Two Steers
Carver died yesterday. It came as shock to me even though I was half expecting it. The bartender who told me about Carver’s death looked sad, sad that he had lost a regular customer. Carver wouldn’t have even one real friend, he was too sarcastic; “sorry, may his soul rest in peace, Hell!” I am becoming sentimental, that’s what Carver would’ve said, and that’s what he said, about eight years ago, in this same bar.
Those were the mid sixties, I was then struggling to make my ends meet, in the middle of my second book and in the middle of a countless writing block. The same bar, Two steers, where I am now sitting and guzzling... at that time I was not a loyal regular here just had hopped in.
Ah, all those memories are so near. Those days in my regular bar they had hired a bartend with a switch, ‘he told you sob stories after you got drunk.’ This had made some regulars leave and bought in some curiosity seekers.
I was one of the last one to leave. The bartend was not that bad, he was from some town called Parnala. God knows where on earth it was, and he told stories of famine and exotic things but later also about his fears and anxiety’s. At some point those stories started making me reflect and awaken my own insecurities and I started bar hopping to find a place of tranquillity and the usual listening kind of bartender.
To down multiple frustrations, I had downed too many; that’s when I met him, a seedy looking guy in his mid forties, had thick blond hair and a handsome broad cheeked face, but creased with too many lines; his light brown eyes were sparkling. With some alternations maybe I could put him down as a character in my book, and to know him better invited him over.
But once he opened his mouth I knew I shouldn’t even think about it, but he sure was some character, the minute he sat by me he downed the drink in one gulp, began to comment sarcastically and philosophize and I almost lost my kick. But he kept on buying drinks and I ended up revealing half my personal worries to him and dead drunk. Only alcohol can make you really open up or put you in a coma.
From then on we were together at the pub almost every day. He was always domineering, I guess I never got adjusted to that; but he used to tell me about his many experiences and that filled in for my failure to observe around, an important requirement for an aspiring author, as my creative writing course Prof. used to lecture us.
Carver also was an avid reader, had a naturally healthy body but ill-used it. He never held a regular job. At first I thought he was everything that I wasn’t; happy with himself, doing what he wanted, never worrying about others, no conservative background to haunt him and very handsome with natural talent. As time passed I came to understand him, though never fully. He was very unhappy and kept searching for some goal, but it remained elusive. He had married thrice, now a loner having divorced his third wife a couple of years ago. He got money in spurts and spends it like there is no tomorrow.
The black labeled bottle in front of me shook as a fat guy edged my table. I looked at him drowsily and returned to reminiscing. I came to know about carver’s death from the bartend because I never visited the bar for about a week. I was afraid of seeing carver again, maybe it was me who caused his death, no maybes, it was me, why am I running away from it? Carver always used to tell me that guilt can chase a man better than his own shadow.
Yes now I remember, he even told me about a story of a guilt-laden man always trying to escape from it, it was some Jim, the hero of the story. Jim always wanted to be a hero in his life but when he had a chance, he didn’t risk his life like heroes do; but escaped like a coward; even though later he became successful the guilt and cowardice always haunted him, so the next time when he had to choose between facing death bravely or running away and saving his life, he chose to face death, but didn’t come out alive like book hero’s do. Then I thought it was carver’s own experience, which he told me like a story, which wasn’t unusual.
I got to forget him and his memories. No but I can’t. How can I when it was only about a week ago that I saw him in his apartment, he was very pale, but the sparkle in his eyes were brighter even though he was bed ridden. There was a morose and bored looking nurse near him. It was the first time I had been to his apartment and it looked as if in a sorry state. I was still looking around when he pulled me near him and told me a crazy plan about getting out of the country and resettling in some far away country. He was very excited and suspicious, whenever the nurse came near he stopped talking, then resumed with increased nervousness and speed.
The whole thing was a puzzle, and the smell of medicines uncomfortable. But I sat there and bit by bit his jabbering made sense, but there weren’t even rumors about the country being taken over by the military and communists, and carver’s stomach wound didn’t look like a knife wound. Anyway I knew my country better than an outsider like carver.
I tried to calm him down, but he was becoming paranoid, then the only thing I wanted was to get out of that apartment, even though I could see he was in some serious trouble. So the next time the nurse came near I said a hasty good-bye and rushed out. I still could hear him yelling my name as I was going out. I even stopped going to the pub, and for one week I drank at my apartment and filled a lot of papers with meaningless words. I didn’t want to risk my position and State permit by following a crazy idea, and if anything went wrong I will never be able to return back.. I didn’t want to make any commitment and carver was just a pub friend, he always scared me a little with his unpredictability and was not growing any younger.
For one week I moved around my quarters like a rat, then on an impulse visited the two steers, our pub. Maybe carver wouldn’t speak with me or I was exaggerating the problems by imagining too much, so here I am sitting alone and drunk. The bartend was looking at me nervously. It was almost closing time and I have never been this late. Hell, I may as well as get out, too many old memories here. As I put the money on table I saw a knife underneath on the floor, maybe that fat man’s who nudged my table, he didn’t even apologize, people have no decency left in them anymore. I pocketed the knife and walked out.
Snow was falling, footpaths were almost empty. Trying to spot twin snow flakes I walked, as I was about to give up, heard the sound of heavy snow shoes from behind, then two new shoes passed by me, I looked up and saw a light brown overcoat and sign showing street no. 7. The light from the street lamps were dim, caused by combination of brown out and dirty lamps.
A snowflake hit my face, which was only uncovered part of my body, again I looked up, in snow everything looks grey. I slowed down as I saw street no.9, was looking down at me. Where am I going, to make sure I took up my wallet after a struggle from my back-pocket and looked at my card, street no.5, hell I am becoming absent minded, well, maybe a good habit to develop, absent minded author rhymes too, and a good excuse for not writing as regularly as earlier. That is what they seem to look out for nowadays, just quantity.
I got some money saved and am in a comfortable position enough to overcome it, anyway serious abstract writing always had a niche of its own. Serious abstract writing, it was how carver defined my style. Again carver, why does he still haunt me, why does he keep trying to find the loop hole, that black spot in me all the time. Got to forget him, better think about a new story; ‘bang..... bang’ gunshots, yes, but they have never been a part of my stories; jeee-sus, this is not my thought, it is for real.
I squinted my eyes and looked as far as I could see. Two three men in pointed caps were kicking a man who was on the floor, another was breaking a window. I looked around for a place to hide nearby was a handcart large enough to crawl in, but on side of it was written in big letters, ‘JIM’s... “Good god”, ‘Jim’ what the hell?!! I started to run forward, something wet fell on my thigh, still I kept on running, and from inside my coat took out the knife I had found in the pub. Then in front of me was a man in pointed cap, he came so suddenly and the gun in his hand gleamed.
My steps faltered, my knife stuck some where as I desperately tried to cling on… to keep me from falling. I got balanced a little and looked up. The pointed cap was now red and the knife was inside it and I was hanging on to the knife, which was twitching. I tried to take the knife out but my knees were weakening, the winter grey was turning black as I fell . . . (End)
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