The fifth beer slides down my throat like all of the others. Deep, long drafts that burn just as much as they cool. The world shimmers when I’m in a stupor like this. It’s as if I’m looking through a warped glass: ordinary objects bend in strange directions. What’s odd is that nothing feels out of place. Everything is exactly where it should be: the bartender is showing the perfect amount of cleavage, the patrons all look like B.J. Blazkowicz, and the iron cross stickers that adorn the mirrored walls are aligned in a brilliant symmetrical pattern.
I can’t believe how much I’m sweating. If I didn’t have the mirrors providing me a perfect three-fourths recreation of my outer shell I would have assumed my white t-shirt would be noticeably gray by now. There’s no greater sin than seeing oneself in the mirror. Adam and Eve would never have been ashamed of their bodies had they not been able to see them. Could a blind man possibly critique Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring? Or Van Gogh’s Sunflowers? Oedipus thinks the blind seer, Tiresias, is lying to him when she suspects that he’s fucking his mother, and it’s no coincidence he stabs his eyes blind when he finds out it’s true. Every time I see myself in the mirror I wish I had the courage Oedipus had. He knew his sin wasn’t pounding his mother, it was the lust he felt from looking at her.
It’s hard to focus on anything besides the woman serving drinks—she’s wearing the tightest shirt I’ve ever seen. A micrometer thin layer of khaki tucked into ashen jodhpur riding pants that pool into her black leather boots. The way her blonde hair cascades down her supple, rounded cheeks is extraordinary. My eyes capture every movement she makes. The thought of touching her makes me ill.
“HIER DRÜBEN NOCH EIN BIER, SCHLAMPE,” explodes from one of the drunks.
I have no idea what anyone in this bar is saying. A cacophony of noises both guttural and cruel—the sound of hungry hogs feeding. After turning off the lights in this room one could be convinced that a new race of pig men had been created, immaculately sculpted from the rotten flesh of wild boars. Glimpses into their eyes leave me cold—I’d catch pneumonia if I kept that up any more with this sweat. What’s difficult is matching the voices to the faces. It’s all completely incongruous. Not a single man has a bone out of place. It was as if God patiently assembled each and every one of them.
They’re all stealing glances at me, I know that. I’m the only one in the place not wearing riding pants. I’m afraid that if my t-shirt gets any more wet it’ll reveal the revolver I have tucked into my jeans. Best not to think about it and have my sixth beer.
The first beer tastes good, but it’s never as good as the second beer. And the second beer pales in comparison to the third beer. And the fourth beer? My God! The fourth beer is somehow better than the third beer! Each beer alters one’s consciousness to make the next just that much better than the last. At no point does the series taper off. It marches on until the mind shuts off. It’s a wonder the Greeks had only one god of wine.
I suddenly realize the vice-like pressure mounting in my bladder. I quickly wobble off the stool and make my way to the bathroom door which has a silhouette of a man stamped on it with HERREN written above. The smell of urine is unbearable. It’s dead quiet. None of the surrounding noise is filtering into the bathroom as if it were hermetically sealed. I open the only stall door and see a man passed out in the corner, his khaki shirt a darker shade than that of everyone else’s outside. A faint yellow halo surrounds his body.
To think a man would melt into the floor before pissing is unconscionable. If a long life is lived in about 80 years, then a man pisses, at minimum, 29,220 times. The frequency of the action proves the divinity; there’s no other reason why the Lord would have made it be this way. How many people passed through this bathroom stall without punishing this dog? There’s so much in the world one can get away with, but this is a step too far. He must answer for his transgression.
After closing the stall door, I grab the gun stuck to my waist. I look down the barrel in such a way that his head is lined up perfectly with the slight bump of the sight. I don’t feel anything at all. It’s like doing taxes or clocking in at work; I know I’m doing the right thing, the kind of thing one does to be secure, to be well. I squeeze the trigger.
BANG
In no time the red mixes with the yellow. A thin orange briefly appears and is quickly washed away by an ever-thickening red. One second there is no hole, and then one second there is. No different than turning on and off a lightswitch. All that’s left to do is piss and pay my tab.
At once I exit through the door, and the squealing of the beautiful pig men begins to flow back over me. Drink after drink is slurped down, each man publicly tumbling down into their own private abyss. I close my eyes and am unable to open them. Each voice reaches higher and higher until they dissolve into pure texture. I move forward into the lack of space, although “forward” isn’t quite the right word for it. I move about it; I move between it. I am enveloped by it.
There is no absence.
I see presence.