Last Call

Fever dreams, all this week. Last night’s was the most intimate. I can’t express enough what it’s like to dream the way I do; how detailed and real these places feel, and how odd, and unreal, and sad it can be, sometimes, to wake into the awareness that these places simply are not real, and do not exist.

Last night’s was winter. A bleak, small town winter….almost out of an appalachian western. I awoke within the dream just shy of two in the morning, and felt incredibly lonesome. I had enough time to make last call at one of the local bars, so I set out hastily on foot for a pub downtown. The place was narrow– bar, row of stools, wall behind the stools — and had that panicked, worn-out sense of ‘shutting down’ for the night. The "once busy, now dying" sort of atmosphere. The bartender flipped bills as he counted his earnings for the night, and a few scattered patrons sat here and there about the mess….too drunk and sluggish to get up off their stools and trudge home through the snow. One of them I recognized, and was happy to see a familiar face. I sat next to him, and asked the bartender if I made last call. He shook his head, but suggested I head up to the oriental tea house instead, because for some reason the oriental place didn’t have to stop serving until 4am. I asked my buddy if he wanted to head up there, and although he was about ready to call it a night, he agreed to one more drink, and set out with me– away from the warm orange glow of the pub, and up the slushy silver sidewalks to the oriental tavern. The building was more isolated, away from the downtown area and perched high up on a hill in an old storefront type of building. The pub reeked of use, but the tea house reeked of age, and before my friend and I even made it up to the front doors I lost him. Heading home to bed, no real surprise. The front door to the tea house was heavy, and groaned as I pulled it open. Inside, it was incredibly dim. The light was a barely-there yellow, from maybe a few scattered candles in a very large main-room. It very much had the feel of a western saloon, in the well-into-it after hours of the morning. The tables were low and featured cushions instead of chairs. Almost all of them were empty, save one, which had three asian women sitting sleepily at it, smoking a hookah to cap the evening. I recognized them as the owner and employees of the establishment, and joined them at the table. All looked exhausted. I asked if it were too late for a warm sake, and the owner said ‘of course not.’ Begrudgingly, she got to her feet and went into the back kitchen to get it. The two waitresses straightened some, and asked me a couple standard civil questions. One of them laid down sideways across some of the pillows and fell asleep, while the other went into the back to check on the owner. This one returned with the sake, and as she came walking through the doors to the back room I caught sight of the owner lady behind her, washing her face in the sink, preparing for bed. She delivered the beverage and told me I was welcome as long as I’d like, as long as I locked the door behind me when I left. She too, then, went to bed, and I sipped my drink in the dark, with the sleeping waitress, for a good long while…admiring the dim shadows on the walls, and the quiet winter wind pushing on them from the outside. I drank half of it, and got to my feel. Buttoned up my jacket, and slipped out the front door, locking it behind me as instructed. For a while I lingered on the stoop there and watched it snow. It was as silent and forsaken a moment as ever there was..