Upon realizing that I have never been anyone’s first choice (and every time subsequently) I decide to partake in the cultural festivities of “barhopping,” except I sit in one bar, next to the first man alone and over fifty I see, so we can talk shit about everyone honestly participating and how they think they’re in love. If I talk of enough before-my-time references, he will eventually warm to my presence and on my way back to the bar from the bathroom, he will have ordered me another whiskey for my topical conversations, circa 1953. The bartender, to my hopes, will have forgotten where exactly I was sitting—because I slid my empty glass closer to the space between the rugged drunkard and me—and placed my new, free of charge full glass before the seat next to said worn body. I, acting so drunk every barstool looks the same, lay my weight on the cushion next to him, full well knowing he won’t bring it up because he enjoys the human giving him attention and because that would just be awkward.
I ask him about things I will never experience. I ask him about his parents, particularly his father, because everyone becomes impassioned about that. I ask him about religion and the freedom we have as masses of matter. I ask him to tell me stories and he does. Seven or eight drinks in—what was I drinking, again?—I start to see my granddad in his eyes. The warmth of a loosened bloodstream makes him familiar, and though I know it is not sincere, I believe it is. I make connections and warp the stories my parents told me of their fathers for hours until I see the coagulating terms drooled out on my jeans. I don’t mind. I don’t mind because I am sitting with a dead family member who only slightly remembers me and he doesn’t mind either.
