All The Lonely People

She sat at the bar because that was her life. She had to be in her mid-50's at the time. She was trying to look like she was in her mid-40's. Her name was Diana and she was one of the regulars. Scotch was her drink, which is unusual--- most women do not like the taste of the foul-tasting poison. Diana was there 4 or 5 times a week. And, on the weekends she was a mainstay. Like many people in life, she had been burned by love. Her eyes spoke the pain whenever you talked to her. Diana would start to tell you about the various men who did her wrong, one bad choice after another. And, then, the talk would always go to her true love, a man named Barry. Barry was someone she fell hard for when she was in her twenties. He was ten years older than her, therefore, he possessed the self-confidence and worldly air that she soaked up like a sponge. He was married at the time, unhappily, he told her. Whether it was true or not, she fell hard for him. Diana said that Barry told her that he would leave his wife for her, but, financially [ always the handy excuse ] he could not. His wife would ruin him. So, for a while, Diana and Barry were having this affair under cloak and dagger. There was genuine love there, according to her. And, she clung to the hope that someday, he would leave the wife and settle down with Diana. After three years, the affair lost its charm. Not from Diana. But, from Barry. He decided that he would stay with his wife after all. Barry explained to Diana that he loved her, but, he could not leave his wife. Naturally, this shattered Diana. She was heartbroken. She was angry. Mostly, she felt foolish. She had let her heart take away her common sense. It took her many years to realize that Barry, despite his protestations, never really loved her. She was just something that he kept on the side. The smile on his face that his wife would never understand, Diana said bitterly. When they broke up, Diana was just hitting the age of thirty, a crucial age for a woman. She had no husband, no children, and mostly, she became cynical about true love. Short-term love, yes, she got. But, the all-consuming, two souls merching together forever love, was something she would never have. Soon, after her failed love affair, she turned to drink and bar pickups. For twenty years, both of these vices slowly sapped away her energy and vitality. By her mid-50's, she found that barstool that had become her second home. Drinking away the hours, telling anyone who would listen her tale of woe. And, waiting for that love to come back just one more time...... John had seen death for most of his early adult life. He was a veteran of two wars, a tough son of a bitch if there ever was one. He was seventy. As with most men as they get older, the spread of middle-age increased into old age. It was hard to picture him on the island of Iwo Jima, all young and in fighting shape. But, he brought out the pictures to show us. He looked like a young Errol Flynn [ which he claimed helped him enormously with the women!]. Dark hair, not a ounce of fat to cling to his body. The pictures, which he was never too shy to show people, were of his years in the service. He was drafted into World War Two at the age of eighteen. Like most men, he wanted to fight the good fight in ''The War'', as everyone called it. Perhaps, like no other time in history, this war was universally accepted. Hitler had to go down, the same with Tojo and Mussolini. John wanted to get those bastards that had attacked his country and fellow citizens. At first, he saw very little combat. He was a Marine, naturally, and Marines wanted to kill, so, his impatience grew sometimes into a frustrating temper. Finally, after several months of '' pulling our puds'', as he described it, John and his fellow Marines were sent right into the heart of battle, fighting those detested Japanese. The island they were fighting on was called Iwo Jima, a name he couldn't have pronounced only weeks earlier. The went ashore with thousands of other soldiers, John said, all with the conviction that this battle would be over quickly. This was the spring of 1945, with the European war almost over, all attention now being directed towards the Japanese effort. John described the landing and high hopes for a quick victory. He talked about very little resistance at first. Then, his voice would become quiet and subdued. John would always need several drinks in him to talk about the death. The alcohol seemed to both open him up to his pain, and, to ironically, soothe his soul by confessing it. He talked about the bodies being blown apart and the carnage. The lucky, he said, died quickly, without any knowledge that they had been hit. The poor men who suffered knew what happened to them. The stench of death was overwhelming. The inhumanity. And, mostly, the screaming. The screams of pain. The screams towards God to help them. The screams coupled with the looks directed towards John. Those looks and screams were pleading with him to do something about their suffering. He couldn't. He did his duty like a good soldier and survived the war. That was all he could do. And, for reasons that he could never fathom, he stayed in the service after the war, only to be sucked into the Korean War five years later. There, he heard the screams and saw the agony again. More inhumanity. By the time he sat on his barstool in the mid-1990's, he was no longer John, he said. He was a Dead Man Walking, just awaiting death. John told me he had the nightmares that all veterans of war had. He saw the images of young men, his friends who never lived a long life, blown to pieces. As John would take another sip from his drink on his second home of a barstool, he told me quietly that he still heard the screams........ Mike, the bartender, heard all of the stories, he told me. He was the caretaker of people's feelings and emotions as soon as they walked through the door. He was a damn fine bartender. He knew everybody's drinks. He knew when to approach you when you were ready for another round. He knew when to give you that free drink and to pour a drink properly. A real drinker knows that you do not want a mixed drink too strong. You don't have to beat yourself up to prove how big a juicer you are. The same with weak drinks. You are paying for it, so, of course, you want the bartender to give you your dollars worth. Mike was good about all aspects of bartending. He listened well, joked around when necessary, and, when inevitably, a stranger decided to show his beer muscles, Mike would calmly talk the guy down. Some nights, though, more than talk was needed. Mike, all tall giant that he was, would carefully escort said offending party out of the gin joint. Mike had to be about 40 when I knew him. Bartending was his primary job. He seemed to have a lot going for him, so, one day, I asked him how come he wasn't out in the world tearing it up. The bar was not crowded that day, so, he had time to talk. I guess I must have hit him at the right time because a look of sadness came over him, a look like he wanted, for once, to unload on someone like everybody unloaded their problems on him. He told me that his early twenties and thirtees he was a big deal. He studied law and passed the bar and got a job in a big time law firm downtown. His life became one party after another. He lived the wine, women, and song life to a T. By the age of 32, he had the nice house, fancy car, model girlfriend, the whole shebang. Then, he defended someone that changed his life. Mike said this guy was a genuine piece of shit, a true lowlife. The guy was charged with raping a ten year old girl by knifepoint. Mike said that his client was clearly guilty and should be behind bars for the public's safety. But, as his lawyer, it was his duty to defend him, which he did. Without giving me details, Mike found a loophole in the police handling of the arrest. With this technicality, Mike was able to get his client off on the rape charge, which he did. Mike said he justified it to himself by saying that he did what any good lawyer did, which is to defend his client. Six months later, his client raped and murdered another ten year old girl. He was eventually convicted, but, for Mike, it forever stained his soul. Mike felt personally responsible. He kept telling himself that the little girl would still be alive if he had only not pressed that loophole and got the scumbag free. Mike knew that every lawyer comes to this crossroads at some time in his or her own career. But, he could not shake his feeling that he, somehow, was somewhat responsible. So, he walked away from it. He gave up defending people who were obviously guilty. He wanted something that he would not have too much of a conscious about. His only worry now, Mike said, was overserving someone. And, if he did, he made sure that person did not drive. After he was done telling me all of this, Mike smiled at me and said that I should become a bartender because I am easy to tell a story to. And, with that comment, he went to the other side of the bar. Someone wanted to talk to him about their troubles......... Kevin wanted to be in the Rolling Stones. That was his dream, he told me. To swap licks with Keith Richards and to have Mick sing his words. The Stones were his greatest influence in life. Kevin would laugh, because he was an old-time hippie. He said that his generation cared so much for the issues of the day, be it civil rights or the war in Vietnam. But, it all passed Kevin by. He cared about the world, but, didn't follow it too closely. His love, his true love, was the music. Kevin played the guitar. He was good but not great. He could sharpen his playing when he got down to playing bottle-necked blues, but, he was no Hendrix. Because he liked the Stones so much, he followed their musical influences. Especially, old time blues. When he played the blues, Kevin said, he would feel the sadness and pain floating through his system. He cried through his music. Oh, he liked the sing-along, lets dance rock and roll that Mick and the boys played, but, he loved their blues stuff the best on their early records. When he was younger, Kevin had a garage band. Like every musician he dreamed of the big time. Kevin saw himself up on that stage, and  be treating as an equal with Keith. First, he had to make the Big Break. He went on the auditions. He played his heart out. He played the bars and gave out good entertainment to his crowds, but, he never clicked. Fame, that allusive lady, was never close to him. Kevin tried every conceivable way to break into the business, from traveling all over the country, to once, he confessed to me, sleeping with a record producer's wife in the hopes of getting his foot in the door. Sadly, he did not make it. Kevin told me that by the time he turned fifty he put away his dreams of rock stardom and hanging with the Stones. The music still soared in his soul, but, now, it would be for the very few and not the legions he had envisioned. He resigned himself that his dreams were never to come true. At some point every weekend he would unpack his gear with his fellow hippie travelers and sing for the bar. We all knew his story and we all wanted to support him. He would play good and solid. The look on his face would be what would draw the attention of the audience. It was a look of someone who was there but, in a way, wasn't there. The look showed someone who went to a place in his mind and soul. That place was not in this room, but, rather, a stage somewhere. That stage had him singing and playing in his glory. He was the rock star he so wanted to be. Maybe, in that moment, he was playing with Keith and Mick was singing his words. Usually, music takes the audience into this special place, where all is well and your dreams and hopes all come true. But, whenever he played, Kevin was always going to that place with the audience. After he was done with a gig, and, all the applause had been applauded, Kevin would become himself again. And, he didn't handle that feeling well. The dreams of what might have been haunted him. One day, I walked into the bar expecting to hear his music. There was no band there. I asked the regulars where Kevin was. Mike, our fearless bartender, said that Kevin was found dead in his home earlier in the week. Soon, the autopsy report came out. He had died of a drug overdose. A rock star death....... I haven't seen these people for twenty years. I imagine some of them have passed on. And, maybe, some of them are still there. These stories are so commonplace in any bar. I hope the survivors are happy and productive. The ones that have passed away, well, I hope they found some peace on the other side. A bar is many things. Most of the time it is a fun place to have a good time with fun people. But, there are also people like these folks. Victims of love, war, the brutality of life, and lost dreams.......