Talking to Strangers in Bars
A Short Story by Richard Hamer

So, here you are then. In the bar, sitting alone, staring at the pint of supposed alcohol beside you. Currently, you wander – does this taste more like horse piss, or cat piss?

You drink, taking experimental, dainty little sips before moving on to full swigs. Sure, it tastes like the urine of some kind of mammal… but it beats being sober.

Of course, now you realise how bored you are. You’re sitting there uncomfortably in the corner, drinking your drink, clutching it close to your chest like some kind of talisman. You feel isolated, kind of alone, separate. There’s the world out there – all big and scary, full of cares and problems. In here, it’s just you and the dog piss.

You, meet dog piss. Dog piss, meet you.

What a happy couple you make. So happy, in fact, that you order another one. Strangely, this one tastes ever so slightly better. Then there’s the next one which, in a good light, could even pass for a drink. You drink it – and the seven that follow.

You aren’t drunk yet – of course. You’re more man than that. But you start to notice the other people in the bar, at last. That personal bubble starts to slacken, relax, and expand outwards. Soon, it starts to encompass other people.

Maybe you should go talk to those people, eh? They may be strangers… but in the grand scheme of mankind, we’re all brothers and sisters. So, let’s go talk – roll the dice, spin the chamber, take a gamble – pick one.

Ah…

Subject One

The guy sitting next to me. He’s got a sort of vacant look on his face, his long neck craning upwards at the television, squinting madly at the tiny 14 inch football match. Someone scores – he shouts “Yeah, awright!” in a slightly over-exuberant fashion.

“Good game” you say. A decent opening gambit and he seems to respond.
“Yeah, innit!” This statement seemingly having exhausted his brain, he turns back to the game. Almost immediately, the expression of vague incomprehension rushes back across his face.
“Yes… okay” Talking to a hand-dryer would probably yield more interesting conversation, you decide. Strike One.

Subject Two

A girl at the bar. Classic. Well, classic except this one appears for all the world to be some sort of school teacher. She’s cradling her handbag like it was a child while staring nervously around over the top of her half-moon glasses.

You approach.
“Hel…”
“RAPE!!!”
Strike Two.

Subject Three

Some nice looking girl sitting behind a table. She’s dressed to impress yet, inexplicably, appears to be currently alone. She bops her head in time to the music around her, just to show that she’s alive. You take a few seconds out to check for the presence of errant boyfriend. None.

You seat yourself down next to her and clear your throat with slightly more force than is strictly required.
“This seat taken?” She smiles cautiously at you, a sort of rictus grin momentarily fixed on her face.
“No… It’s not”.
For a moment, you don’t move, or do anything. For a brief second, you hope something sufficiently interesting will suddenly happen for you to comment on, or – as unlikely as it is – she’ll start talking to you first.
You cough again. It’s important to build up sound in stages… so she doesn’t forget you’re sitting there. Start of simple – the noise of bodily functions, before moving on gradually up to real words.
“So… can I buy you a drink?”
“Yes, alright”
“What will it be?”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. The more alcoholic the better, really”. She laughs and you laugh too. It’s not a very funny, or indeed even a joke, but you laugh like your getting paid for it.
”So… what’s your name?”
”Alice”
You start to worry if maybe the conversation has just go too scintillating. A funeral could break out at any moment. You introduce yourself. Then, you get talking. It’s awkward, yes. Every few minutes of genuine pleasant conversation is weighed against two minutes of international synchronised wall and floor staring while humming. But, nonetheless, you begin to enjoy yourself. You really like this women’s company – maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but she seems witty, charming and attractive enough.

Then, a man turns up. He’s big, bald and doesn’t appear friendly. The distant neon lights of the dance floor cast strange reflections on his shining forehead, sweat drips from him like some fat, party panda. He looks threatening. Proper threatening. He looks like David Banner, just after he’s got angry.

It hit’s you. He looks almost exactly like Lou Ferrigno, circa 1978, and he’s going to kill you. There’s a faint, trembling, whistling sound rushing past your ears – it must be your life flashing past you.

Alice speaks “This…um… this is my boyfriend”. He doesn’t look happy. Instantly, you wish your were somewhere else – away from this altar to inebriation, tucked up warm at home watching television, far away from this…. man. And then, in the brief second before your life becomes one big ball of pain, you notice something on that charming young ladies face.

She’s smiling. She’s smiling at your pain. The world seems to fold in on itself, getting tighter and tighter until the universe is nothing but a hot, uncomfortable feeling just around your neck. Still, this is the price you pay for talking to strangers in bars – you never know what weirdo’s you might meet.

Strike....

Richard Hamer
17th April 2004