A man named Rick walks into an unfamiliar bar. It appeals to him because it is dark and quiet, somewhat upscale, and empty except for the bartender at 1:30 on a Wednesday afternoon. The bartender's name is Ed.
E: What can I get you?
R: I'll have a Blue Moon and a frosted mug, please. No orange.
The bartender places the beer on a coaster in front of Rick with a small bowl of peanuts to the side.
R: My life is small.
E: What do you mean?
R: I mean it is small. Tiny. Limited. There are so many things I can't do, so many things I can't have. I was reminded of that last night.
E: In what way?
R: I work two part time jobs. I hate one of them even though I only have to be there one day a week. The job is only worth maybe $60 a day to me but I can't afford to quit. Isn't that pathetic?
E: A lot of people would say you're lucky to have a job.
R: I know. But I'm not one of them. That kind of gratitude is like living on your knees. I hate my life passionately.
E: I'm sorry to hear that.
R: I mean the personal side is magic, pure magic. But professionally I am empty and my bank account reflects it. You can take this for what it is worth, but I know I am intelligent, charismatic, I have a sense of humor and talent and yet I have nothing. I don't understand how that can happen to a man.
E: Life is not easy to figure out.
R: I'm trying real hard to change things, but what if I fail? I'll keep living this insulting existence and missing out on a few laughs.
E: What do you mean?
R: I mean if I knew for a fact that I will never make it I would spend more time laughing in bars and less time fooling myself.
E: You never know unless you try.
R: I'll have another beer, please. And a double whiskey, neat. Top shelf, please. Man was not meant to be small. At least not a man like me. Life is huge. It is a precious gift. If you spend it on your knees you might as well not spend it at all.
E: What do you want?
R: Independence. I don't want to answer to anybody. I don't want anybody controlling where I have to be and when I have to be there. I don't want to be evaluated by anybody. I don't want to have to think twice before I spend $25 on a hardcover book. I want to take my wife to her favorite restaurant once a week every goddamn week. I want dignity. I want these things with every fiber of my being. I ache to have these things. Yet every morning my life taunts me with it's limits and pisses me off so much I want to scream.
E: That's tough.
R: I got depressed last night when reality was pointed out to me. Couldn't talk. Cannot believe I am in this position. It's like a prison sentence. Been doing it for thirty nine years since I started working while attending college. No time off for good behavior. Murderers get off with less time.
E: You shouldn't think of it that way, it will only make it worse.
R: I have to think of it that way. I am living somebody else's life and it tortures me. I am doing everything I never believed in and I don't know how I got here. And I don't know if my efforts at change will be rewarded. Maybe this is what my life is supposed to be. If so, I better go to heaven when I die because I am living in hell right now. Christ, even hell is probably better than this.
E: You can't give up.
R: I won't give up. I have never put this much effort into changing my life before. It's a new sensation and I have to see where it leads. But I need some breathing space, I need some slack in the rope, I need a goddamn sign. I cannot continue to function with the mortgage vampire's fangs on my throat, I cannot continue to endure the indignity of cheap restaurants, old trucks, boring clothes, stifling jobs. I am above that. Right now I feel like Sisyphus. The irony is that I created my own boulder. But if I could move the goddamn thing one inch I would know that I can get it all the way up the hill. And keep it there. But I need that inch. And I need it right now.
E: I know I only just met you, but my impression is that you will succeed. And that someday I'll be proud to tell my regulars that I once served you a couple of drinks. I wish you luck.
R: I hope you're right. You are a good listener and I thank you for that. Take care.
Rick leaves a twenty dollar tip on a forty dollar tab and walks out into a rainy, cold June afternoon.
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