The Art Of Being Alone In A Crowded Bar By Rich Mills

What music are you into, man? The American exchange student who had earlier introduced himself, without any regard for Jean-Paul's need to be alone, suddenly threw a curve-ball of a question in his direction. Well I listen to... What followed was a definitive list of bands from Jean-Paul's wide ranging rare vinyl and CD collection, he even had a couple of 8-Track cart's, but not managed to get his hands on a player as yet.

He'd filtered, narrowed and condensed the list down to those key pieces that he considered the person in front of him would be most impressed, intrigued, and sucked in by. Twisting and contorting the actual truth, in such a way that he could produce a half-truth which would satisfy the questioner, without ever having to fully drop the defences of the respondent, himself.

Basically Jean-Paul had done a quick assessment of this guy's likely musical knowledge, taking into account his age, style of clothing, the shit he'd been talking for the past half-hour, and other such assumptions about this loser he randomly made-up. Whoa! That's cool, I like them too, don't you think their last album was a bit of a let down? This is were things started to get insidious, as when you discuss music, your heart and soul are laid bare to be measured against a mythical cool'o'meter.

For Jean-Paul this guy had just dropped off the bottom end of the scale. He'd hit his third strike in a row, but knowing this socially retarded fool was never going to walk away from the plate, he decided he himself must climb down from the pitcher's mound. He got up, picked-up his drink and found himself a less populated corner of the bar.

You sad tosser, an inaudible whisper trickled over his lips as he walked across to the other-side of the room. The band that the bloke had mentioned hadn't recorded an album in over five years, not since one of the two singer songwriters had become a hopeless heroin addict. Apparently, or so the groupie grape-vine says, he now spends his life aimlessly shuffling between rehab clinics and living at his father's house in some shitty little end-of-the-line sea-side town. What you doin'? He could see plainly what Jean-Paul was doing. Maybe the young delinquent couldn't believe his eyes. Reading! Yes that was right, reading, was that really so strange? Jean-Paul loved stating the obvious to dumb people.

Books..! I fink books are shit man! Have you ever read one? Jean-Paul said without raising his eyes from the page. Fuck off! Nowt down for that shit! Continued the trackie-wearing-scally of the first order! D'ya know what I'd do te all the fuckin' books in't world? I'd burn the fuckin' lot of 'em.

Jean-Paul looked up from his book. Why? Some people like reading. Give it a go some time, you never know where it may take you.

Huh! 'ave you 'eard you! You one of 'em queer bum-boy students or what? Your fucked in the 'ead you are man! Only borin' swotty cunts read. Must make me a boring swotty cunt then?! That's right you clever fucker. D'you know right, I'd build a big fuckin' bonfire out of all the books, and then stick all the fuckin' borin' bookworms like you on top.

Really? Ye' too fuckin' right. Watch all you borin' cunts burn baby burn! That'd be a right fuckin' laugh. Okay then, that's fair enough I suppose. What is it you're fuckin' readin' anyway? Gimp!" Farenheit four-five-one it's called. What fuck's it 'bout?

A world where firemen don't put out fires but start them instead. Nice one! What do they burn? Houses and shit? Do they twoc cars and torch 'em?! No, houses are all fire-proof in the story. The book is set in the future, a world not that dissimilar from our own. However one thing that is different in this world is that the firemen in the story burn books... Man!

Ye' cool. They sound fuckin' sorted. I'd love that fuckin' job. Settin' fire to fings for a job, that's spot on that man! Jean-Paul heard the lad's voice, but it was the echoes of the MTV-VJ and famous white-trash-cartoon-couch-potato Beavis, of …and Butthead fame, that rang in his head. The lad continued… He! He! Burn! Yeah burn, burn, burn, burn, burn, burn," the chant echoed, the mantra burned into his head. He could no longer concentrate on reading, the moment was gone, and this ignorant little scum-bag had ruined it. Jean-Paul imagined himself pulling a shot-gun from under the table, raising it to the his spotty little inbred face, and blowing it clean off his fucking shoulders.

Jean-Paul finished his beer, and made his way out of the Last Chance Saloon. His new found friend from Newfoundland tried to arrange a get together sometime, as Jean-Paul hurried away deciding that making friends or even just talking to people was more than he could handle at the moment. The doors of the bar swung wildly behind him as he gleefully headed homewards, to be alone. Copyleft - Rich Mills (April 2004)

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