Bar shift
I would usually start my bar shift around two in the morning. The good thing is I don't leave my bed for it, but the bad thing is my mind always invites the crowd that sucks. I would be behind a bar cleaning glasses when Capitalist would arrive. His flawless body-fat percentage goes hand in hand with pale skin and sunken eyes. He would lean over the counter and say:
"What are we going to do about the money?"
"What do you mean?" I would say.
"I mean, we need it, don't we? We are not going to participate in this rat race forever, right? We just need to hit and hit big. Then you can stop worrying about the mortgage, or even better — you can even stop working."
"Dude, we are good; we are way better than most people"
"You are being silly again. What most people! You can't do this nine-to-five till your retirement; you will lose your mind. I reckon we need roughly around 20 years' worth of salaries, and then we are off the hook"
"Twenty years!!! Are you insane? I can't make that!"
"Yeah, you can. Look at the other idiots who are killing it. I think we just need to monetize your hobbies. For example, photography, or even better - cycling. Why not start filming yourself? I can already see it - become a long-distance cyclist as a middle-aged family man. Clicks will be rolling in."
"I don't want to do that. First, stupid idea to get off the hamster wheel by spinning it faster. Second, it will bring just more stress, and I already have enough of that at work."
"And tomorrow you will have it more," says the Assistant. His name is Assistant, but I've never seen him assist me with anything except complain that I haven't done what I'm supposed to do. He sits on the corner of the bar, doodling in his notebook, never lifting his head while he speaks to me.
"You forgot to prepare for tomorrow's presentation slides. The ones they explicitly asked you for, and also I think you double-booked the meeting about Hank's performance review"
"No, I haven't!"
"Yes, you have. You're on the school run tomorrow — remember?"
"Fuck, I am." - I panic - "But I really do have to talk to Hank"
"Of course you do! He stopped showing up to work before 11 am again. You should do something about that. The feedback needs to be timely; you can't sit on your hands with this one"
"Yes, yes, you are right. I think I will wake up earlier and finish the slides. I will ask Marina to do the school run, and then during lunch I will prep for Hank"
"Ugh, waking up earlier — this is not good for your body battery," adds the Nutritionist while picking up darts from the mark. Handsome, vain, and lonely, he is constantly worried about my health. "Last night your sleep score was 65, and the night before you got almost no deep sleep. Even while I speak to you, I am not sure if you are sleeping at all. I think you should hit REM right now if you want to be fresh tomorrow and keep your HRV balanced all day"
"Fuck, you're right! I am not sleeping at all. I will be anxious and impatient all day if I don't catch sleep right away. Ok, that is it, let's sleep. Everyone out. Out! The bar is closed for the night, people!”
"Wow, wow, come on, not fair" — Cultural Critic jumps from his chair. "You promised me tonight is the night we will discuss Nolan and his inability to write female characters correctly. And also, the new Top 100 book list is out by The New York Times, and it is complete shit. I thought tonight was the night we would go over this."
"Nope nope nope. Out, out. You all go somewhere else and leave me be." I start waving my hand towards the door. "I will put the closed sign on the door, and start counting backward, and if I am lucky I will catch 3 hours' sleep”
Chairs start to move, dissatisfied mumbling hangs in the air, but everyone heads towards the door. Critic whispers in my ear something about Andrei Rublev, but I just take his arm and point to the door. Nutritionist hugs him as they walk outside and tells him loudly, so I can hear
“Leave him. He is just dehydrated.”
I breathe a sigh of relief as I close the door, but when I turn around, I notice that he is standing in front of me. I try to avoid him by moving left and then right, but he is too quick, always one step faster, always in front of me. Short, with greasy hair and a twinkle in his eyes, he could pass as an evil leprechaun in some old creepy children's book. The Fear of Death himself is in front of me, and he is grinning ear to ear:
"Well, you don't want to close the shop before telling me how many times you have called your parents this week, eh?"
I go one step backward.
"C'mon, sleepy sleepy. Are you afraid you will see yourself on video call and realize that you are also getting old, eh, c c c."
I close my eyes and say, in the loudest way possible:
"One hundred!!"
"No, no, don't do this. No breathing will save you. Only talking with me will do. Tell me, will today be the last day that your son holds your hand."
"Ninety-nine... ninety-eight..."
"Will you know when that day passes that it was the last day?"
"Ninety-one...Ninety..."
"Ooooh, and your voice is getting raspier on every count; maybe it is throat cancer"
"Eighty-five... eighty-four..."
“It would be a shame to die so young without seeing your son grow"
"Seventy!"
"And, I wonder, would anyone show up for your funeral..."
"Sixty-five... sixty-four... sixty-three... sixty-two..."
Sixty-one body battery — is what my watch tells me right after waking me.
“Hmm, I am thirsty,” I say while I sit on the edge of the bed.
“What did you say?” Marina says from the kitchen
“Nothing, just a bad dream!” I shout, and then, after a small pause, I add, “Can you please pick the kid up from school today”
Part of the Dreams and Fears series.