Saturday night is my darkness

I live with my mother. Because my car is crap and I dont have enough money to fix it or get a new one, I drive her car around mostly. Im the friend everyone thinks of at the best of times as the funny one, at the worst of times as the obnoxious idiot. I work in the theatre. My nickname is Softhands. So believe me when I say nobody is afraid of me. I'm very doubtful that I'm very interesting or intriguing. But....

Every saturday night, I go to a local bar, around 10:30 or 11, and sit alone at the dark corner of the bar. I order drink after drink, and smoke cigarette after cigarette, all the while just watching people and the mirror over the bar. In my own world, I am Jung's Shadow. I am The Man With No Name. I am a character from a Frank Miller comic, or an old George Jones song, the heartless drinker with no home to miss. No one knows me here, and I know nobody. I revel in the fact that these people have no idea of who I am or what my story is. I could be all hard cock and bad attitude, the kind who is so intense he will stare into your eyes during hot, sticky sex; a kindergarten teacher with a wife, who is on his way to midnight mass; or just some dude in for a drink (which I guess is what I am). I drink until Im out of money for the night, until the gravelly base of my throat hurts, or until the Jack Daniels gives my throat that horrible cold feeling. I go home.

I wake on sunday with a slight headache and the will to keep up my happy go lucky personality. Its a good life I have, and I wouldnt trade it for anything. But its a nice break to become someone else. I find my heart of darkness every saturday night, take it out and shake the dust from it, look at it for a couple of hours, and then fold it back up, and stuff it away. But at least I know where it is.