February 2024 Student Creation

An Exercise in Loneliness

By: Finnian Gilbride

Terry’s Irish Pub is a notorious dive bar at the slightly more unsavoury end of downtown. Terry’s is open until 2am every night, and there’s usually some kind of fight happening until at least 3:30. The regulars at Terry’s are some of the worst people I’ve ever met, raging alcoholics at best and convicted felons at worst, and they all hate each other. But, they still come every night to drink watery beer and complain. It’s honestly kind of sweet, they’re like the cast of Cheers if they all had DUIs and were 40% uglier. None of them really have anywhere else to go, and even if they did, I think they’d stay here. Because they’re the only people who truly understand each other, here they’re somebody. I drive up to the back door through the narrow and claustrophobic alleyway that runs behind all the pubs and stores on the street, and park carefully in the sole narrow spot next to the door.

Terry’s is a hole in the wall. There’s only one room, barely big enough to fit a bar and a handful of tables. You can hear and smell everything. It’s currently 11:23 p.m. and pouring rain. I was supposed to be on stage eight minutes ago. Nobody really cares though, the audience is too drunk to check the time and I’m early compared to some of the other bands I’ve seen here. I step uneasily through the rickety doorway and haul my case up onto the stage, if you can even call it that. It’s barely a raised platform, maybe eight inches off of the ground. There’s not enough room for me to sit, so I have to stand. The guys here probably won’t even notice music has started playing, let alone get out of their seats to throw me a few bucks, but Terry asked me to play and I’m not about to bail on him. I plug my ratty cable into my worn guitar and turn off the standby. Immediately my ears are met with harsh feedback and disgruntled shouts from the audience. I reach over to the amp and dial the volume down to about half of what it was, and adjust the EQ a little bit. My tone is still awful, but I’ll have to make do.

Terry’s is easy this time of night, the crowd is drunk enough not to care what I play, but sober enough not to throw anything. I’ve played this exact set so many times, it’s pure muscle memory at this point. I just stare into space and play without thinking, occasionally being pulled back to reality by a broken bottle or a particularly loud shout. I have to fight not to fall asleep under the singular filthy lightbulb and static coming from the broken TV that Terry swore he’d fix two years ago. Towards the end of the night the crowd starts to get louder and more belligerent, which is usually a good sign for me to wrap up my set. I give my usual announcement, this is my last song, you’ve been a pleasure to play for (they haven’t), I wish I could play for longer (I don’t), etc… I get varied responses from the crowd, some groans, some cheers, some muffled retching noises coming out of the bathroom. Meanwhile, the buzzing of the amp and TV static feel like they’re getting louder. I’m in a room full of felons and it smells like someone died in here. I don’t care how much they pay me, I can't do this anymore.

I don’t even remember finishing the song, or putting my guitar away. I don’t remember taking the wad of crumpled 20 dollar bills or drinking the lukewarm beer that Terry had left on the counter for me. I don’t remember leaving the pub, or getting into my car. I don’t remember going 160 on the highway in the torrential rain. I don’t remember sliding off the road into a ditch. I don’t remember my car violently flipping over twice, or getting a severe concussion, or fracturing my arm in two different places and damaging my spine. I definitely don’t remember the paramedics picking me up and desperately rushing me to the nearest hospital. The last thing I remember is waking up in the ICU, with every part of my body hurting, and tubes attached to me. The nurses told me I might not ever walk again, and that my guitar is certainly beyond saving. I still don’t know exactly what happened to me, or why I did what I did. I wasn’t drunk, and I’m not stupid. Stupidity alone isn’t enough to make someone do that. I think maybe, deep down, part of me wanted to, and that’s the scariest part.