Scene 2: "Bar Scene"

As Saturday night approaches, he sits in the grease stained rocking chair that rests in the corner of his eight-by-eleven San Francisco bedroom, half paying attention to the Oasis documentary running on his laptop, and half contemplating whether to try and make something of his night. His options are limited to the three or so acquaintances that he’s crossed paths with during the first month of the summer, and he figures that even they would probably reject any plans that he proposes for the evening. So, he resigns himself to a night of finishing Supersonic and then turning his attention to whatever else Netflix suggests he should watch. But just as he’s accepted, and embraced, the somber fate of his evening, he gets a text from one of the three acquaintances – a mutual friend who is also interning in San Francisco.

“Hey! Wanna hit the bars with us tonight?”

The answer to her question is no. He doesn’t enjoy being around these girls, but he also knows that they can provide him something – an illusion of companionship that just might give him enough to build some sense of fulfillment around. If nothing else, at least they can offer an easy escape from himself. He ignores the raging superficiality that surrounds their “friendship” and opts for the bars in lieu of the chair, feeding off the rationalization that he ought to get out and explore the city, no matter who it has to be with.

“Yeah I’m in.”

He dresses to the tunes of "Live Forever" and "Champagne Supernova", mouthing the words as they emanate from the Oasis documentary, which is still playing in the background. After throwing on a pair of grey skinny jeans and a black t-shirt, he puts on the watch that he received as a welcome gift from his internship, feeling that it adds something – signals something to all those watching. The Lyft driver arrives, and he gawks at himself in the mirror before walking out the door into the brisk San Francisco air. He gets in the back seat, affirms who he is, and fastens his seatbelt, carefully tiptoeing the line between obligatory pleasantries and unwanted small talk.

“How old are you?”

“21.”

“Oh wow,” the driver chuckles. “I thought you were like 17 or something…but I don’t mean that as an insult. Trust me, that’ll work in your favor when you get older.”

“OK.”

Exasperated by the driver’s remarks, he glares out the slightly cracked window at the heart of the Mission District, letting the city lights pass him by as they make their way to the other side of town. He mutters a thank you as he exits, and readjusts his watch, which no longer seems to project that story that he had originally intended. Suddenly, he questions his decision to display it at all, and he reevaluates his decision to venture out in the first place. But there’s no turning back now. He knocks on the door and waits.

The mutual friend embraces him as if he were her long-lost brother - the alcohol already pungent on her breath. And her two friends clearly aren’t far behind, stumbling as they come to greet him in the doorway. He pours himself a heavy drink, bracing for the long night ahead. But before he can even raise the solo cup to his lips, one of the girls approaches him and asks if she can split the drink with him, which now amounts to more of a triple-shot than a standard shot. They toss it down their throats as fast as they can, making sure to react with great disgust and preserve the illusion that they aren’t both used to it by now. She is quick to tell him that she is only in San Francisco on business, and that she was flown out by her Chicago-based company to have meetings with her client all week. He doesn't ask, but she proceeds to explain that she’ll be getting hired full-time after the summer, and that she’ll be making a six-figure salary in no more than two years’ time.

“Oh my god you’re so boring,” the mutual friend interjects. “I could never have a job like that.”

“I honestly don’t care. It’s more about what I do after work than what I do during work, you know?”

At first, he is knocked down by her apparent capacity to claim satisfaction from her corporate occupation, as this is a feeling that he believes himself incapable of achieving. But as he continues to observe her rant, he begins to question her sincerity, ultimately concluding that he isn’t to be fooled by her obvious masquerade of confidence. Her insecurity becomes abundantly clear to him, and he judges her for pretending to be fulfilled by what is an obviously uninspiring career path. Furthermore, his refusal to submit to such a rudimentary lifestyle indicates to him that he possesses a greater depth of character than she does. She is content to blindly trudge through the bureaucratic corporate ladder, but he is above that – he desires more out of life, and unlike her, his thirst for a purposeful career can’t be quenched by a measly six-digits scribbled onto a corporate contract.

The drinks start to buzz in his head, and he senses that it’s almost time to go. His watch, which is now firmly latched to his wrist, reads 10:30, and he looks up to see all three girls immersed in their phones, glued to their own screens like gnats in a spider’s web. They finally post their selfie after the eighth take, and he marvels at their unrelenting vanity. In desperate need of an escape, he uses his newfound sense of power to suggest that they start walking, and they oblige.

The bar is only a few buildings down, and the booming thud of the bass becomes audible to him as soon as he steps onto the sidewalk. They walk through the doors and into a sea of humanity so dense that it takes a full two minutes just to reach the bartender. The club music, the strobe lights, and the waves of noise provide him with a shocking overstimulation, as if to make up for the lack of sensory activity that he is left to bear at his workplace. He decides to quell the overwhelming sensations with alcohol, and proposes a preliminary round to the girls that he came in with. He raises his fist in the air to yell “SHOTS,” and within three seconds, all three girls come huddling around him as he reels the bartender in with a twenty-dollar bill. She lines up four tequila shots, and he proposes a toast to San Francisco, feeling very much in control. But this feeling is quickly exterminated when he turns and sees the woman next to him, wearing a striking blue dress and a radiant pair of sapphire earrings. Immediately, he is reminded of his age, and the fact that he hadn’t been with a woman all summer. The preceding round of shots, however, is enough to overshadow his doubts, and he asks her what kind of drink she’s getting, very aware that he is now the one projecting a thin front of confidence in a pathetic attempt to mask the teeming insecurity that lies beneath it. He worries that she can see right through his charade, but she can’t. She’s drunk.

“You’re gorgeous,” she proclaims, touching his shoulder and running her fingers down his right arm. “I like your watch.”

Finally validated, he is drawn to her. Six words is all it takes for his anxiety to morph into relief, and for his relief to turn into impulse. He moves closer to her and orders another drink.

“How old are you?” she asks, looking him square in the eyes.

“How old do you think I am?”

She sizes him up.

“23?” she guesses through a smile.

He nods.

“Oh my god spot on!” she exclaims.

“How old are you?”

She checks back over her shoulder, her long dark hair brushing his face as she whips her head back around.

“29,” she admits.

Their eyes remain locked for a few seconds, smirks etched onto both of their faces, until they eventually let their guards down and allow their discomfort to dissolve into laughter. She grabs his hand and walks him to the dance floor. The music is reverberating through the floors, and he allows the rhythm of the beat to direct his body. He can feel her touch on his chest and abdomen as he places his hands on her hips, allowing her body to move up against his. He can only see her face when the strobe lights allow it, and this intermittent darkness affords them both a freedom that they cling to. Her body feels good, and he allows himself to absorb the moment, internalizing the masculine affirmation that it provides. He doesn’t care that she is a 29-year-old woman. In fact, he relishes in it. And for a moment, she is able to deflect away the judgmental glares that her friends are issuing from just a few feet over. Their eyes meet each other in the flicker of the strobe, and before the next flicker can arrive, her lips are wrapped around his, and her hands are clutching at his back. He pulls her waist against his and wraps his arms around her, as they block out their immediate surroundings and try to capture whatever it is that they are seeking. But after a few seconds, he can feel her start to pull away. He holds on a little tighter and kisses her a little stronger, but she ultimately steps back.

“You’re gorgeous," she shouts through the noise, "but maybe you should find somebody your own age.”

“OK”

Left in the middle of the dancefloor, he attempts to reorient himself, but the strobe and the bass are unrelenting. He cannot locate the girls that he came with, and he isn’t sure that he wants to. Without thinking, he wanders around the bar in constant search of eye contact, desperately wanting to recapture what had just abandoned him, but nobody looks at him. The realization that he is no more a part of the scene than the wooden décor on the walls or the TVs mounted above the bar infuriates him, as the epic mass of bodies bats him around like a ship in turbulent water. After completing a full lap, he finds himself right back where he started – fenced in on the dancefloor by drunken hookups and sweat. He can’t be there anymore, and he angrily pushes his way to the exit.

The steady San Francisco wind is unabating and unwelcome as he struggles to undo the knots in his headphones. Working through the kinks, he notices that his watch is gone. He’ll never find it. Frustrated by the night, he hits shuffle on his Oasis collection and lets it carry him through the twenty-minute walk back to his apartment. Some people (including members of the band themselves) might say that Oasis’s lyrics are rather abstract, and at times, indecipherable. But on this chilly walk home, he has no problem finding great meaning and comfort in the solemn lyrics of “Cast No Shadow” and “The Importance of Being Idle.” When he hears "as they took his soul they stole his pride" or "I lost my faith in the summertime, 'cause it don't stop raining," it's as if Liam Gallagher is singing directly to him.

Upon returning, he grabs his bowl, his weed, and his lighter, and quietly heads out the backdoor. There is a round table in the corner of the small backyard, and he takes his seat at it, eager to escape even further from the reality of the night. But before he hits the bowl, he looks inside the apartment, preoccupied with the feeling that everyone inside is watching him. His sublettor was adamant about the no-smoking policy, but he is too drunk to care. The weed crackles as the flame tears through it, and he takes a long, steady inhale, feeling the smoke ruminate in his lungs before coughing it all out. A tingling sensation immediately overtakes his body, and he sits motionless under the night sky, free to interact with his compromised mind. He stares blankly into the clouds, and slowly works the tears into his eyes, encouraging a few of them to roll down his face and onto the surface of the table. The night is silent, and he indulges in the image of this moment, believing wholeheartedly that others would too if given the chance to see.

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