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only one long wooden
bar, which was tended by an old man with dark wrinkled skin and a
closely-cropped beard peppered with gray hairs. He walked with a
cane and a slight limp. With his straw hat and red flannel shirt he
looked like a farmer rather than a bartender. Despite his shabby
appearance his smile was exceptionally radiant, and his voice was
so incredibly low and smooth that it gave me an immediate craving
for a peanut butter and Nutella sandwich.
    Around me, depressed bar patrons slumped
on their stools, smoked fat cigars, slurped their drinks, and most
disturbingly of all spoke to themselves in harsh, venomous
tones.
    “ No don’t say that. Don’t say
that. No don’t say that. Don’t say that. Don’t say that. Don’t say
that,” repeated one patron with a too-big head and freakishly hairy
arms.
    “ You shouldn’t talk about
such things. You shouldn’t talk about such things. You shouldn’t
talk about such things,” said a young woman with strikingly pretty
face offset by a nasty scowl. Her voice got lower and lower. “You
shouldn’t talk about such things because they make others
uncomfortable… Shhhh. If you don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist.
If you don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist. If you don’t talk
about it, it doesn’t exist. If you don’t think about it, it doesn’t
exist. Shhhhhh. Don’t think about it… Don’t think… Don’t think…
Don’t think…”
    “ I don’t have anything positive
to say about you! Nothing at all! Nothing ! Nothing! Nothing
positive! Horrible! Nothing positive! Horrible! Nothing good at
all!” screeched a middle-aged man with a thick mustache and icy
blue eyes. I tried to suppress my laughter and horror. Watching a
grown man whine like a spoiled school girl was simultaneously
amusing and downright frightening. What a Dumpty.
    “ Meh! I don’t know why I put up
with you! I don’t know why I put up with you! I don’t know why I
put up with you! You! You! And you!” screamed a girl with a mop of
dark curls and bloodshot eyes.
    “ Get over it. Get over it.
Get over it. I’m over it. I’m over it. Really I am. You get over
it,” repeated a teenaged boy with a large neck tattoo and lip
piercing.
    “ You’re not
super- great
or wonderful, I am! You’re not super-great or wonderful, I am!”
repeated a thin man with long red hair and a tear-streaked face.
“I’m super-wonderful not you!”
    Their energy depressed me to the point
where I felt I had to immediately sit down, otherwise I would
collapse. What an utterly terrifying and odd group of people they
were. I went unnoticed by them as I made my way through the room
and towards the bar, where I pulled out a stool. I sat beside the
redheaded man and tried to avoid eye contact. Why was Papa Legba
hanging out in such a miserable place? Where was he,
anyways?
    I focused my attention on the thick layer
of dirt that had accumulated under my finger nails and tried to
think of what my next move would be.
    The red headed man poked me with his bony
finger and even though I kept my head down he insisted on speaking
to me anyways. “You left him. You left him! You left! You left him!
You hurt people, don’t you? Don’t you?”
    “ I don’t know what you’re
talking about,” I said, as I continued to avoid eye
contact.
    “ He he he. You hurt
people! You hurt people! You hurt people!” he continued to sing.
“You hurt people! You hurt people! You hurt people!”
    Calm, Arelia. Calm, don’t snap
at the poor man ; he obviously has problems. Compassion and respect. That’s
right, show some compassion and respect for your fellow man. I took a deep
breath and ignored him but he continued to poke me with his bony
finger. “You hurt people! You hurt people! You hurt people! You
hurt people!” He went on and on.
    Ignore him, Arelia. Ignore
him.
    As much as I wanted to ignore
him and keep my vow of compassion and respect , he kept poking me, and after
a while it got so irritating I had the