To the Barkeep
The primary mentor of my young-adulthood always told me that life is water. Water softly grinds stones into a kinder shape. Water cuts into stone, forming valleys and canyons. Water washes away runny make-up. Water cures a hangover. Slowly. My mentor never really specified these extensions to the metaphor. Maybe they were meant literally; after all, all life depends on water to live.
I didn’t have many good role models growing up. My life seemed to serve as a sort of transitory, liminal part of peoples’ lives. A bus or train station, in a world of two car garages and parking passes. Many people came to sit at the bus stop, but didn’t stay. Those that did stay tended to have their own problems, too. I think I didn’t appreciate the vagrants that wandered in and set up camp. I lacked perspective. But then again, when someone cares enough to look after you but not enough to look after themselves, it is hard to have perspective. Especially as a child.
It’s still difficult to put roots down anywhere. Why stick around when the lease was up? From my seventeenth to my twenty-first I lived in eight different towns. Six-month leases. Bad luck brought me to his doorstep. My car broke down on the way to town number nine during a rainstorm. Hell of a rainstorm too, my wipers could hardly keep up. Well, eventually they couldn’t, but due to unrelated car troubles.
Anyways. My mentor pulled up in this antique plymouth satellite. Fresh orange paint, new faux-leather interiors, other car-stuff. I cracked the window. With a smile beaming through the rain showers, “what’s a little water? Need a hand?” My distrustful expression encouraged a chuckle. It all kinda just went from there. I began working in their shop, staying at their place. There was no lease, so no need to leave.
Now, I’m sitting at your bar, with a sort of water in hand. This water burns, but not more than the salt trails streaking my face. Water softly grinds a stone into a kinder shape. Water cuts into concrete, destroying buildings. Water drowns. Water hides the evidence. Water feels a little more ruthless these days. I still have plenty of water left and I’m sure my mentor would not like to hear that I poured my water out early. Water is unpredictable. Water leaves you wanting more. Water leaves you. Water moves on, often without you.
Myles Perry is an honors student at Old Dominion University studying electrical engineering. In and out of classes and research labs, he spends his fleeting spare time working out, composing music, and writing. His work has been featured in the Virginian Pilot.