The man snapped his finger and thought of something supposedly brilliant. But he really wasn’t brilliant. As he though about it, he remembered having hundreds of similar ideas -somehow silly, repeated ones.
He remembered the previous night, in a blurry way. It felt like if he had been drinking out of thirst, dodging a glass full of depression and withstanding all the noise that surrounded him. The room was packed with smoke and figures.
Somehow he snapped his fingers: the idea had always been there, all along. It was there alright. There were no liaisons for such ideas, subconscious, impulsive bangs to the head. Ideas followed by glimpses, on and on, and smiles for no one (just sitting there, glass in hand, the suit, and the grim face). Two days had gone since the last thought.
He was quiet, thinking it all, talking to none, mumbling nonsense into a telephone tube. The plan was settled. It was all good. I was sitting nearby, and I think I head someone say something similar about crazy people. Or so, I think. Still, the man had this ghastly looking figure. As I was saying, I overhear all the time. The man does too, he just fakes it. In this queer-looking bar there are few men, a couple of ladies, nothing big. Everyone has their ears standing for any astonishing remark. I don’t know why I’m here. Queer bars give me the creeps. Burroughs used to say these type of bars owned by queers, were like ‘puppet shows with no strings’.
I lack focus, I guess, somewhere in the way some women seated in his table. She talked loudly, seemingly interested. I nursed my beer, overlooking, almost hiding my nose under the table’s sea level. She smiled and talked. He sat there, silent. She had long brown hair, brown eyes. Nothing special to it- except for an expression in the woman’s face. It’s like if she could say “you’ll be alright with me, whatever happens”.
From what I figured, she was full of joy at first but it dimmed subsequently, probably due to a lack of response from the ghost. Yes, he’s a ghost. He’s turning whiter, and whiter. His expression is related to her face. From what I gather, he called her, but now, he just stood still, no words, no gestures, just blank faces and quiet, hands grabbing the table’s edge, eyes staring at her and nowhere at the same time.
I think I can relate to the feeling- or maybe it’s just me trying to create something where there’s nothing. I could never say anything to you, nor bring you flowers, say nice things, reveal. Some time ago, it was me grabbing the edges of tables just because I could not justify. I was a kite-high fly, with feelings and few words. I was null.
The faces remained still, the glances of one to the other cut off the breaths. Nothing moved. Not a fly.
And in a moment she starts yelling at him. Bangs on the table with her hand, picks her stuff, the keys, the bag, and leaves.
Moments go by. He slams his head on the table, and does a hug-like motion with his arms. He smashes himself repeatedly. With the wooden marks on his forehead. He goes back to blank. The red forehead, a saddened gesture, the hands shake to reach for the pocket. He takes out a withered rose and everything comes out by itself. He reaches in again for the pocket and takes out a little toy car and his cigarettes and the lighter. Takes one out, lights it. And somewhere between the evening and the night, he left. Silent. I reckon having seen him talking to one of the waiters for a brief moment. I think I saw him crush the rose and throw out the toy.
This is the way it happened, I should remember. I thought I had seen something similar. It was me a long while ago, I guess.
This is the way things go in a bar where everyone should mind their businesses, it’s already hard enough to understand one’s own problems as to try to understand theirs. As for the idea? I haven’t got a clue about it, but whatever it is, I should ask him what he was thinking about.
