Memories from a Time..

“Have you ever loved anyone?” she asked me. And, to be honest, I didn’t know what to say.

It was an old place, one which was handed down from generations. The manager of the bar, Mile, was an old friend & so he didn’t mind me hanging around there. I used to tell him that I used to hang around his bar looking for inspiration. I used to tell him that the hordes of people who come down to his place, each with their own stories and sorrows and joys made me feel great. But he knew, as did I, deep in my heart, that I was there only because of the alcohol. But, was that the only reason? I wonder

I met her in the bar itself. She was a journalist, who had started with a local newspaper. When she saw me she couldn’t believe her luck. You see, I am a bit of a local celebrity. I am a writer and my books are fairly popular, in their own, pulp fiction sort of way. So, naturally, she was excited to interview me; while I, on the other hand, despised such interviews. But I thought what the hell, the newspaper would pay for my whiskey and I didn’t mind a free drink now and then. (Yes, I am a cheap bastard!)

So, there I was, in Mike’s bar (The Irish Tavern, for the ones who don’t know) sitting with this pretty girl as she questioned me about my life and work. To be frank, my life was not exactly the stuff of legends. I was an average guy with average grades. I was doing an average job for a PR firm when the writing bug bit me. One of my short stories in a local magazine got praise from a lot of people and I started imagining myself as the next James Hadley Chase. I then wrote a string of short stories, none of which were much appreciated; some of them were not even published. I got depressed, realizing that I was again back to being the average Joe. 

Then I had my day in the sun again, when my one of my long short stories was selected for publication by a local publishing house. They asked me to write a few more of those stories, as they wanted to publish them as a series. So I did. My character, “Kip Roarke” became an instant hit & the publication house put me on a retainer. So I left my job and started to write full time. Now I am one of those writers whose novels you buy while you have a long journey and you don’t want to tax your brains too much, the ones whose dog-eared novels eventually serve as the coffee coaster, until you sell them off to the used books guy. (Yeah, I am a bit of a self critic, bite me!)

She kept asking me all sorts of stupid questions, while I constantly eyed the clock on the wall & the hot female sitting under it. I could tell this was her first interview as she constantly fumbled with the tape recorder and her notes, rookies! 

Then she suddenly asked me that question & I had no answer. Did I love anyone? Ever? Or, was my love for her so profound that I never got around to loving anyone again. I wonder.

I met her on my job. She was like a breath of fresh air in my average life. She became the person I could confide in whenever I wanted, and yes, I finally fell in love with her. But I never could tell her, for she was already engaged to be married. But I do miss our talks, those times when she would constantly bombard me with her jokes, which were bad, to say the least, but I still laughed. And then there were those days when we would talk about nothing in particular but I would still leave with a smile on my face, one which didn’t go un-noticed by my best friends. She would sing sometimes, and she had a terrible voice, but I still found it soothing enough while all our friends would rush to make her stop. Yes, I was a fool to have loved someone so much, but does it matter when it made me want to be a better man, not the average everyday guy I always was? I guess not.

Even now, when she is married happily, she calls me each time my new book comes out. I wait eagerly for that one call, for I don’t give a damn about what anyone says about my books, the fact that she calls to congratulate me each time one of my “novels” come out makes me feel happy, like the kid who gets his first present from “Santa Claus”.

But, could I tell this novice of a journalist all this things? I guess not for it would need a more mature mind to understand this, one which has not been dulled by the incessant need to keep checking the Twitter feed and the increasing likes on her newest selfie with me. But I guess I am being too harsh, or am I?

I don’t know, I don’t pay much attention to things around me nowadays. I see the hot female under the clock checking me out, she looks a bit old, but she doesn’t want to give in to her age, I respect that. Her friend looks bored and disinterested. Never mind, she doesn’t interest me. The girl in front of me is now wrapping up things, she tells me the interview would be in the weekend edition & I couldn’t care less. I thank her, reminding myself sub-consciously to smile as I do so, a smile always helps. She smiles back and finishes her beer as she starts to leave. 

Then she turns back and says, “You didn’t answer my last question though. But I guess you have your reasons for that so I didn’t mean to pry. I guess some things are better left unsaid, right?”

I look at her with a new found respect and smile slowly. I reach into my bag and hand her the copy of my latest book, autographed, “Yes, some things are better left unsaid. Thanks for understanding that.”

She walks out of the bar and I turn to see her go. She was not a complete fool after all.

“Another Jack and Coke, Mike” and as I finish my current drink, I decide to write about Kip Roarke’s journalist friend, Natasha.