Meet and Greet

It was one of those old-timey diners. You know, the ones where the townsfolk and sheriffs all hang out and gab about their lives, like they really have anything better to do then sit around and talk about rain and newcomers. The type of diner that died along with Elvis, and then was only ever put together in a mockery of the past.

He, however, was not part of that past. Brown hair pushed off to the side, neatly trimmed and cropped beard, and vacant expression, as if he was always bored with the happenings of the real world. He was quite obviously lost. The black, south-pacific bone hook around his neck was a pale attempt to look traveled, and the white undershirt and half-buttoned overshirt clearly didn’t hide the slightly bulging belly beneath.

He took a long draw at the coffee in front of him as a kid, barely a teenager, took the seat next to him at the bar.

“Hey buddy,” the man said without a glance, barely take his lips away from the coffee.

The boy looked at him for a second that was far too long to be anything but awkward before saying, “I’m sorry… Do I know you?” The man paused, set the chipped coffee mug on the bar, and gave the kid a sideways glance.

“Not yet. But you will.”

Another pause. The boy seemed unsure whether he should introduce himself or run out the door and inform the police.

“Calm yourself. I’m you in ten years.” Once again the man picked up the cup of coffee and nursed it before gesturing for a refill.

“Okay…” The kid said, obviously looking around for a way out of an insane conversation.

“Your brother slammed your toe in a wooden door when you were kids at your old house. The nail turned a purplish-blue before falling off. It was disgusting…” The man said, displaying his first show of emotion. The boy thought for a second before answering.

“Which toe was it?” 

“The big toe, though I don’t remember which one, and I’m guessing neither do you.” After his coffee was filled, the man put a little too much sugar in and stirred. “You want anything? It’s on me.”

“You mean, it’s on us?”

“Oh, please don’t do that lame sitcom thing,” the man said, turning on the barstool finally to face his twelve year-old self. “You’ll regret it. Besides, it’s bad enough we’re doing to clichéd ‘meet and greet with your past self’ stich. God I hope we don’t break out into a musical next.”

“Fair enough. So I’m probably going crazy—” the kid started.

“Relish it, buddy,” the man chuckled. “All the best people are crazy. It’s normal people who hate their lives.” 

The kid mimicked his older self awkwardly. “So, how does this work? You have something to tell me? Something about the past, or maybe the future?”

The man shrugged, going back to his coffee. “Eh, not really.”

The boy just looked around, at a loss for words. Finally, his gaze landed on his older self’s hand. “So we’re not married?”

“Nope.”

“Close?”

 
“Not even.”

The boy sighed. “Job?”

“Not really. I just graduated college, give me a break. College is great, by the way. High school is hell though. So good luck with that.” Another sip.

“Huh. Wonderful. So, why are you here?”

“Well, I guess just to tell you that… It’s going to be alright.” The man didn’t look at the boy when he said this, but straight behind the bar at the mounted and fading mirror. 

“‘It’s going to be alright?’” the boy repeated.

“Yup. It’s all going to be alright. So don’t you worry…”

“Did you want me to warm that up for you, sir?” the old-timey, milkshake bartender asked. The man looked to his right, where the kid had been, and saw nothing. Which, of course, was exactly what he expected. 

“No, I don’t think so, thanks. I should probably get going.” The bartender moved on and the man sat there for a second more. Looking to his left, at another empty barstool, he whispered to himself, “I just wish there was someone to tell me that.”

Bleed Out

Not all is fair in love and war. In war, a charismatic leader can scream “Never give up!” and inspire his men to spend their last breaths dying for a cause that may or may not be worth it. Love isn’t like that.

When you’re in love, there’s no leader there to tell you to never give up, because you don’t need one. You keep fighting because you’re afraid that if you stop, for just one moment, you might just bleed out. It’s the fighting that keeps you alive. I knew the truth in that the moment I saw her with him.

She had been one of those girls to me. That girl that you remember the very moment you first laid eyes on her and thought: “She’ll never know I exist, but that’s alright, because I could never deserve that.” The kind of girl that one day lets you in and suddenly you find yourself in her inner circle, and you covet the smiles and whispered secrets. The kind of girl that you know, way deep down in the roots of your being that if you don’t do everything you can to win her heart, you’ll regret it. Losing is fine. Not fighting… not fighting is lethal.

But not quite as lethal as the moment I saw her with him. Not quite lethal as the moment I realized that they were good together—that he was good to her, good for her. Not quite as lethal as the moment when that realization hit me: they may just make it.

And now I’m standing at their wedding. Now I’m at the table with the other groomsmen and bridesmaids. Now I’m toasting their happiness. Now I’m a walking corpse. Love again? How could I? Love is not a general with an endless supply of troops. Love is a Private, lying in his own lifeblood, stuck with the choice of getting up and trying to find healing or just surrendering to the inevitable.

As I watched him put the ring on her hand, I surrendered, because I knew that I couldn’t fight anymore. The war was long over. There wasn’t anything left to bleed out.