The Wakeful Wanderer's Guide to Disillusionment

Fête

The ceiling at Bar Zinc, which formerly seemed so fascinating to Marto, now looked like someone had thrown an enormous pile of garbage into the air and it stuck. He was collecting dirty glasses and dishes from the tables, ignored by the crowds of rowdy geriatrics yelling at each other. Everyone was either drunk or high. Luckily, so was Marto.

Montreal was a dead town. People were waiting here to die. The elderly shuffled from automat to bar to home each day. The younger residents moped about silently, adding nothing, hoping for nothing, creating nothing. The stability and safety of the city was a thinly veiled hospice filled with people looking for another hit to ease the pain of their meaningless existences. This was Marto's fate now, too. There was nothing to do but numb the ache of his nauseated heart, push the broom, and do the dirty dishes. He had stopped documenting it in his paper journals. There was nothing to document here. It was a tomb.

Despite his best efforts, Marto had made no friends. Going by his birth name, Matthew, he had walked about on his days off, sitting in cafes and parks, hoping to make some connection with someone. He couldn't talk about his past and never managed to create a convincing history for his new persona.

Conversations petered out quickly. He thought there must be a hidden social scene somewhere for the younger generations here in Montreal, but if there was, Marto was never invited to join in. Perhaps he was old for what was going on, or perhaps he came off strange in his introductions. He tried to make friends with other refugees, but they were all either phobic or part of some cult of anti-Interconnected theists. Conversations with them died like a shout from a cliff. There were no echoes of anything that mattered to him. The isolation felt suffocating. Marto was at a loss as to how to make any meaningful connections or even find a way to have a little fun on his days off.

Work was eating away at his heart. The mind-numbing repetitive drudgery caused the days to lump together like cold oatmeal left on a table for weeks on end. He tried to make it interesting by chatting with the customers or even drinking and inhaling the various intoxicating fogs they loved. The older ones fawned over him, the younger ones ignored him.

His primary interest remained the Deejays. His favorite was Sukyi, who was spinning there on his first night, but, like all the other interesting people at Bar Zinc, she wouldn't engage in any conversation with him. She was behind the turntables tonight, playing an old song by the Cheetah Eaters. The lyrics floated above a thumping bass line.

Take me apart / You know my name

Tear at my heart / Breaking the game

Burning my skin / Believing the lies

Take me apart / Spit in my eyes

It was awful.

Charlie, the bartender, and Marto's uncle from a part of his life he couldn't remember, walked over to him and put his arm around him. Charlie had been distant but kind to Marto from the time Marto showed up at the door of the bar with nowhere to go. His voice was calm, but stern.

"Matthew, you've been here a while, and I don't enjoy doing this, but I've been told we have to let you go."

"What?" Marto was shocked. "I'm doing my job. I sweep, bus tables, do the dishes. What do you mean?"

"It's not my decision. If it was up to me, I would ignore all the drinking and getting high at the tables with the guests. We're family and I'm glad you survived, but you're not okay. You have a problem and it's getting worse. Jean-Philippe says you're bad for business. The moodiness is bad enough, but you get so messed up, you stumble around and knock things over. Your bar tab has got to where it's higher than what we pay you. I'm sorry, but you have to go. You can close up tonight and I'll get you your scrip, but after that..." Charlie shook his head.