the world (a vignette)
a series i began to celebrate/commemorate the important people in my life from the eyes of an anonymous bartender. titles/themes derived from the 22 major arcana tarot cards.
He was wearing a blue-collar jacket over a white-collar shirt, still rumpled from a loosened tie. A barlight cast his downward shadow and so his frame filled the room. He approached the bar with conviction, his posture trained and his movements mellow.
“Welcome in. What are you thinking?”
He met my gaze, and his eyes were the color of summer deciduous. “Hey. Not sure. I was so confident about a rye or scotch, but now I’m thinking something lighter.”
“Gin?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“Floral?”
“Read my mind.”
And as my mind churned through various botanicals and juniper-compliments, I asked him where he was from and what he did for work. He said he was a consultant in biotech, from Wisconsin near the Twin Cities. He spoke with a matter-of-factness that might convince me of anything, and with a calm and clear cadence as if every word had been arranged in optimized order.
the World has much unfinished business, delayed celebration
I served him a concoction of Hendricks, brut, crème de vanille, lemon, and blanc vermouth, set on a shard of ice in a sleek and narrow Collins. As he took his first sip, his eyes gleamed, the yellowish light of the bar swirled in with the green, and for a moment, they were golden. “Perfect, man. This hits the spot.” It was then that I noticed his forest tattoo, peeking under his sleeve.
“Love the tattoo. Can I see?”
“Ah, thanks,” he gave a satisfactory nod and a sheepish smile. “The short explanation: you can’t see the forest for the trees. It’s sort of a reminder that there’s a bigger picture. And plus, I’m a big nature guy. I’ve got some mountains on my upper chest, too,” placing his hand over the inky ridges. The pines that sprouted on his wrists were tall, nearly reaching his elbow, and the expert shading gave a profound illusion of depth.
He rolled his sleeves back down.
“It’s beautiful, man. You’re far away from that kind of nature, though, huh. Is that the future plan?”
“I imagine myself waking up, sitting on my porch on a chilly morning, sipping a hot cup of coffee, and listening to the birds. That would be the best way to spend my days.” I was caught off guard by his directness, but there wasn’t a lick of insincerity in his voice. I could feel him yearning for it, indulging in the senses of the reverie: the heat of the coffee mug, the robins and thrushes of the dawn chorus, the supreme clarity that can only be summoned by brisk and boreal air. As he spoke, I could see the goosebumps under the Detroit jacket sleeves, the raised hairs like bracken on his sleeve tattoo.
We talked for a few minutes, all the while the amber-tinged cocktail slowly disappeared. Despite the easygoing demeanor, I could tell the future hung heavy on the man. His past snapped at his heels and yelped for more, more, more success. He was a man who held fast to his principles, unwavering except in the face of a reasonable dialogue. He dreamed of woods and glades and mist-laden mountains, of being fastidiously lost and beautifully alone.
Last call came and went. “To me, it looks like you’ve got it all set.”
“Doesn’t feel like that, sometimes. I’m told one set of expectations, but more often than not, I feel like I fail to reach them.”
“I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know, man, but I can remind you of something you placed permanently on your body. There is never a moment when a forest becomes a forest. It is just that, despite whatever expansion or contraction it might undergo. It is a tangled morass of old and new growth, simultaneously one and many. Nature promises a home that is green and pliant and simple, a life that might still be anything at all, where there are no expectations nor terminus, but just the journey.” I continued. “You are far from alone in your dedication: oak worship at the oracle at Dodona, the druids’ thickets in Britannia and Gaul, Shinto shinboku veneration, the serene banyans and fig trees of Buddhism, Norse yule-pines, Siberian birches, Egyptian date palms, the Slavic oaks of the thunder god Perun—all branches of the world’s first religion. There is no doubt in my mind that you will reach your Eden, but your accomplishments and achievements will give you no solace if they cannot be enjoyed in and of themselves, and not in relation to that ephemeral final goal.” I stopped and shrugged. “Just a humble bartender’s thoughts.”
The last of the Hendricks vanished, his eyes glassy like an oak leaf in the rain. He left his change on the bartop, shook my hand, and melted into the darkness outside.