes, and bitter old man winter was already conquering me. As tears blurred my vision and the winter night slowed my senses, I looked for the nearest open establishment, which would no doubt have to have to be a bar, given the eleven o'clock hour and my downtown Denver location.

Confirming my suspicions, the first business front that I encountered was an Irish Pub, my favorite type of watering hole, a sure bet to lift my spirits in the past, no matter the occasion. Unfortunately, even the neon Guiness Stout signs and Celtic music blaring from within could not raise my head on this frigid and unforgiving evening. As I rushed to enter the door to warm my bones in the urban tavern, a bouncer stopped my with a hand to the chest.

"I need your I.D., mate," he said with an Aussie accent devoid of any excitement or sign of life. Apparently, his childhood dream had not been to stand in the foyer of a saloon, examining forms of identification and babysitting piss drunk patrons. Usually, during the approximate twelve years since my twenty-first birthday, I have always subconsiously found a tad bit of pleasure when asked for my identification in order to get my booze on, in the beginning just for the fact of my finally being able to drink legally, after years of sneaking and trouble, and now more so for the vain and slightly feminine reason that I took pleasure in not looking my age. On this luckless and gloomy evening, though, it filled me with annoyance and a touch of anger. Maybe in part because of the events that preceded my arrival to this establisment, but more likely because I was trembling rapidly with a growing combinition of complete frigidity and absolute anguish.

"Thanks for the compliment buddy, but do I look like a punk ass kid???" I asked him as I grabbed the handle to the interior door of the bar entryway. At that moment, I also realized that my hostility could be in part due to my new adversary's vision of comfort. He was completely decked out in a beanie, pea coat, scarf and gloves; all in the customary black color that so many doormen don as they perch on barstools around this town. "How original," I thought to myself interrupting the constant repetition of, "I cannot believe that just happened," continuing to bounce around inside my mind.

"You look like you are old enough to know the drill," he said in reply to my sarcasm, still without showing any trace of personality. As he pushed his open hand into my chest with greater force he repeated, "ID, please." My first instict in this situation was to grab the thumb of the hand that was pushing on my chest, bend it back in the opposite direction, and hit this man in between his blue but lifeless Australian eyes. Then I noticed that he had six inches on me, and probably 25 pounds, at least. It was hard to tell his exact size because of the dark, heavy and warm apparel that covered his body, but it was obvious that he had a physical advantage, but that was in theory only.

For an instant, I stood there shivering, my breath rolling out of my mouth and nose slowly, like the fog entering the streets london, while he standed motionless, waiting for my decision. No doubt, with his occupation he had infinite numbers of these types of encounters, and on a freezing and slow evening such as this, he was probably bored sensless, and would welcome the opportunity for an old fashioned throwdown to spice things up.

If my black leather jacket were not still sitting on the back of that chair in the restaraunt with her, and instead on my body where it should be, I would not hesitate to pull my chrome Benelli B76 pistol out of the built in holster and put the barrel to his eye, make him get on his knees and show me his identification, then beg for his life. That would end this scenario quick, but unfortunately it was not an option at this moment. No matter, I have also destroyed bigger men and more ferocious men, a lot of them, with my bare hands, especially in Trinidad, but those were different days, that was the past, that was for survival. This was just some guy, trying to earn his ten bucks an hour and get home to his video games and porn.

"Whatever," I said, "It ain't worth it." I took out my wallet, removed my Driver's License and held it inches from his face. "Satisfied?" I said as I opened the door into the bar and shouldered his hand off of my chest, leaving him standing and glaring at me, deciding whether to let me go, throw me out or just jump me. As the door closed in his face, he must have decided that a squabble with a man like me would be a waste, not worth his time. Little did he know.

"I cannot believe that just happened," continued to echoe internally despite my near battle. Looking around, I realized that in my current psychological state I had unknowingly enterred McAllister's Pub, a stereotypical Irish Bar with thick dark wood trim, deep dark booths, dim green lighting and shiny guiness mirrors with The Drop Kick Murphys playing in the background. I had been here before, not regularly, but it would do for what I needed at the moment, something to kill the pain. The place was fairly deserted on that midwinter evening, so I had my pick of locations, and I immediately decided on a bar stool.

"Three shots of Jamesons and a pint of Amstel Light," I asked the bar tender as I cupped my hands together and blew into them in a futile attempt to warm myself while taking a seat. There were a few folks distributed randomly along the bar, all faceless with their features hidden by shadows, smoke and lowered heads. Many appeared to be regulars, all appeared shaggy, shapeless and down on their luck, just the spot for a guy like me.

"Aye," the heavy set, dark haired bar tender replied as he picked up three shot glasses and distributed them along the bar, whilie simultaneously pouring my pint.

"I cannot believed that just happened," I thought, bowing my head and rubbing my arms to attempt to warm them. The bar keep poured the shots with precision and slid my first round to me.

"That'll be seventeen," he said in a thick Irish brogue.

I pushed a twenty and a five across the bar. "Keep it," I said, "and keep 'em comin'." I slammed the first two shots one after another, letting the warm and smooth potion warm my insides as they entered my body. I closed my eyes, tilted my head back, and turned my head from side to side to crack my neck.

"Thanks," he smiled, and turned around to the cash register, going about his business. He must have gotten the hint that I was here for business, in no mood for a bar room shrink session. Not everyone got the hint.

After I took my third and final shot, I lowered my head, trying to make since of what happened just a few minutes earlier. "What's 'er name???" said a scruffy voice, coming from one of the faceless drunks that happened to be sitting next to me. An empty stool, seperated he and I in location, but we were miles apart otherwise. I ignored him and sipped on my pint.

"Only a woman can destroy a man yer age like that," he grumbled. "Ya look like somone kicked yer puppy. So what's 'er name, boy?" the man said, repeating the question. The cold of that winter night left me as the fire of rage started to light inside of me once again, and I had the urge to smash my quarter empty glass on this man's invisible face, but I refrained. I just continued sipping, looking straight ahead at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The bartender slid three more shots my way, and I gulped the first as soon as it arrived.

"Lookatcha, a good lookin' young man such as yerself, yer fuckin' devarstated," he said in a tone that sounded like a mix of a town sheriff from a wild west movie and a pirate straight off the high seas. "Appears ta be recent pain ta me," he said, "a fresh wound."

I could fell tears welling up again in my eyes, a feeling that I had felt very few times in my life. The first, at the death of my brother, the other when I lost my mom. Not feeling accustomed to this, the rage continued to grow inside of me. This man had no idea who he was fucking with or how close he was to mortal destruction. I gripped my glass tighter, and squinted a bit at my own reflection, maintaining my silence and composure, for now at least.

"A boy such as yerself, full of piss and vinegar, thinks he can take on the world," the stranger said as I took another shot. "I betcha can't believe what just happened ta yerself," He added, while the same phrase repeated in the depths of my brain.

An electric volt shot up my spine, and I lowered my head as a tear rolled down my cheek like a drop of mercury on a metal surface. I had never felt pain like this before. I have caught bullets, I have felt blades, I have received devastating jabs, but I have never felt a hurting so deep or true as this. My first instinct to lash out disappeared, I knew it would not assist to treat the wound inside of me. I was defeated. That's what I get for letting her in. I never let anyone in.

I raised my head and looked at myself in the mirror again, this time I saw that the man next to me was staring at my reflection as well. I glared, trying to hide my vulnerabilty. I looked over at him for the first time. He had the appearance of a man who had lived a long hard life, a beaten man. A long red and gray beard that covered his red and swollen face was shaggy and unkempt. Rust and smoke colored the hair that covered the sides of his head as well, while the top was bald, red and shiny. His clothes were gray and tattered, too big for his thin frame. He did not take on the appearance of a bum or a vagabond, he just looked like someone who had given up, someone who just did not give a fuck. This inquistive and intuitive stranger's eyes were sunk in under thick red and gray eyebrows, making it impossible to tell their color or even existence. He just peered at me through a dark and deep area on his face.

"I cannot believe that just happened," I said aloud for the first time as I shuddered to hide my grief, trying my damndest to keep my cool. I downed another shot, and bowed my head.

"So what's 'er damn name boy?" asked the bearded man as he took a sip from a bottle of Bud, staring at me from the shadows...