Casualties of War, or: Midnight in Manhattan
Posted on | October 10, 2008 | No Comments
He leaned in with his stool, hunched over the bar counter and staring deep into the oblivion he’d managed to contain in a glass of double-whiskey and coke. Nietzsche once said that this kind of self-reflection might lead a man to discover himself as the most horrible thing he could conceive. But John wasn’t much of a reader and tonight he’d have to figure this one out on his own.
It had been years since the war, but there wasn’t a person in Manhattan that could convince John. He fought his battles under the cover of darkness, drunk and sprawled out at the base of his bed. Most nights, he’d face these moments alone in his one-bedroom apartment, with a bottle of Jack Daniels always at arm’s reach, but once in a while he’d grant himself the luxury of being alone in public. The great thing about the city, he conceded, was that the twenty-four hour subway system allowed you to get wasted without being a danger to anybody but yourself.
Sometimes John would hang around the counter until the scene died down. When the volume of the world lowered and he could hear his thoughts, he swore he could hear the impact of his rounds on their targets, too. Tonight, he heard the hiss-wee-hiss of a buddy’s sucking chest wound and he heard television sportscasters arguing about the Mets.
After an idle sip of what was mostly melted ice, John said that all men are connected through shame and depravity. But it was late and his words came out slurred and incomprehensible.
The bartender looked up from the other end of the bar and went back to wiping the water from pint glasses. To the rest of the world, John was just another thing worth ignoring.
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