Reuben was disappointed. It was not the first time he was disappointed though. He was usually disappointed in things, people, scenarios. But it was not things, people or scenarios he was disappointed in today. Reuben was disappointed with himself.
He got down at Hermand street, two stops before his usual stop to home from work. He would often go to The Tavern, a small sports bar at the end of the street. He never cared for the live sports they streamed or the all-female bartenders, it was just that he had been going there for ever and the thought of going to a different bar sounded like an unnecessary practice to him.
He got his usual pint of Stella and grabbed the farthest most chair to sit on. He held the cold glass of his beer between both of his palms, with the glass resting on the table and wrapping it around with all his fingers. He watched carefully, millions of crazy bubbles struggling to rise against the deep yellows of the beer, just to get to the surface and be the indistinguishable part of the froth and finally either fizz out into oblivion or be his fake moustache for a while and then be wiped off. He was, somehow enjoying suffocating the glass of beer between his palms, and for a while he thought that all the bubbles’ manoeuvres were their attempt to escape out of his death grip. This made him chuckle and then he swallowed the entire glass down his throat in one go. He put the glass back on the table and smirked at it.
He rose and got himself another pint and grabbed his chair back. He again held the glass between his palms, this time tighter to make sure the bubbles suffocate till death. And it all seemed working. The bubbles were not going up anymore, they sort of started to circle around and realign themselves into a pattern. Something felt strange. He felt the inside of his palm shivering. Were the bubbles dead and was it the metaphorical cold breeze associated with them that was making his inner palms shiver? The state of the glass changed abruptly from shivering and started to shake vigorously, spilling some of its content on the table.
To his own surprise, he didn’t freak out. He didn’t assume it was, as Jules put it, “a divine intervention”, or as the rest of us would put it, an earthquake. He was not trying to hide beneath his table. He kept his nerves calm and looked around. Everything else looked normal. The only other thing which was shaking was one of the long earrings of one of the bartenders, while she was fiddling with it as the bearded man in red, who apparently had travelled 67 countries and spoke 23 languages, flirted with her. He looked further left and found a dork with a dog looking at him. The dork was sipping his drink and raised his index finger off his glass momentarily and nodded with a smile as they made eye contacts to acknowledge the existence of his fellow beer admirer, which was Reuben. Reuben immediately looked away without returning the friendly gesture of the dork with the dog. He often found himself fumbling through the protocols of social interactions. He was still looking around and laid his eyes upon the framed pictures of a couple of legendary golfers from Scotland hanging perfectly on the wall. There definitely was no divine intervention in any of its manifestations going on. Except the shake of his beer glass, which by now was pretty much tap dancing on the wooden table.
He saw a face appearing on the glass. The bubbles were slowing down and realigning themselves to form the face of, probably the ghost of the beer-fest past, just to take him through the awkward drunken sins he might have perpetrated. He was still not panicking though, staring so deep into it, that for a while he forgot what he was looking for.
“Hello Reuben, son of Jacob and Leah.” The face spoke, in its deep baritone voice. This could have freaked any practically rational being, but not Reuben. He was cold. If he was any colder, the Titanic could have hit him.
“Why would you say that? I’m not Jewish. I don’t know why my parents even named me that.”, Reuben responded.
“Are you disappointed with your name, Reuben?”
“No. It just doesn’t matter to me anymore. No one cares what my name means, not even I.”
“Not even you?”
“No.”
“What do you care about then?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean do you care about anything else, if not your name? What matters to you the most?”
“I don’t know. Nothing matters to me, I guess.”
“Nothing at all? Oh come on, there has to be something you care about.”
“Not anymore. It’s not like I chose this life for myself. Nothing matters to me anymore, really now.”
“Interesting”, said the face. It would have taken a sip of itself, if it could, while it said that. The table was turning, metaphorically. The face was taking charge.
“So you’ve been leading a life, the goals of which have been decided by others?”, it continued.
“I don’t think I still have a goal or a purpose in my life. But yes, I AM living a life I did not choose for myself.”
“Tell me more about it.”
“Piss off, you. I’m not talking to a stupid glass of beer.”
“Why? Don’t you want to talk about it? You don’t want to tell me how disappointed you are with yourself for letting everything around you decide what you wanted in life?”
“Shut up, I said.” He was panicking a bit my now.
But there was no stopping the beer. It continued talking.
“You know what, if they ever make a movie on your life, your character will not even get to play the lead in it, your own role in your life has been so insignificant.”
“You shouldn't be talking.” He definitely was freaking out.
“But here I am, talking to you. And I know you too want to talk to me, Reuben.”
“No I do not.”
“Of course you do. Denial is a promiscuous whore Reuben, you can have some good time with it, for a while. But you cannot live with it forever.”
“Stop lecturing me, please and do not treat me like I need a therapy. I am not depressed or suicidal.”
“Of course you are.”
“What?”
“Suicidal.”
“Why on Earth would you say that? I am NOT suicidal. By no means. NO.”
“You are. You are letting yourself slip into the clutches of death, which is inevitable, without even trying to live. You have given up hopes on your life, and you are doing nothing about it. With every passing moment, you are getting yourself one step closer to your end, without trying against it. Anything that doesn’t kill you, counts as a failed suicide attempt.”
At this point, Reuben had loosened his clutch on the glass and started to stare at his wet palms. He was not sure anymore if it was the cold glass or his palms were sweating. He wiped his palms on his thighs and nodded in denial.
“You are just a stupid, insentient glass of beer. I can push you off the table and shatter you into pieces and make it look like an accident. Stop talking to me. I don’t want to talk to you.”
He had started picking his bag up and prepared to leave.
“Feel free to come back to me, in case if you change your mind and feel like talking.”, the face said.
He turned around, hitting the glass with his bag, tipping it off the table and shattering it into pieces. The beer was all over the carpet. The dork and his dog were still there as before. The dog didn't seem to care about the spilled beer.
Reuben plugged his earphone in his ears and walks out of the bar. It was half past nine and the big British sun still lurked low in the summer sky. It was yellow and looked like a giant ball of piss to him. He felt this fact quite disturbing that he might have had piss-light all over his face. “Hang me, oh hang me” by Dave van Ronk played in his ears and he walked towards the setting sun.
Reuben was disappointed. It was not the first time he was disappointed though. He was usually disappointed in things, people, scenarios. But it was not things, people or scenarios he was disappointed in today. Reuben was disappointed with himself.
He got down at Hermand street, two stops before his usual stop to home from work. He would often go to The Tavern, a small sports bar at the end of the street. He never cared for the live sports they streamed or the all-female bartenders, it was just that he had been going there for ever and the thought of going to a different bar sounded like an unnecessary practice to him.
He got his usual pint of Stella and grabbed the farthest most chair to sit on. He held the cold glass of his beer between both of his palms, with the glass resting on the table and wrapping it around with all his fingers. He watched carefully, millions of crazy bubbles struggling to rise against the deep yellows of the beer, just to get to the surface and be the indistinguishable part of the froth and finally either fizz out into oblivion or be his fake moustache for a while and then be wiped off. He was, somehow enjoying suffocating the glass of beer between his palms, and for a while he thought that all the bubbles’ manoeuvres were their attempt to escape out of his death grip. This made him chuckle and then he swallowed the entire glass down his throat in one go. He put the glass back on the table and smirked at it.
He rose and got himself another pint and grabbed his chair back. He again held the glass between his palms, this time tighter to make sure the bubbles suffocate till death. And it all seemed working. The bubbles were not going up anymore, they sort of started to circle around and realign themselves into a pattern. Something felt strange. He felt the inside of his palm shivering. Were the bubbles dead and was it the metaphorical cold breeze associated with them that was making his inner palms shiver? The state of the glass changed abruptly from shivering and started to shake vigorously, spilling some of its content on the table.
To his own surprise, he didn’t freak out. He didn’t assume it was, as Jules put it, “a divine intervention”, or as the rest of us would put it, an earthquake. He was not trying to hide beneath his table. He kept his nerves calm and looked around. Everything else looked normal. The only other thing which was shaking was one of the long earrings of one of the bartenders, while she was fiddling with it as the bearded man in red, who apparently had travelled 67 countries and spoke 23 languages, flirted with her. He looked further left and found a dork with a dog looking at him. The dork was sipping his drink and raised his index finger off his glass momentarily and nodded with a smile as they made eye contacts to acknowledge the existence of his fellow beer admirer, which was Reuben. Reuben immediately looked away without returning the friendly gesture of the dork with the dog. He often found himself fumbling through the protocols of social interactions. He was still looking around and laid his eyes upon the framed pictures of a couple of legendary golfers from Scotland hanging perfectly on the wall. There definitely was no divine intervention in any of its manifestations going on. Except the shake of his beer glass, which by now was pretty much tap dancing on the wooden table.
He saw a face appearing on the glass. The bubbles were slowing down and realigning themselves to form the face of, probably the ghost of the beer-fest past, just to take him through the awkward drunken sins he might have perpetrated. He was still not panicking though, staring so deep into it, that for a while he forgot what he was looking for.
“Hello Reuben, son of Jacob and Leah.” The face spoke, in its deep baritone voice. This could have freaked any practically rational being, but not Reuben. He was cold. If he was any colder, the Titanic could have hit him.
“Why would you say that? I’m not Jewish. I don’t know why my parents even named me that.”, Reuben responded.
“Are you disappointed with your name, Reuben?”
“No. It just doesn’t matter to me anymore. No one cares what my name means, not even I.”
“Not even you?”
“No.”
“What do you care about then?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean do you care about anything else, if not your name? What matters to you the most?”
“I don’t know. Nothing matters to me, I guess.”
“Nothing at all? Oh come on, there has to be something you care about.”
“Not anymore. It’s not like I chose this life for myself. Nothing matters to me anymore, really now.”
“Interesting”, said the face. It would have taken a sip of itself, if it could, while it said that. The table was turning, metaphorically. The face was taking charge.
“So you’ve been leading a life, the goals of which have been decided by others?”, it continued.
“I don’t think I still have a goal or a purpose in my life. But yes, I AM living a life I did not choose for myself.”
“Tell me more about it.”
“Piss off, you. I’m not talking to a stupid glass of beer.”
“Why? Don’t you want to talk about it? You don’t want to tell me how disappointed you are with yourself for letting everything around you decide what you wanted in life?”
“Shut up, I said.” He was panicking a bit my now.
But there was no stopping the beer. It continued talking.
“You know what, if they ever make a movie on your life, your character will not even get to play the lead in it, your own role in your life has been so insignificant.”
“You shouldn't be talking.” He definitely was freaking out.
“But here I am, talking to you. And I know you too want to talk to me, Reuben.”
“No I do not.”
“Of course you do. Denial is a promiscuous whore Reuben, you can have some good time with it, for a while. But you cannot live with it forever.”
“Stop lecturing me, please and do not treat me like I need a therapy. I am not depressed or suicidal.”
“Of course you are.”
“What?”
“Suicidal.”
“Why on Earth would you say that? I am NOT suicidal. By no means. NO.”
“You are. You are letting yourself slip into the clutches of death, which is inevitable, without even trying to live. You have given up hopes on your life, and you are doing nothing about it. With every passing moment, you are getting yourself one step closer to your end, without trying against it. Anything that doesn’t kill you, counts as a failed suicide attempt.”
At this point, Reuben had loosened his clutch on the glass and started to stare at his wet palms. He was not sure anymore if it was the cold glass or his palms were sweating. He wiped his palms on his thighs and nodded in denial.
“You are just a stupid, insentient glass of beer. I can push you off the table and shatter you into pieces and make it look like an accident. Stop talking to me. I don’t want to talk to you.”
He had started picking his bag up and prepared to leave.
“Feel free to come back to me, in case if you change your mind and feel like talking.”, the face said.
He turned around, hitting the glass with his bag, tipping it off the table and shattering it into pieces. The beer was all over the carpet. The dork and his dog were still there as before. The dog didn't seem to care about the spilled beer.
Reuben plugged his earphone in his ears and walks out of the bar. It was half past nine and the big British sun still lurked low in the summer sky. It was yellow and looked like a giant ball of piss to him. He felt this fact quite disturbing that he might have had piss-light all over his face. “Hang me, oh hang me” by Dave van Ronk played in his ears and he walked towards the setting sun.