(to start at the beginning, refer to the RECord "Clean... [for 10min Writing Challenge #7]")
“Well, what rule do you want?” the dealer asked.
I laughed, “I don’t know man, so far this seems trapped somewhere between being dull and being weird… right now to be honest with you I’m just wishing I could go home and get to bed.”
Scratching at his chin after the manner of someone who’s seen Marlon Brando movies a few too many times, he said, “Do you want to add the rule to the game that you have to go home?”
Chuckles rounded the table, sounding off with the haphazardness of laundry tumbling against the sides of a dryer. He wasn’t laughing with us, but I was too caught up in feeling awkward to notice that. It only became apparent to me after reflection.
“Yeah… yeah, I’m adding the rule we all have to go home.”
It was like we were automatons or like we were those somnambulists who get up in the middle of the night and go eat. The only real difference was I had complete awareness of what I was doing.
To the initially perplexed, then waxing angry harangues of the bartender, each of us stood up and silently walked out – all of us save the dealer with his bag. Behind me I left my unpaid tab, my chair pulled out unceremoniously from the table, and the jacket I’d walked in with. I noticed that the other guys left objects as well: a watch taken off to keep track of the time, a wallet placed on the table as a sign of bets to come, a ring nervously taken off during the game.
We exited the bar and the only thing we had guiding us was the frightening powerful impulse to return to whatever we thought of as “home”.
Created: Aug 22, 2012Psalmist Document Media