“Take me somewhere nice.”
After a long week of work cooped up in his office, these are
the only words that Roger can seem to muster up as his body flops into the taxicab
like a huge bag of dirt. The taxi driver might be offended, but is otherwise
too focused on the Friday night traffic whizzing all around him to give it a
second thought; after all, in 20 years making a living behind the wheel the man
has never made the leap from customer to friend. A million empty conversations
to pass the 5-minute drives, the driver doesn’t quite recall exactly when it
was that he abandoned chit-chat altogether. No
one listens to me anyway, he thinks to himself.
The streets of Oslo are cold this time of year, but Roger is
even colder in his directions. Nine dollars and fifty cents later, Roger lifts
his meaty frame through the comically small door of the Volkswagen and can’t
tell if it is his legs rubbing on the leather seats or a disgruntled grumble
from the driver with no tip that he hears upon his exit. Either way, he has
arrived to his destination, which he confirms on the crumpled scrap of paper he
jotted the address upon earlier in the afternoon while planning his Friday
night escape. New to town, Roger has taken to the bar scene as a means to “get
out there, explore the town, and meet new people,” which is what he tells
himself to do, but at his age he can’t help but feel the slight nip of
depression as memories of a younger, more jovial version of himself seem just
out of reach. A Roger that was on the scene, a Roger that enjoyed the crowd, a
Roger that he can almost put his finger on now.
The idea of coming to the bar to actually drink, rather than
meet friends is new to Roger, but a habit slowly becoming routine since making
his new surroundings of Norway “home.” At first he convinced himself that he
did not want the company - that he was glad to be away from the hustle & bustle
of people who were looking to be out only to be seen. But what becomes of Roger
when he succeeds in convincing himself of these misconceptions?
Half way into his whiskey, Roger not only finds that he
wished he had ordered a gin, but also that Barfly is quite different from what
he had in mind upon first reading its praises in local reviews. The calm,
laid-back atmosphere he had hoped for was roused by young locals recently done
with the work-week, enjoying libations and chattering away in a tongue that was
as strange to Roger as the reason he had chosen to come here in the first
place. Why couldn’t I have gone to
Galleriet like I usually do… Roger wondered to himself as he swirled the
melting cubes of ice around the bottom of his otherwise empty glass.
Roger motioned to the bartender by tipping his glass and
made sure to make the next one a gin. As the bartender poured, Roger remembered
why he didn’t much like Galleriet anyway.
“No service,” he mumbled out loud to himself.
“I beg your pardon,” shot back the bartender – surprised and
alarmed as if he had just been charged with a crime.
“I’m sorry, nothing. I guess I was just thinking aloud…”
Roger clarified meekly as he brought his new drink to his lips.
Although Roger had no desire to go to the Galleriet for a
drink, he wondered how things might be there at this hour. So close to his own
apartment, he always did love the easy access from his doorstep, especially in
the dead of winter when the cold air could sting so badly it left you
breathless. The Galleriet was a cozy bar; the first one Roger had been to in
this strange, new land and because of that it made him feel comfortable. However,
Roger loathed the service – or rather, the lack thereof – that the main
bartender at Galleriet provided. Admittedly, Roger was aware of his tendency to
blend into the background and to quietly sip away at his drink without so much
a fuss over the horrible music, the shortage of napkins, or even that acrid
stench emanating from the men’s bathroom, but the bartender, Daryl’s,
indifference to Roger was impossible to ignore.
Unsatisfied with his gin, Roger reached for the drink list
neatly folded to his right when he noticed a man making his way to the bar
stool beside him. Although he did mind, Roger politely acquiesced when the man
made a motion for the stool and lifted his eyebrows as if to say, “Do ya mind,
buddy?”
Loose around his unbuttoned collar, the man’s necktie seemed
to fling about each time he took a drink, which was twice as often as Roger and
before Roger could begin to hypothesize on what brought this man to the bar, he
found himself at the receiving end of the man’s best Taxi Driver chatter.
Roger could not have cared less, but with months of recent
practice since moving to his new home, he has perfected the 2-minute byte on
his life and feigned an interest so believable that it has begun to take over
the core of his existence. In between fake pleasantries Roger cannot help but
realize that he has met hundreds of people this way, but that he knows not a
single one of them.
From their what-is-your-name-and-what-do-you-do
conversation, Roger learns that Gabriel is from Oslo, and as such, has plenty
of insight for Roger as a newbie, like what drink to try next as Roger nervously
fidgets with the drink menu, visibly obvious in his indecision. The new, local
libation has Roger longing for another whiskey, which now sounds awfully good,
and Gabriel pries further into Roger’s life asking if he is on holiday, as
clearly he is not Norwegian. Roger explains his situation to Gabriel, but it is
clear by the blank look on his disinterested face that Gabriel has only asked
out of courtesy and is only waiting for his chance to speak again.
“I am on vacation. I have been visiting an old friend,” says
Gabriel in a slur.
A bit perplexed - as he had understood that Gabriel has
lived in Oslo his entire life - Roger begins to engage more in the
conversation, asking about his vacation and who this friend might be. However,
instead of something reasonable, Gabriel tells Roger that he has been visiting
himself. Disappointed for having let himself believe that he might actually
have a real conversation, Roger accepts that Gabriel is just a drunk and
politely withdraws from further banter.
Too drunk to notice, or perhaps unaffected by having an
audience or not, Gabriel continues to tell Roger about his old friend, his old
self. Gabriel used to know himself. Gabriel knew what he liked, what he wanted,
and what his dreams were. Gabriel knew what scared him, what his objectives
were for the day, month, and year. Gabriel had been all around the world, seen
beautiful buildings, ruins, and beaches. Gabriel had met interesting people
that gave him countless nights of fun, meaningful conversation, and lasting
friendships. But somewhere along the way Gabriel forgot about his old friend –
or so he says to Roger and to all of the others not listening to him at the bar
– his old self.
Gabriel asks rhetorically if Roger has ever been honest with
himself, knowing that he has lost his audience, but unyielding in vocalizing
his message. And even though Roger won’t show it, he is listening now more than
ever and responds to himself in the quiescence of his own mind.
Driving the point home to the handful of bar patrons that
were never listening to Gabriel in the first place, “Have you ever truly, truly been honest with yourself?”
And just as the thought leaves Gabriel’s mouth, his oration
is interrupted by a phone call and just as quickly as he sat down, Gabriel is
on his way out the door. A friendly pat on the back to Roger and Gabriel
excuses himself, making sure to let Roger know it has been a great pleasure
meeting him. Too ashamed to unfix his eyes from his own drink, Roger fails to acknowledge
Gabriel. Gabriel pays the bar tab, casually saying that the doctor has called
and said his wife has just given birth to a beautiful, healthy boy – clearly
trying to mask his jubilant excitement. To remain calm. To not let anyone know
what excitement really lies inside.
“I hope he is just like me,” Gabriel exclaims as he exits.
I do too, Roger
thinks alone to himself. I do too.
