It's A Wonderful Life

Aubrey curiously opened the roadside bar’s beveled glass door. 

She’d ridden past here on countless weekend training rides. Looked promising at first glance; clean, dimly lit, well-stocked, barely inhabited. Two couples eat quietly in a nearly empty dining space. A dude with two middle-aged women banter incoherently at the far end of a long shiny wood-grained, L-shaped bar. Faintly audible yacht rock plays a familiar, forgettable tune. A boy probably not of legal drinking age behind the bar scrolls his phone. Soccer plays muted on an ignored overhead TV.

This shangri-la will do…and…it’s two o’clock somewhere. 

Settling onto the stool directly across from the TV, she scooped the remote and toggled over to an NCAA women’s tournament game. Notre Dame and TCU were at halftime. Lips moved as talking heads silently analyzed the first half highlight reel, bobbing pony-tails setting screens, flicking no-look passes, draining 3s.  

“What can I get you?” The young bartender set down a cocktail napkin. He seemed to look right through her.

Aubrey pulled folded bills from the elastic band of her bike pants. “Can you make a Painkiller?” His vacant expression persisted, so she tapped her phone to produce the cocktail’s description. “Can you make this? I go with four parts rum.” Uncombed brown hair tied up in a rubber band, her pretty, unmade face now all but absent youth’s carbonated sparkle. A subdued smile strained to conceal shame.

Second half baskets were soon made and missed as drink number one began to soothe her. Aubrey eyed her SUV from the barroom window, her idle bicycle strapped to its rack as she let herself slip inward. Stopping off on rides for a drink had now graduated to a full-time focus on a new objective: painkilling. 

A wildly afroed Notre Dame guard stared down one teammate, then guided the ball mid-stride between her legs to a different teammate cutting cross court; another uncontested lay-up for the surging Irish. Aubrey marveled at how skilled these young women were. Recalling her own days in Division III hoops, she had once spoken the language of basketball, but never at the speed and proficiency of today’s freakish athletes. 

For years, the bike let her exercise a still-fit body, with the added benefit of leaving her alone with her thoughts; thoughts that had grown darker over the years. Now, on this day, even the pretense of riding, pushing, working the hills, it was all becoming too emotionally difficult. 

Aubrey’s father Jack was so perceptive. A clinical psychologist, he saw everything atomically, even the sports that his hopelessly unathletic self would never attempt. Their long conversations about how to fool an opponent, clues in their eyes, subtleties in body language. Always the smartest guy in any room, he was also the quietest, except when with Aubrey. Putting him in the ground three years ago was the hardest thing, short of her mother’s lost battle with breast cancer the year prior, that she would ever experience. 

At least that’s what she used to think.

A nod to the boy produced another tall, creamy white Painkiller,this time with a bright red cherry. Either the boy felt no need to control the generosity of his rum pours, or the drink’s potency and added garnish signaled that they were bonding. Either way…bravo! 

With an upshift of thought and feeling, a distance between Aubrey and the life she’d been withdrawing from, lengthened. Being here in this bar right now seemed a good decision indeed. A 9-0 TCU run pulled them back even, the Horned Frog’s oppressive defense now clamping down on the previously unchecked ND guards. 

What were Steven and the kids doing at this moment, she wondered? Now a sales VP, her husband was literally born to sell shit. Weekends were Steven’s free-rangey time, bouncing around their music-filled house, fiddling in the yard or on the basketball court with Ben, off on a spontaneous errand, or most often, in a neighbor’s backyard plotting a party. His ability to sell snow to eskimos, coupled with the arrival timing of Ben and then his little sister Jesse, put her own Masters pursuit on permanent ice. 

While they would never compete as earners, Aubrey had for a long time held her own in their mutual quest for attention, for validation, for social oxygen. As the smaller Notre Dame guard created relentless havoc attacking TCUs massive interior, Aubrey tried to recall exactly when had all of her cynicism, hostility and loneliness started. When exactly had her wonderful life turned so un-wonderful? Another drink to ponder? Ice from the empty glass numbed her cheeks. The threesome at the end of the bar weren’t going anywhere, their chatter so banal, the idea of engaging them made her cringe. 

With the mixologist and Aubrey now telepathically connected, drink number three arrived with just a subtle hit me gesture. A collection of bright red cherries multiplied on the napkin as she felt the coconut rum expand her mind. All those gatherings with Steven’s family, that merry band of highly functioning peacocks, their colorful plumes constantly unfurled, flapping, endlessly transmitting a never-ending performance of attention-seeking. Look at me! Listen to me! There seemed no appropriate reaction to their complete self-absorption beyond a permanently plastered smile and affirming nod. It became easier to just relent, to cede the floor, to endure the eight shows a week from that narcissistic troupe.

Aubrey scrolled her contacts for anyone she still enjoyed talking to. One by one she’d intentionally divested from old friends who seemed only able to tune into their own wants and needs. A feeling of callers' remorse always overcame her when they droned on about mindless trivialities. Deleting all of her own social media still didn’t block out the relentless echo of society's obsession with self celebrity. The idea that her own daughter had over forty-thousand Instagram followers. On what planet does a seventeen-year old privileged rich girl from suburbia know anything about anything?   

As another woman's game tipped off, a grey-haired, neatly combed older man in an argyle sweater took a seat next to her, leaving one stool between them. The bar boy actually greeted this guy like a best pal, his usual “coming right up”. Probably a Republican, she thought. Came right out of church to hit this bar and hit on her. Probably just giddy about how this country is going about its chaos. Maybe he’ll sit here and mansplain this game to her. Armed, perhaps? 

He seemed not to notice her despite their close proximity. Even when Aubrey wasn’t trying to be invisible, she managed it somehow. Was the complete deflation of her ego a conscious or unconscious choice?  

“So who do you like in this one?” The stranger finally ventured, studying the screen before them. 

Crunching the ice of the last sip, she dreaded this unavoidable interaction. “No bracket for me. I just appreciate the performance.”  

“Yeah, same.” They both stared silently forward for a time. A young, yellow-cornrowed Longhorn picked and poked desperately at Tennessee’s well executed zone defense.

The old guy sipped a diet coke, then spoke. “That one…guarding her…she’s ripe. I’ll bet the Texas guard has her way before long.” 

Aubrey considered the comment. The Tennessee freshman had in fact been selling out, overplaying it every time. Her fourth beverage arrived, and Aubrey added to her cherry collection while confirming its potency.

She was mildly intrigued by the old man. “Ever play?”

 “Nah…not an athlete. But I do love watching people perform.” His eyes moved from a laminated menu on the bar back and forth to the game.

“I played this game once.”

“Don’t doubt it.” He smiled. “Hell, you’re dressed for a game right now.”

Aubrey laughed. “ ’M a bit ahead of ya. Think right now even you could take me.”

“You know, I’ve never been a drink–”

“This…this my friend, is what they call…a Painkiller.” She lifted her glass, smiling over at the concoctor, a subtle unsteadiness now visible. “And I’m here to tell you…it’s doin’ it.” 

“I’m Clarence.”  

On previous bar benders, this was Aubrey’s cue to slip away. But somehow this guy had gotten past the bouncer in her head and just wandered on in. “I’m sure you were a helluva performer in your day…which I’ll bet wasn’t that long ago.” 

The Texas point guard perfectly deeked, feigning a pass to the deep corner. The defender's lean opened a clear lane to the rim which she quickly exploited. Suddenly bar buddies, they pumped fists in silent unison. Aubrey remained in her own sort of shooter’s rhythm. 

“I’m just so sick of performing for people.” Her words came out softly, to no one. 

The bar boy wandered back. “Hey, Kenny. I’m ready to order us something.” She half-listened to Clarence finally land on the flatbread three-cheese pesto pizza. Her cash covered only two more drinks. While food wasn’t in today’s hospice budget, eating suddenly seemed appealing. Even necessary.

Aubrey now felt the presence more people in the bar. Through the growing background din of conversations, Clarence turned his head toward her. “You know…all the world’s a stage.” Aubrey’s head swiveled back toward the game, but she felt his stare persist as he continued. “...we all are merely players.”

“My performing days are over.” She took another drink. 

He now fully faced her, his hands folded in his lap. “Honey, we’re all performers. Every day of our lives.” His understated smile was oddly transfixing. “It’s not just those young ladies up there performing their hearts out. You know, all of us…we never really stop. I see it as kind of our…job…you know, to perform for other people. Let’s ‘em know we care a little. He paused to sip his soda. “Now not everybody’s crazy ‘bout how everybody performs some days. And the roles we play as life goes on…well, they change. But you know, you never really retire from it. You’re never ever truly get off the stage, until…well…you just have to keep trying with people.”

Then Clarence flashed an old, I’ve-seen-it-all smile that practically glowed. 

“Part of bein’ human, honey. What the hell else have we got, really…’cept each other?”

A warm, cheesy scent wafted past as the bar boy presented a wooden paddle with sections of evenly cut flatbread pizza that looked heavenly.

“Hungry, Aubrey?”

“I really need to pee.” She’d been holding it a long time. With sudden renal urgency, she stood unsteadily and moved in the direction she guessed the restrooms were. 

Sitting alone in the dingy stall with her bladder now mercifully relaxed, Aubrey began to cry. A single unexpected sob quickly became a torrent of tears which she emptied into a wad of toilet paper. Where was all of this coming from? Why here and now? She finished peeing and calmed herself, and after washing her hands and face at the sink, she stared into the mirror at her weary reflection. 

He was right. How had she become so disenchanted with people, who despite flaws or failings probably not unlike her own, were good people? She felt something move perceptibly from deep within her, like the shifting of emotional tectonic plates. 

Just one thing didn’t track. The old man had just called her by her name. Aubrey never shared her name with strangers in bars as a hard rule. Where had he gotten it? As she exited the ladies room, she needed to figure that one out.

Aubrey turned the corner to find the bar completely empty, except for the disinterested young man behind it on his phone. The overhead TV played a muted soccer match. The boy placed a fresh cocktail napkin on the bar and looked right through Aubrey. 

“What can I get you?”