The Lunch Hour

"I'll have one extra dry please," he yelled across to the bartender who was blatantly ignoring him. Tapping his foot against the barstool leg, he was starting to clench his teeth in impatience.  It had been a long season and work was at an all time boiling point. At first it started out as a happy hour drink every Friday, which now had turned into 2 or 3 at happy-lunch-hour almost everyday.

The bartender finally came over with the shaker, as she poured his lunch she gave him a grim look of disgust because he had since become one of her regulars that took up not only her time and barstool, but her love for hospitality. She hurried to shake the last drop in the glass (she was obviously eager to leave before he could initiate a single word) and briskly turned around again to the opposite side of the bar to attend to a guest who wasnt as crass.

"What the fuck was her problem? You dont know me. I bet you wish you could know me more than you want. I bet I could hit that. I bet she's high maitenence but then what the fuck would I do? I'd have another fuckin broad calling me askin for my time and my money". As he downed his drink resentfully watching her attend to the other patrons he simmered in his thoughts.  His attention briefly shifted to the people surrounding him. Since it was the bar attached to the highrise of his office building, it was full of suits.  Black suits, tan suits, grey suits. Suits with polos, suits with ties, skirt suits. Hell, some of the suits had a suit under the suit. He drank the last bitter drop of the not-so-dry martini and turned around on the stool to face the window.

The cold November rain was hitting the sidewalks of the Back Bay like they were made of metal. Coming down in sheets.  His soggy reflection on the window showed a scruffy 5'oclock shadow (he hadnt had time nor had he really cared to shave that morning) and tired eyes. He couldnt believe that this was it. This was his life. He had sold out and gotten the paycheck rather than the passion. He loosened the tie and unbuttoned the top button; Suddenly he had to catch a breath as he broke a small sweat thinking of the monotonous life he had forced himself to live now.

When had he gotten so bitter? It hadn't always been this way. There was a time when he had a gig playing drums in his buddys band. They would play at- oh what the hell was that place called? It seemed like ages ago that he couldnt even remember the simple name of the dive bar. But he did remember the feeling, the rush he got from playing nightly shows, the attention from the girls that would come to watch them play, the freedom and carelessness of being a nightowl.  A time when he was living paycheck to paycheck but he could sleep in as late as he wanted and he loved it. That was a time of his life he now referred to as his "fake celebrity". Now for him all it was was just that. A distant memory. The reflection in the window mocked him. "You suit. Look at you! You're pathetic!". He turned back to the bar and noticed that his glass was filled yet again....on to number 3. Shit even the bartender knew his routine by now.  And yet he realized after all these weeks of coming in to the same exact bar at the same exact barstool for the same exact lunch hour, that he didnt even know her name. Yep, that was him. another fuckin bitter Suit living the same fuckin routine and caring even less than the Suit before him to learn the poor girls name.

But that was it. He had chosen this and maybe he was careless and bitter, but he had become accoustomed to his same-ole same-ole routine. Actually the thought of no routine and less money did nothing for him. He kept his "fake celebrity" memories tucked away for hard days like these. He realized that he would never be as happy as he might have been back then. But this was it. This was who he was. As he slugged his way through number three, he watched the other suits slowly leaving the hive to go back to their respective offices to call their wives and lovers, carouse their facebooks and twitters, and stare aimlessly out their big fancy windows at the November wrath that came at the close of every season. He finished it down to the drop and paid his tab. As the bartender came over he thought quickly about catching her name, but convinced his ego it would be a waste of time and that she didnt matter. If she wasnt there to pour his drinks someone else would be. He got up from the stool and threw his suit jacket back on, staightened his tie, and with a deep breath, he headed back up the elevator to his life.