G. Thorogood

There I was, alone at the dive bar on a Thursday, an hour before close drinking alone. To my right were three old drunks, men, staring wistfully at the pretty indie singer on the late late show on the television suspended above their nightly armrests, the captions keeping delayed time to what the broadcast wanted them to see -- as they wanted to see what the broadcast had -- and, there I was, sitting among them, alone, silent, when the jukebox cut through the noisy conversation maintained by the drunk 30 something couple and Eric Burdon & The Animals started singing:

This following program is dedicated to the city and people of
San Franciscan, who may not know it but they are beautiful and so
Is their city this is a very personal song, so if the viewer
Cannot understand it particularly those of you who are European
Residents save up all your brand and fly trans love airways to
San Franciscan U.S.A., then maybe you’ll understand the song, it
Will be worth it, if not for the sake of this song but for the
Sake of your own peace of mind.

And then, somehow time passed and there was Ringo Starr standing next to the annoying man in the suit up there on the TV over the heads of the drunks and the annoying couple was gone and I was up to my third or fourth pint and I was missing Krista something bad, that terminal feeling that never leaves, the knowledge that you’re dead and never coming back so you walk through the world like a ghost, spending evenings with other ghosts, the lot of you thinking about some dead place and time and knowing full well that here you are, in the world of the dead and there isn’t any going back. So, Ringo’s up there above our heads and no one can hear his voice but the captions keep scrolling by and since we’re all dead and looking at the dead and thinking about life, we all start reading his silent singing, and Ringo’s saying:


Ev’ry time i see your face,
It reminds me of the places we used to go.
But all i got is a photograph
And i realise you’re not coming back anymore.


The whole death thing becomes overwhelming and some young guy and some old guy go out back to punch it out, and some college girl dropout stands up on a barstool, and Ringo keeps singing:


I can’t get used to living here,
While my heart is broke, my tears i cried for you.
I want you here to have and hold,
As the years go by and we grow old and gray.

Ev’ry time I see your face,
It reminds me of the places we used to go.
But all I got is a photograph
And I realize you’re not coming back anymore.

Ev’ry time I see your face,
It reminds me of the places we used to go.
But all I got is a photograph
And I realize you’re not coming back anymore.

Ev’ry time I see your face,
It reminds me of the places we used to go.
But all I got is a photograph
And I realize you’re not.


So, there I am. Just like I am here now. Nothing’s changed but I keep pretending that I’m not dead and they’re not dead and that there’s something else and that things can and will be different if I can somehow become alive again. I look at the drunks thinking that I don’t want to become that, and that I know very well why they’re here. It’s closing time, and the crumpled, smoky woman of a bartender comes up to me as the people are leaving and says to me with the voice and eyes of a kindergarten teacher or a stripper, the best she can muster under all the leather:

"You’ve been pretty chatty tonight."

"Ha." I say.

"What’s your name?"

"My name’s Ryan."

"Nice to meet you. I’m Patty. How are you doing?"

"Oh, I’m okay, Patty. No problem."

"All right."

On goes my coat, and I pour in the last of the glass. Patty notices and says, "Gonna have a good weekend?"

"I don’t know. Maybe."

"Well, take care. You’re always welcome here. Have a good night, Ryan. See you when you come back."

--Which made me stop, look at the drunks and her work boot body and think that this was the crazy house where the crazies don’t burnout their heads but their hearts, and that it would be more appropriate not to hide it and to just give everyone a white uniform and paint the walls white and serve beer in little paper cups and give the bartender a nurse’s uniform. Then it would all make sense.

We’d be dead, yet unashamed of being dead. Who cares if the wife and kids never visit, or if the good times aren’t coming back. We’ve got these cups and this nurse who seems to care about us, and Ringo Starr has already told the whole damn world how we feel, or at least me. I wish The Animals would come on again. They don’t. I walk home alone with a cocked collar -- a cocked collar! -- and listen to boys and girls everywhere being alive.