The concentration with which I watch the condensation collect on a full glass of beer at this bar is unmatched compared to the sparse motivation I’ve had at work lately. Well, notably and increasingly regularly. At home, the dishes have stacked up. The laundry pile is high. Both telltale signs of a mounting depression I’ve only learned to identify but not combat. I hate this feeling. I should relish my job. I love it in theory. It’s a huge part of my identity. I hold its origin in esteem and on a pedestal. But I just can’t escape this paralysis. It’s a lack of interest, energy, will, and desire. I tell others it’s an apathy born of lack of incentive. Except that’s not wholly true. Honestly, there’s hardly a use in elaborating. I’ve repeated this all in my head so much as if on a reel.
A few seats down this bar, two firefighters from Clay Townshjp have been venting about their jobs. At least, I think they are. I heard talk about schedules and runs, “the township,” “the island,” and “the chief.” The only island in a township is Harsens in Clay, which has its own fire department. And I easily pick up on that stuff like a dog whistle. And I thought at least one of them was gay until he talked about asking out a woman for drinks before she speculatively said she had to take out the trash. I have no idea what they’re doing up here. Clay is forty-five minutes away from Port Huron.
They’re also talking about texts from some woman. I don’t know what to think about why I’m saying any of this. The part of me who longs for attention, and the validation that comes with it, probably just wants them to turn their sights this way. I hear the mention of beckoning maybe another woman out to this bar, the tone of their texts, and a sexual harassment joke. Just look at me, talk to me, I tell myself.
Fuck that. I went to the bathroom and lost track of their conversation. One of them is talking about living in Chicago. One of them doesn’t seem to be from here. Maybe neither of them is from here. I can relate to that. I’m not. And I thought they were coworkers — an understandable implement in socializing with each other — but one of them may be in real estate. Maybe they’re old friends. Maybe they’re catching up, making up for lost time. They got appetizers, while I milk what is my second beer.
The one I originally thought was gay is talking about photos of a woman he wants. She is pretty, it sounds like, but more so, she’s sexy. Something about it makes his hormones want to reproduce, he says. I don’t know the science. But I do know, statistically, men watch for bosoms to feed children, hips wide enough to bear them, and clear skin and bright eyes. I feel like I have a lot of that but am also 15 pounds heavier than I wish I were. I looked up finally to see outside, and there’s a heavy, unexpected fog. And a sole fishing dingy is prodding its way down the Black River in a field of white. It’s weird for this time of year. It also feels symbolic. I checked the weather app on my phone, and the temperature had dropped fifteen degrees, though the humidity percentage is low. I don’t know why I’m talking about this.
Anyway, I’m on my third beer. In the third hour, though, it hardly matters.
I felt that in the bathroom just now, looking over the skin of my palms as if it’d enigmatically tell a truth about myself I was blind to. Fuck this, also. Down the bar, the not-gay guy is talking about an upset woman conquest who said he treated her Iike a relationship but that he wanted like a booty call. At least, now, I know he goes for dark-haired women. He’s not even that attractive. Tattoos and a close-cut head shave. Two people whose business I can’t interpret, nor do I want to, have just sat beside me. I officially give up.
I’ve found out the bartender’s name, and she spent much of the night shoveling spoonfuls of something, probably in-house food, into her mouth. She’s small and blonde and cuter than me. Ah. This is over. Let’s get hammered.
Pent-Up Aching Rivers 