"What in Hell's name?" I muttered this one quietly, as the strange man, whose name I still did not know, seemed agitated already. He turned to walk toward the bar, and didn't even slow down to see if I was coming along. And I don't know why I followed, to tell you the truth. Looking back now, I guess I'll say that he seemed to know what he wanted. He moved with purpose, as if he were imbued with some sort of mission. Maybe I wanted to be nearby when he found what it was that drove him, when he made his revelation. Or maybe I just got caught up with one of my feet following the other. Either way, I followed.
"With me or against me," he said, just before grabbing the handle. And I could only gulp, silently.
HE WAS A DIFFERENT MAN inside the place. He waved to everyone as if he were right at home. It made me wonder why he had ever hesitated. Had it been an act? I heard him say something about Teran (Terren?Tehrang?) at the bar, and then a wave of laughter washed over the room. I walked up to him just as the bartender (and I hesitate to call the thing behind the counter a "bartender," but I do so in order to keep moving and not dwell on the half-rotted thing) slammed down three black kettles, the other two about the size of grapefruits. The middle kettle was about the size of a basketball, and was scabbed with what looked like hundreds of cast iron burrs. A lugubrious mist leaked out from under the lid of each.
My thoughts were moving quickly, but my tongue was stuck. And my eyes were glued to the petal of steam uncurling itself from the squat, black kettle in front of the man. I smiled, desperately formulating a plan to get out of this place. I watched him heft the kettle up, slide the lid over and then bring it directly to his mouth. His head tilted back, his throat worked, and a trickle of dark, grainy liquid slid from the corner of his mouth, over his jaw, and then, glided down his neck into the darkness behind his collar.
"Ahhhhh," he exhaled and set the kettle down. His eyes were ablaze. He looked around the darkened room and shouted to nobody in particular, as those in their cups are often wont to do. "YEAH, MAN! FREEDOM'S ON THE MARCH!"
Surprisingly, the room cheered, almost in unison. I felt a bit ill. I still had no idea what I had drawn myself into.
The man whirled to the thing behind the bar, and spat out a gleeful few words.
"Fuck it," he said, his eyes shining. "I'll chase it down with Seeria." (Seria?) Then he turned to me, and his voice was curt, loud, and aggressive. He appeared to be a different man entirely. Whereas before he had been anxious and jittery, the set of his shoulders was now as if carved in stone, his chin high. Dare I say that even in his somewhat-inebriated state, there almost seemed a sunny nobility to the man's countenance? He was certainly not filled with anxiety any longer.
He looked impatient, though, waiting for his next kettle. Drummed his hand on the ebony bar. Picked up a napkin, crumpled it, threw it to the ground without looking where it landed. Turned to me.
"Some people want to ask me questions," he blurted. "What do you want to ask me"?
I was at a loss. Ask him? I had nothing to ask him. The questions were for myself, as I glanced over his shoulder at the dark, red room that was crammed with hunched over shapes, tiny black kettles, and flickering candles. The questions filled my mind quicker than the acrid layers of smoke could soak into my jacket. Where am I? Am I awake? Is this a trap? Is this the end for me?
Instead, I decided to approach the situation as if the man were my cousin, Armand. Sure, I realized that this fellow before me was not a stuttering software engineer in San Francisco who couldn't put The Vodka down. But I knew of no other way to ground myself in sanity. If this were a dream, then there was no harm in my acting like a fool, after all. And if it were real, then I didn't even want to consider how the night might end--regardless of what I said.
"Maybe you should just stop after that one?" But I knew I had come about it wrong, the moment I said it. Luckily, he didn't hear me. He seemed to be looking at me, but in reality, all of his attention was focused on the Thing Behind the Bar. He was waiting for his kettle, and I might as well have been talking to my shoe. I sighed, and waited, too. If nothing else, I had a need to keep an eye on things. Just so I knew what was about to come my way. Like the night Armand drunkly told our cocktail waitress in the bowling alley that I was a rich man who planned on buying her for a week. He didn't stop there. I had been preparing to finish up my turn with a spare, when the cops filled the place. Didn't take Armand but three minutes to achieve this. The whol thing caught me totally by surprise.
Plus, I wasn't sure I knew how to find my way home at this point.
AS WE MADE OUR WAY away from the Inn--I was walking, and he, staggering--the red glow of the place receded. With it, the man's intensity also seemed to wane. Gone was the forceful voice, and the eyes ablaze. Gone was the surety of speech, and the proud chest. The man lurched forward, and spoke haltingly. He still stood as if he were a Great Man, but I'm not sure he was convinced anymore. It felt false. I was amazed at the difference between his two states. Inside the Inn, he was driven, visionary, strong. He commanded the room. And out in the clear air (where my head was settling considerably), he was a small, surly, fearful, and rather unappealing man.
"I dont know about that place, my friend," I began. "I just don't think it's my kind of joint. I couldn't even think clear in there. Too much."
Nezua is an author and illustrator by trade, a rebel at heart, and a fugitive from the iron claw of ennui. You can find more of his writing at http://www.theunapologeticmexican.org , his videos at http://think.mtv.com/profile/Nezua , and graphic art at http://www.xolagrafik.com
