8
The more humid the night became, the more I longed for an out.
I stepped outside to catch my breath, and the street was filled with traffic and chattering pedestrians.
People stumbling out of neighboring bars with unchecked laughter.
Horns blaring. Suddenly I took off down the middle of the road, skirting motorbikes, happy no one had recognized me.
A few blocks away, I spotted a corner bar looming behind dozens of stacked power cables that ran the length of the street.
It was situated on the very corner, jutting out from the rest of the block in three-stories of teetering red brick.
smalls was written in lowercase letters with yellow lights, beaming out from a recess over the rotating door.
Later I learned it was a repurposed hotel owned by a Hollywood photographer.
Something about it compelled me forward.
I approached in a staggering daze. The second story had a balcony that ran the length of the building, hedged by a crumbling iron railing.
The third floor featured a sparsely occupied roof-top bar.
When I entered, it was like stepping into another era.
Though the quarters were close, it was cozy and eclectically furnished.
The lighting was low and ambient. There were several small, circular tables that littered the floor space, and a massive zinc bartop complete with stools upholstered in green velvet.
Partitioned across the room was a small stage area hung in red curtains that lent the place a vaudevillian atmosphere.
I walked around and studied the art that littered the place, all amazing pieces by local contemporaries that enlivened the brick walls and period décor.
Two women at a nearby table burst into laughter.
They might’ve been laughing at my drunken bewilderment.
I ruffled my hair and moved on, spotting an old man bent over a bowl of soup, as if the two were holding a private conversation.
Strange, experimental Jazz bled from the stereo, and a lively Thai woman danced to it behind the bar.
There was an overwhelming sense of calm here.
An almost otherworldly tranquility. As if I’d stumbled onto the terminal to another dimension, one beckoning me to forget the material world with cajoling arms.
Shortly after I entered, the owner's ten-year-old son recognized me and asked for a photo.
I hardly had time to wonder what he was doing awake at that hour before his dad came over to greet me as well.
They were incredibly kind and seemed to know the locals on a first name basis.
David, the bald, goateed owner, proved to be a charismatic Californian who welcomed me to sit at the bar and have a drink on him.
He recognized me from a Toyota commercial and a few concert ads and sang a bit of our latest single to prove it.
"How was the show?" he wondered, producing a shot of Patron, which I'd requested. He had searched a while among the tiered shelves crammed with a variety of spirits, backlit with golden light that suffused the surrounding glass.
"As good as they come, I suppose," I drawled. "Thailand's lovely."
"Ever been here before?"
"Nope, first time. Definitely not the last though."
"Here for a while?"
"Few more days…" I nodded, downing the second shot he offered. It burned the back of my throat, trickling down my esophagus like molten lava. But it was the good kind of hurting. The purifying kind that let me know I'd be alright in a few minutes.
"What d’you have planned? Hitting up any of the markets? There's tons to choose from."
"Yeah, probably. I’ve heard loads about them since I arrived…and, uh, the street food.” To that he made a chef’s kiss. “Probably a little sight-seeing with my sister—" Suddenly I remembered I'd left her in a bar down the road with Sal and a few guards.
"Shit! Excuse me a sec, mate."
I texted her where to find me and within minutes she arrived with Sal in tow, slinging an arm over my shoulders at the bar.
"There you are, germ. Thought we'd lost you. I was gonna send out a search party." She yanked my hair.
"M’sorry. I meant to call. Here, sit." I patted a nearby stool and she hopped atop. "Rosa, this is David, the owner. David, this is my sister Rosa."
"Call me Dave," he winked, shaking her hand across the bar.
"Hi. However, my name’s not Rosa. It’s Rose,” she smiled tightly, elbowing me. “Lovely place. Hope this one isn’t giving you too much trouble, freeloading and all.”
“It’s been my pleasure,” Dave laughed, stepping away to serve the guards who’d joined.
Now she turned to me and scoffed. "I see you didn’t waste any time getting back to your precious tequila either."
“Get off my back, woman.”
Sal came up behind me and squeezed my shoulder. "We were worried when you didn't come back in.” He was exerted from the walk and his breath reeked of whiskey.
"Sorry, mate, just trying to get out of paying the check." We all laughed. They headed off to a table with my security, but I kept my seat at the bar.
Later the local concert manager entered and I remembered meeting him backstage before the show.
He had three daughters and they were all mad about us.
Shortly after, I noticed he was accompanied by a long-limbed man named Joe.
He appeared to be in his late fifties, with thinning, shoulder-length red hair.
He sat beside me at the bar and asked what I was drinking.
"Patron," I replied, idly twisting my empty glass.
"Think I'll try my luck with that too.”
His voice was dry and weary. It carried a chilly resignation, as though he’d arrived here after a 100-year voyage. He was also American, but bore a cool, cosmopolitan mystique. Like a man at home in far Eastern cultures, who spoke a multitude of obscure languages.
"Have you tried the absinthe? It's phenomenal."
"Not yet…" I eyed him.
"Powerful stuff. But this'll do," he tapped his shot of tequila before downing it. "Woof."
"Another?"
"By all means."
I asked Dave if we could keep the bottle and he accommodated us right away.
On my third shot and Joe's second, we got to talking about his childhood and how writing saved him from failing in school because he was such a screw-up. Eventually he got around to how he ended up in Thailand permanently, and why he recommended everyone experience it for themselves someday, hence why he’d authored the guidebook.
Dave stopped by intermittently and the two exchanged war stories about their time in California, and eventually Joe told me about a woman he almost married.
"Just a memory now, I suppose," he sucked air through his teeth, as if the thought physically pained him.
"Where's she now?"
"Married to a lawyer, I believe, someplace in Sacramento."
"Fuck Sacramento," I muttered.
"I’ll toast to that."
"And fuck lawyers."
"Hear, hear!"
Later I broke into laughter, realizing how huge his hands were.
Veiny and long-fingered. It looked strange whenever he lifted the tiny glass.
Then we talked extensively about motorbikes and his travels out East, as well as our obsession with the guitar.
He'd picked it up over time. I told him about the solo I’d snuck into our setlist after we’d finished playing our record Hail Mary, and he got a kick out of that.
Somehow, I could see myself becoming him in a few decades, after all the band hype wore off, just writing and traveling and experiencing without end.
Soon Sal and Rose approached, ready to call it quits. I wasn't ready to head back to a cold and empty hotel room and allow my thoughts to consume me, so I told them to go ahead. I instructed Sal to look after her and said I'd check in on them in the morning.
"Be good," Rose cautioned me, planting a kiss to my cheek before heading out.
“Bright and early tomorrow, pal…” Sal said, ruffling my hair.
“Yep, see ya then.”
As the night wore on, the place became more crowded.
My security set up shop at a nearby table, and I inclined my head when we locked eyes.
When it became difficult to hear over the noise of the growing crowd, Joe suggested we moved to the second story bar and pick up our discussion there.
Before I knew it, I was signaling my team to stay seated and making my way up a tight staircase that wound to the second floor.
***
Upstairs, the lights were dialed low and the bar was completely empty.
It bore the distinct smell of cigarettes and ammonia and too many warm bodies that were bygone.
A settee upholstered in the same grungy green as the bar stools overlooked the balcony from inside, so it was here we sat, relishing the night breeze and watching the traffic lights rotate.
"Much better," Joe declared, settling back onto the old sofa.
"Yep." I set the bottle at my foot after refilling our glasses. We toasted to solitude. To peace and quiet. To our acquaintanceship, and to the 'bro-code of confidential inebriation' as he so graciously put it. Then I slumped back in the seat with a thud.
"Can I speak frankly?" Joe ventured.
"Uh...sure. Of course."
"You know, Ralph..." He sat forward, elbows on his knees. "I don't know you very well, but something tells me you're not always this bummed."
I wasn't surprised he'd noticed. Contrary to what I’d hoped, the more I drank, the more my mood plummeted. I refilled our glasses.
"Well, Joe, you'd be right."
"What's eating you, kid?"
It was the quintessential bar question, and although I wasn't looking to be therapized, a small, shriveled part of me wanted to rant to anyone who'd listen.
"It's just not my night, Joe…"
"I hear ya. I've been there."
"Oh yeah?"
"Of course. We all have." He eyed me in earnest. "How'd the show go?"
At that I sat up and mirrored his position, resting my arms on my knees, holding the empty glass between my hands.
"Um...it was good...for the most part. It's what happened after the show, mate, that's fucked me a bit in the head, to put it mildly."