James Reso gave little thought to
the gradually warming beer in his hand.
His focus was reserved for the crowd gathering round his table as he
spun his way through another mostly true-to-life tale. It had been just the five of them when
they took their seats at the pub—the name of which was long lost in the drunken
ether—a little after seven: James, with his back to the door, faced the bar;
Meghan to his left; Conrad immediately across from him; Dylan next to Conrad;
and Mick at the head, between Meghan and Dylan. In the two or three hours since, the population at the
center of the pub had multiplied a couple of times over.
Some came for a quick
question—“which way to the shitter” among the most frequent—and had gotten
sidetracked by something James said or asked in return; Americans, such as
James and Conrad, could still prove a novelty to the less-worldly Dubliners,
the younger students and out-of-towners.
Others came when word of James’ stories had travelled far enough across
the pub, piquing curiosities and demanding to be heard in person. It hadn’t taken long before their table
had developed its own gravity, pulling people in quicker as the mass swelled.
James was presently in the middle
of another anecdote: the one about his self-imposed exile from the States, one
he had told enough times before.
He had learned to how embellish where necessary, to alleviate his own
boredom with the telling, as much as anything: removing or adding certain
details, playing with linear and non-linear models. Depending on the way he told it, he could make it a dramatic
narrative, an adventure yarn, or even a comedy. Sometimes he’d play up the domestic and international
politics that had been pivotal to the story’s impetus, other times he’d mostly
ignore them. It all depended on
what he thought the crowd wanted to hear.
Wrapping up his story to a round of shouts and applause—he had opted for
the part-dramatic, part-comedic, less-political version—James took a sip from
his beer and listened to someone he didn’t know tell him to hurry up, so he
could receive another.
He leaned back and tried to
remember exactly when he had gone from chatting with his friends to holding
court. Not so much because this
was unusual—it wasn’t—but because part of him remembered this not being so easy
once upon a time. He used to have
to work harder to conquer his audiences.
Perhaps it had just become routine. Conrad had often commented that James asked for this or, as
he sometimes put it, needed
this. He couldn’t quite recall
when the transition had begun or how he had done it this time. He never could, really. Under sufficient duress, he might admit
that these nights, these moments, could become something of a blur.
Some hours earlier, James had
been scanning the words on the laptop screen in front of him for some veneer of
inspiration. Minutes before, he
had been confident—unflappable in his dominion over the keyboard, incapable of
churning out anything less than faultless prose. He had towered over the screen. He had bounced in his chair. He even smirked, reveling in his command of the written
word. Then the brain drain sunk in
and now the writing Leviathan who had occupied that chair was gone. He couldn’t even be described as a
ghost; slouched, tired, unproductive, there was no sign of him.
The place-saver blinked off and
on. He had read this same
semi-blank page again and again.
The words that had been so well chosen led to nothing. He had no clue what he had been aiming
for. It was then the thought hit
him that perhaps it was his earlier work that was gibberish, hence his present
lack of direction.
James suddenly felt very tired.
Vox Americani: James’ blog.
He had written in it roughly every other day since arriving in Ireland
two years before. He called it something else then: Reflections of an Ex-Pat, or some equally pedestrian nonsense. He wasn’t so big on titles in those
days. It had started out a diary
of his thoughts on any topic he thought the outside world could relate to;
semi-humorous musings on people, work and religion; more serious thoughts on
films, rules regarding living with roommates and everyday trivialities. Politics had slipped in a few times,
mostly because that’s what he was thinking about at the time. He never took it too seriously. Nor did anyone else, he figured.
As time went on, he found
politics becoming a more regular feature, with his longer and more eloquent
pieces revolving around the Ward administration’s most recent overreach. His readers, the few and the proud, had
noticed the same and they let him know it. The comment page would teem with activity each time he had
offered them a few shots at the American president, his policies, and his
enablers, his base. Each time he
transferred his rage through the keyboard they’d come back with increasing
passion and numbers, echoing his message twofold. Then threefold.
Then five. Before long
James couldn’t even sit down to his computer without it entering his head that
if he had something he really wanted people to read he needed to at least start
with some political epithet. Give
them that and they’d stay for whatever came with it.
By the time he had accepted the
direction his blog had taken he had already renamed it. Vox
Americani was advertised as commentary from an unashamedly anti-Wardist
stance, proud to fight the good fight against the intransigence of the current
commander-in-chief, bellowing impotently from a couple thousand miles away. And his readership ate it up. His comment page had transformed into a
message board comprised of several dozen members, with hundreds more checking
in to see what the regulars were saying.
An anonymous blogger, he became
something of a minor Internet celebrity.
In his entries he barely acknowledged that there had been such a
surge. He forged on as if it were
an aberration. All he had had was
an outlet for his own indignation, subsequently feeding countless others. His blog’s status was of no comfort
now; if anything, it sharpened the embarrassment. His soul screamed for just one more passage, one more
sentence. One more word. If he got that much he might find
whatever it was he had been trying for.
Sometimes all it took was the smallest spark and he’d be off,
unstoppable. But when the spark
was most needed, when he most appreciated and respected that capacity he
occasionally had, it was dark.
He looked again to the other
window, opened to a news site:
Ward:
Wars Complete; President declares long-standing military operations a “success;”
fate of draft dodgers to be announced
James stared ahead at the
screen, still stuck.
At the pub, his onlookers
hoisted their glasses as James made a brief toast. The first silence of the night followed, as each one of them
attempted to down mostly full drinks in one go. One by one they finished and unleashed a small and choked
“hurrah” for their accomplishment.
Across the table, Dylan, already looking rather pale, slammed his glass
to the table and rose from his seat, hand to his mouth, making quickly for the
restroom.
Conrad leaned across the
table. His mouth moved, but James
had trouble hearing him over the din of the pub. He was about to ask his oldest friend to repeat himself when
Mick intervened, motioning with his hands and shaking his head. Conrad nodded and mouthed a few mute
syllables in response.
Around them, the crowd had
remained committed to their spots, save for the handful of them who had
splintered off in search of more booze following the toast. Among those who remained, a few were
prodding James for further anecdotes.
He plumbed his memories and found that only his political portfolio
remained untouched. It was always
hard to tell how those stories would be received and so he had been hesitant to
go to that well. In some of the
pubs closer to home—in the student-heavy pubs and clubs of Rathmines—his
harangues about Ward were usually crowd pleasers. But tonight they had travelled further into the center of
the city and the crowd here was decidedly more mixed; a wide range of ages and
incomes were evident. There were
certainly some tourists among them.
Across from him, Conrad, sensing
James’ predicament, shrugged: a clear enough signal. Conrad tended to disdain political discussions in the pub;
these were his churches and he knew well the division that politics could
create, especially when people were drinking. But he also knew James and he
preferred the path of least resistance.
The one potential obstacle removed, with Mick—whose thoughts on politics
and pubs were much the same—having suddenly disappeared, James held his nose
and announced, sans segue, the name of President Dennis Ward. A chorus of boos rained down in the pub
and James grinned.
As he scanned his mind for an
adequate rant, he observed Dylan, emerging from the restroom on the other side
of the bar. He stopped on his way
back, commanding the attention of the bartender and put his forefinger in the
air. Mick had appeared behind
Dylan, grabbing him by the shoulder.
The bartender looked to Mick with some concern. It was at that point that Conrad slid
his chair over, ready to listen, inadvertently inserting his large frame into
James’ view of the situation at the bar.
He might not have long, James thought to himself.
Conrad Brody stood in James’ bedroom
doorway, watching his friend massage his temples in quiet struggle. Conrad knew the words could not
effectively fight back against James.
But if they hung together in just the right way they could clog within
his mind, temporarily silencing him. If this held for long enough, the thoughts and their
corresponding passages would impact upon one another, forming a mass of
indistinguishable fragments of ideas and words. Then James would become frustrated and the problem would
compound. On and on it would spin
until James was no longer master of that which was within his scope and he was
slouched over the keys, seething not about the corruption and excesses of the
Ward administration or its lapdog populace, but about his own failures to say
anything about them.
Conrad didn’t dwell long. “We’re going pub-hopping. Now-ish, I think.”
For a moment James said
nothing. Just stared at his
screen, his fingers hovering over the keys, waiting to perform their task. The only sign that he had even heard Conrad
came when his shoulders heaved and he pushed back in his chair. He heard me, Conrad thought as he
steadied his feet in the doorway.
“That sounds good,” James eventually said. Then, after turning around: “You see
these reports? The wars are over. Just like that.”
“I saw. It’s the biggest story of the day.”
“There’s been nothing in terms
of rousing success. No real
milestones met. Ward’s been
adamant in his refusal to alter course.
Now he wants to jump out.
Does it make any sense to you?”
“He senses a political
opportunity and he is, after all, a politician. All in all it makes about as much sense as an ex-pat
draft-dodger preaching to those who stayed about the importance of devotion.” It was not the first time Conrad made
the statement aloud and probably wouldn’t be the last, either.
“We’re not the only ones,
Conrad. And you know that.”
Conrad never had any real retort
on hand, not one that wouldn’t prove James’ point, anyway. For that matter, the point wasn’t even
that Conrad disagreed with him; he didn’t. Even when he felt a glimmer of disparity, he usually found
it impossible to do so after James was through with him. Give him just the slightest opening and
James, if so inclined, could talk without end. The words never said anything you didn’t want to hear, were
never unjustifiably malicious.
When James spoke one was always certain where he stood. In his silence, you didn’t know where
he was or what he wanted and, Conrad believed, neither did he.
“I’ll be down in a few minutes. Just let me finish up here.”
“Sure thing,” Conrad replied as
he turned to go.
James was lying. Not deliberately, of course. In his mind he’d be able to make good
on the promise. He wasn’t leaving
until he got his feet back down on the ground, which would only happen when he
could get some control over his work.
That wasn’t going to be anytime soon and it didn’t do any good to try to
tell him so, or risk him pulling out altogether. Best let him try to finish up, Conrad thought. Tell Mick and Dylan they’d wait a
little while longer. Then Meghan
would try.
James wasn’t sure exactly when
Meghan had slid her chair so close to his. Last he checked she was abiding the few inches of personal
space allowed by their side of the table.
Then people had begun to crowd around, forcing the tables’ occupants to
huddle together. Minutes from
closing time, they were now hip-to-hip.
She had had at least as many as he had. Or so James reasoned.
Whatever it was, he was reluctant to point it out, causing others,
including Meghan, to become conscious of it and snuffing out the moment. At one point, James made some
off-handed joke about Ward—one that was funny only in that place, at that time,
with that level of alcohol coursing through them—that sent waves of raucous,
drunken guffaws through the small throng, Meghan had thrown her head back in
laughter and surreptitiously pinched James’ inner thigh.
She leaned over further than was
necessary and shouted something into his ear. Over the noise of the pub and the various shouts and
conversations going on round them, he could not quite hear. He nodded and smiled as coyly as his
present state would allow. She,
suitably impressed, leaned back to his ear and, James would’ve sworn later if
he could remember, darted her tongue in and out of it, before quickly
resettling herself to field a question from Mick. James, for his part, smiled, cleared his throat, and turned
his attention back to his less intimate attendees.
This was about the time that the
bartender announced ten minutes to closing. After the unhappy groans subsided, James spoke up,
requesting one more hour. A few
courtesy laughs answered him. The
bartender rolled his eyes and denied his request. James pressed on, keeping his tone just friendly enough that
the bartender knew he wasn’t dealing with the usual joker asking for an
extension. After a while, the rest
of the pub joined in, recognizing the seriousness of the negotiation and
treating it accordingly. The
bartender, however, continued to plead his case, citing alcohol laws and his
poor, tired staff. James expressed
his sympathy and explained how everyone would make the extra time well worth it
financially and asked—totally straight-faced—for another half hour. The entire pub, many of them having
just learned his name, started chanting “James, James, James.” Next to him, Meghan was shouting the
longest, beaming at him, impressed even by the standard she had set for him. James sat and basked in their adoration
and awaited the bartender’s response.
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