Out there is a pleasant bar, a stone’s throw from an unrestful sea. I’d had a chat with the bartender, a former Irish sniper, who smiled at my order and gave me shots for free.
I had half-downed my bitters and was focused on the crooning of the brutish guitarist in the corner, who cradled his strings like a baby. All the while, a pious-looking fella, in a red robe, harmonised at the top of each verse. It left my body shaking.
That’s when my neighbour remarked, “You look cold.” I cocked my head and, with a wry smile, said, “Nah, my body gets bold.” He chuckled, rummaging the peanut bowl between us, then claimed, “Your accent forgets you.” To which I replied: “I’m pretty sure that’s not the word.” “What is it then?” “I have no clue.”
He snorted, pushing the bowl towards me; I was grateful to have something to chew on. It was sustenance, if one could call it that, though salt and protein had been my diet for so long. I sized up my comrade. He must have been in his sixties, wore a grey button-down and was nursing a whiskey, but what struck me the most was that though he was plain, In his aspect the past held a furious reign.
He took a sip of his liquor, and turned to me with a flicker. His tone was sober when he eventually pulled the trigger.
“Locals steer clear. They don’t like the foreign beer, nor do they know the tunes or get the jokes, or how we toast in irony to every passer-by, chorusing “How far will you go!?” Sure, we’re not exactly in the nicest of neighbourhoods, and there is no parking for outsiders. Either you are a member or you are not, so how did you come to find us?”
I took my cue, told him it was true. “I came from nowhere,” I said. “That’s a long drive.” I looked at him in surprise, prickling with dread.
“Well, your arm is outstretched, palm clasped over the Guinness like you’re still holding the steering wheel — you’re rife with the stiffness. And your ass is at the edge of your seat, shoulders back, thumb rubbing on your sweatshirt to ease the belt strap.”
I laughed at his diagnosis as he raised his glass. “I know a runner when I see one.” I could not fault the math.
“What makes you so sure? You one yourself?” I asked as we clinked glasses and the music swelled. “Look,” he gestured at the other patrons, “All characters, young to the ancient. All telling stories from rivers to basements, each one acquainted with Davy Jones’s locker combination.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, confused. He looked at me as if I was playing the fool.
“Every soul here has become death, has taken lives, has courted deaths; this is our growlery, our steadiest of stays, halfway house from that frightful malaise.”
I realised then that my shivers were fierce. Thrusting my hands into my pockets, I wanted to disappear. “It’s alright,” he said, “We’ve all been first-timers. Not everyone remembers but then we’ve put it all behind us.”
How unconvincing. I said as much. “You’re rambling on. I’m here to spend a few dimes. You might think yourself a detective. I just get the shivers at times.”
He shook his head and proceeded, in detail, to recount the events of that Sunday, when the zealots prevailed. He was but a boy watching flames lick the sky, and even quenching your thirst was a sure way to die. He saw a child his age beheaded by a mob, and soldiers waving underwear, napping in homes they robbed, and fathers raising their babies to the cameras and skies, but they were pleading in a language that the audience despised.
There was nothing about his manner that suggested it was fiction, and every inch of the bar changed with the exile’s description.
There was a kid who’d brought his raft and nailed it to a wall; he was pulling splinters out of his cuticles and uttering oaths in a drawl. There was a teacher from the continent, disdainful of everyone, never took her eyes off the sea even when it devoured the sun. There was someone dancing in a vibrant whirlwind of a skirt, caught in a storm, trying to breathe through the dirt. The pious-looking fella wore a red-stained robe, his shrouded face sobbed at the top of each note. The brutish guitarist had a chokehold on the strings, and our bartender jumped at the click in each clink.
I look down at my holsters and straps. My comrade left years ago and won’t be coming back. There’s a newcomer every now and then — I act the tour guide like my old friend.
“It’s warm in here, but we don’t take guests, and you can stay for long. We don’t close for fests. This is where you’ll find us, as best as we’ll ever be; though we cannot guarantee a good mood, you’ll find friendship and honesty. We are not inclined to ever be inviting, but we stay true to the Convention: come in shivering or fighting.
Welcome to Limbo, if you know where, it will be found. Welcome to Limbo, we’re open all year round.”
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