Freewrite '02 "Jack"

My name is Jack And I am gay I like to wear green plaid shirts because green is my favorite color, and plaid tends to annoy people. I live in a small studio apartment in Orange County. My sink always clogs and the manager refuses to fix it. So here I am, gay Jack in my green plaid shirt. My world revolves around frozen pizzas and apple jacks, since that about all I eat. I work at the local bar in the evenings for cash. I have a few regulars that I’ve gotten to know pretty well. Like Will. He’s gay too. He’s married to a women named Lisa and has kept his secret for the 7 years he’s been with her. He likes to come in and talk to me about how horrible his life is and how that’s the night he’s going to go home and tell Lisa he’s gay. And ever week he comes back with the same story and the same excuses. Another regular is Carla. Carla is Single, and has this delusion that someday Mr. Right will walk through the bar door and sweep her off her feet. She’s a bit homely, but cute in her own way. She likes to tell me of her escapades with various men, that were only there to fill the void each week. But she swears she loves every on of them and they will always be in her heart. Then there’s Roger, the businessman. He comes slumping in everyday after work in his $500 suit asking for a bud light. Never minding who is sitting next to him, he’ll always proceed to tell them how successful he is and how his wife hates him. God, who could blame her. He makes $100,000 a year and won’t buy her a car and would rather sit and drink cheap beer in a shit hole like this than sip wine at home by the pool with his beautiful wife. Will he ever end the cycle? Will he go home one day with the bar whore just to prove to himself that women want him, then loose everything because he was too stupid to realize what he wanted was what he already had? Who’s next? We’re just breaking the surface of all the countless faces I see come through here everyday. The single mother, the out of work carpenter, the car salesman. Everyone has a story. Everyone is here for a reason. Why I have to sit and listen to all the bullshit ones is beyond me. Give me someone with real problems. Give me someone who is here to celebrate life. Give me one person that wants to talk to me to find out who I am. Cares about how I feel today. Asks me “Hows it goin bro?”, and actually stay long enough to hear the answer. Don’t fucking treat me like your bitch. You come to me to escape your problems. You come to me to give you the courage to be who you really are. And don’t blame me at the end of the night because you made an ass of yourself. Don’t blame me for not closing your tab earlier. You honestly think these women don’t see right through you? You’re the shit right? All you have to do is give them a look and they want you. You’re an idiot! Try for two seconds to be real. Try to forget the fact that you spent more on your stupid shoes than she did for milk and bread for her family last week. Try and forget that looks at you and sees nothing but a dick. You can’t, because that’s what you make your reality. Fucking people. And I don’t say that because I’m bitter. I say that because it’s sad. It’s sad that the world these days can almost be summed up in a bar. Once in a great while you meet one. Someone who appreciates the simple fact that I took the time to come to work today just so I could open their ice cold beer that they worked so hard for. Its these people that make me come back every day. It’s these people that make me realize that as much as I’d love to give the big bird to every dumb fuck that walks through that door, that this guy was looking forward to seeing me all day. Not because he doesn’t want to go home to his wife, or not because he still doesn’t have a job, or not because she’s hoping that Mr. Wonderful will walk through the door… Simply because of the fact that nothing tastes better than an ice cold beer that someone cracked open just for you. Life is good. Green plaid shirts are good. Apple Jacks are good. Quit your fucking complaining and enjoy your beer. Take the time to say hi to the person next to you. They might be worse off than you. Tip your bartenders because they remember your name. Pick the songs YOU like on the jukebox, not what you think the crowd would like. You never know who else’s favorite song it might be. Buy someone a drink just because. Not because it might get you in their pants. Say thank you and mean it. And if your ever in a bar with your friends, tell them your glad they are there. If you don’t you’ll be the same shmucks that I’ve been talking about, for the rest of our beer drinking lives.

Erin S. Sartain 2002