The Musings of a Silent Man

It’s 11:47 pm on a Wednesday night and I’m not dressed for the heat of this city. Jeans and a button down were way too daring, but in my defense, I have to look the part of a city photographer

It’s good to see that drinking establishments have risen in popularity here in El Paso. You get used to seeing sloppy people going to the nearest bar and drink cheap beer and watered down spirits. It was time to class up a bit.

Walking to the door, I pass two people having an engaging conversation of sorts. The atmosphere is light – the sounds of glasses clinking, taps pulled and shakers being shook.

We took our seats and that’s when I felt it. The glow of the pendant lights above the table and dark wood of the booths gave a cavernous sense of old world charm. Where are my typewriter and cigar? My Pipe?

I’m grateful that these establishments have drink menus. I wouldn’t have known that the mixed drink I ordered comes with an “Absinthe Rinse,” pretty snazzy if I do say so myself. As my friends banter away across the table, I find myself in this fuzzy, cloudy state of mind. Not drunk or buzzed but definitely an obscured level of consciousness/awareness. Whatever was in my drink was doing the job very well. I was locked in.

Some time passes by and we find ourselves outdoors with two complete strangers. The bad part about this whole ordeal is that 1.) I’m not as alert as I’d prefer to be to entertain the mind-numbing conversation I’m going to have to pull out of thin air and 2.) This is the most cliche thing I’ve ever participated in.

I have no recollection of the stranger’s names. Jacob? Joseph? Drew? Tammy? Abigail? Chloe? From what I remember he was a careless fellow. Stereotypical “Bar Bro” dragging on a cigarette as if they were going out of style (They are,)…. wait, isn’t this supposed to be a Tavern of sorts? Where are the pondering of minds and careless conversations of love and art? Ugh… Damn you “A Midnight in Paris.” At least he mentioned he has always wanted to play the sax.

The woman he was with was something else. All I remember was her age, and that she traveled between the states and Spain, teaching conversational English. A noble profession in my eyes, but her eyes did not exude the same confidence I was hoping. It was the liquor. It was 15 till 2am and people near us were getting louder and more obnoxious. Don’t they have pets or a ficus plant to get home too?

She had this long draw when she spoke. The alcohol was not messing her much, but it was noticeable in her sway. A soft face of sorts, I could imagine her sober, very bubbly even a bit airy but definitely more fun when sober. She was sloppy though, shame. My friend I was with, “Dave,” was into the conversation with this girl. It was about this time that I had the urge to start writing down some thoughts on the night. Dave noticed, I got embarrassed so I put my phone away.

“Stacy,” my other friend had beat me to the bar to cash out. We hadn’t seen each other in 5 years so Fireball shots were an appropriate way to end the night. That crap is vile, like liquid “Big Red,” it’s sweet, horrid and lingers like a nagging ex that wont admit the relationship is half past over. I noticed some Hipsters at the bar now, screaming and hollering Prince lyrics.

I need to get to Paris, preferably 1920’s Paris.



by Isaac Jacob Medina