The Outcast
Maybe it’s the acoustics, I don’t know. Some asshole always wants to turn the music up, then the crowd gets louder till you can’t hear it, and they want it even louder. Before you know it, you can hardly hear yourself think, let alone take a drink order. That’s how it used to be here. At least on weekends.
Not now.
I didn’t mind it at first. Really, it was a blessing. Nothing on the jukebox, the conversation around the bar not too bad. Just the usual early thrum that hadn’t quite crossed over to vibrant, let alone the boisterous cacophony that is late evening. What struck me, though, what piqued my curiosity, was that, even as the crowd grew, the noise level stayed low, maybe even dropped.
I made a little conversation with Corey, a fascinating guy with enough class to keep to himself most of the time. When it gets loud, there’s usually no chance with Corey, so I like to talk with him when I still can. I goaded him into a road trip story from his youth, egging him on about how wild he used to be. He’s an old man now, but he likes to remember the old days, and a good listener can get some great stories out of him, if he’s patient.
Next to Corey, though, another regular, Zed, was abnormally pensive. Now, this guy, Zed, usually talks your ear off. Just has a motor that keeps on running. Not that he won’t listen. I know guys like that, too. Guys that will interrupt you just to talk about themselves, and not shut up until you sneak off to the bathroom. Not Zed, though. He’s just a ball of happy energy who loves to talk. It’s just his way. So, you can imagine my surprise when, after I said something like, “How do you like that, Zed? Guy nearly gets his head chopped off for the sake of the snake lady, and goes right back the next night. Hell if I wouldn’t have run screaming and been in the next state by morning,” Zed just sat there, quietly nodding.
“You alright, there, Zed?” I asked him.
Nothing. He just sat there nodding and took a sip of his whiskey coke. I shook my head in wonder before turning away to take care of a customer who had just walked in. Predictably, Corey quieted down after that.
After I served the customer a beer, I scanned the bar a bit to see who might need something. That’s when I first got spooked, I suppose. Less than half the bar was talking. Some of them were watching the silent tvs over the bar, but some of them were just staring. Like Zed, they looked lost in thought, the way you can space out when you’re waiting for someone, but your phone’s dead, so you just stare off into space a bit.
Though I didn’t mind the quiet, I thought maybe it was getting on time for some music, so I sparked up the jukebox, just to liven things up a bit. I usually start it pretty quiet, just because I know what’s coming, and it’s nearly impossible to dial it back once the party gets started. Zed, though, who’s one of these guys who usually wants me to turn it up, asks me to turn it down. I looked at him like he was crazy, but he looked right back at me with so much sincerity, there was nothing for it but to apologize and take it down. Four songs later, Bill and Sarah asked me if I would mind turning it off, and that was the end of the music for the night.
The rush never came. Folks trickled in, but most everyone sat around without talking, sipping on their first beer like they might never finish it. The next night was Friday, and that was even worse. When Saturday was dead too, I started to wonder if the world was in on some joke and never bothered to tell me.
When the news broke, of course, it was obvious. Half the bar had come in with the thing, and the rest of them left with it. They say they hear voices, that the noise makes it hard to hear, that something about the thing makes them just want to sit still and silent. I don’t know.
I tried to ask a few of them. About the voices, I mean. One of them said she’s comforting. Like an old friend who’s always been there for you. Someone to cuddle up with at night, keep you safe. Even the ones with partners, husbands and wives, lovers, all seem happier with the voice. With their new friend.
Three weeks into this thing, and I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever see a customer again. At first, they seemed content to come in here and sip on a beer in silence. Now they all just sit around at home. If they’re even still living. I hear the thing takes hold of you pretty quick, relatively speaking. I figure I’m safe. I mean, if I was going to get the thing, surely I would have by now. Not that it will help much. What the hell am I supposed to do without company? There are days I think I’d rather die with the lotus eaters than live in an empty world.
And the ones that do come in are so separate from me I don’t know where to start. Like they all got invited to this special club, this place where they feel loved and fulfilled and at peace. Like they’ve all tasted heaven, and are floating about with the memory of it suffusing them, and all I can do is watch from the outside, looking in, wishing I could hear what they hear, feel what they feel, just once before I die.