Cocktails With Sisyphus

I don’t remember exactly what was said before I left, only that it felt finished in the way unfinished things sometimes do. Talking was no longer working; even apologizing had become a dead end. I had to get out. So I walked.

The rain had been at work all evening, everything was wet, gleaming, and felt like a personal reproach. It was cold. Then the bar appeared, its windows glowing. It looked like the kind of place that wouldn’t ask much beyond the price of a drink.

A boulder waited at the curb. Just a large stone occupying a parking space where a future should have been. No cones, no warning tape. Just mass. I went in.

The air was warm, heavy with beer and citrus. The bartender slid a coaster into place without looking up. Her black T-shirt was damp at the collar. A worn name tag was clipped to her apron—Hello, my name is—with Charon scrawled in fading Sharpie. I ordered a Manhattan.

She moved with a silent, mechanical efficiency: ice, measure, stir, strain. She slid the drink toward me and moved on.

I took a sip and let it sit. It was good. A Manhattan, like little else, is always good. I tried to stay with the whiskey, but the argument followed me in. I didn’t want to think about how easily things tilt. I didn’t want to go there. I looked around the room instead.

Two women at a side table were busy with a pitcher and two glasses. The water rose to the rim and stayed there, never spilling. I looked away and then back. Same thing. Some strange loop. I looked the other way. Near the jukebox, a man worked a length of cord, tying small knots that failed politely.

I finished my drink and raised the glass until the bartender noticed. She nodded once.

“Another Manhattan,” I said.

She made it the same way and wiped the same spot she’d already wiped.

“Interesting clientele, Sharon,” I said. She looked through me. I held out a hand. “I’m Walter.” She didn’t take it.

“Don’t take it personally,” the man one seat over said. He was shirtless, a wide bandage wrapped around his middle, the gauze dark where a wound had soaked through. “She doesn’t talk much.”

I heard myself sigh. “Rough night?” he asked.

“Rough week,” I said. “Hell. Rough year.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

I started to mumble something about my marriage when the guy around the corner cut me off, broad-shouldered, white tank stretched thin across a chest mapped with scars.

“I think my pal Theo here was being rhetorical,” he said. “Maybe save the life story for the priests.”

Theo lifted his glass. “Hey, Al. Give the poor bastard a break.” He turned toward me and added, “You’ll have to excuse him. He’s got some baggage.”

A couple of the other guys laughed. Al snorted and rolled his shoulders, slow and deliberate, as if adjusting a weight that wasn’t there.

“What are you guys having?” I asked. They looked ancient and weather-beaten.

“Mead,” Theo said. “The drink of kings.”

I hesitated, then nodded. Sharon brought a large earthenware pitcher. She took my glass and set a tall pint in its place. I took a cautious sip. It didn’t taste like honey; it tasted like wildflowers, old wood, and the metallic air before a lightning strike.

“So, Theo. Work injury?” I asked. “Looks like more than a paper cut.”

Theo grimaced. “Hazard of the trade. I tried to bring innovation to the department—shared some knowledge the higher-ups wanted kept quiet. The CEO didn’t like that. Sent a headhunter after me. A real vulture. He makes sure I feel it every single day.”

“Every day, Walter,” Theo said. He looked straight at me. “Every single day.”

I shuddered. I didn’t say anything; I just took a long pull of the mead and let it burn. Emboldened, I set the glass down.

“I’m in logistics. I move things,” I said. “Clear them out. Come back. They’ve returned.”

“Repetition,” Sam said. His eyes were bloodshot. “You want to talk about repetition? You get the project this close to the finish—inches—then gravity takes over. Back to square one.”

“Contractor?” I asked. “Landscaping?”

Sam stared into his mug. “Hardscape,” he said. “It’s an uphill battle, Walter. It never ends.”

“I hear you,” I said. “My wife—Cal—says I’m running in circles. Like a martyr.”

Al shifted his weight. “Cal sounds heavy,” he rumbled.

“She can be,” I said. “Like the weight of the world sometimes.”

Al closed his eyes and nodded slowly. “Brother,” he said. “You have no idea.”

The fourth guy, Tarn, hadn’t moved. He was gaunt, sharp-cheeked, and staring at a small bowl of pretzels with a hollow intensity, like a man watching a mirage.

“Hey,” I said. “You want those? Pass the pretzels to Tarn, Sam.”

Sam slid the bowl down the mahogany. Tarn’s eyes lit up. He reached for it, fingers trembling—and at that exact moment Al shifted his elbow to grab his mead, knocking the bowl aside. It skittered, teetered, and dropped out of sight with a dull clack.

Tarn let out a low sound that barely counted as a whimper. Al looked over at him. “Here, Tarn. Let me help.”

He put a straw into Tarn’s pint. He wrapped both of his huge hands around the glass and held it firmly against the bar. It shook strangely as Tarn leaned in and carefully sipped.

I looked at the four of them. Wrecked. Weather-beaten. I felt my own worries shrink.

“You know,” I said, loosening my tie and taking another pull of the liquid gold. “I walked out tonight because I didn’t know who I was anymore. Cal said I was stuck. Said I was acting like a martyr. But looking at you guys… I don’t know. Maybe we’re all just carrying things we weren’t meant to carry.”

“We’re all carrying something, Walter,” Theo said. He lifted his mug. “To the things that don’t stay down.”

“To the hill,” Sam said.

“To the sky,” Al said.

Tarn sighed and reached for a coaster, which slid an inch away from his fingers.

Al’s frame creaked. “Shift change,” he said, checking a watch that had no hands. “I’ve got to get back. Can’t let the overhead sag.”

“Yeah,” Sam muttered, sliding off his stool. “I better go move that thing before the city tows it.”

Theo gripped my shoulder. “Go home. Apologize. Even if you’re right, apologize. You don’t want to be chained to a mistake forever.”

“You think?” I asked.

“I know,” Theo said. He glanced at the dark stain on his bandage.

I watched them head for the door—Al moving carefully, Sam bracing himself. Theo lingered to finish his drink, then winced and followed them out. When they were gone, the bar felt quiet. It was just me, Tarn staring at a dripping tap, and Sharon.

I looked at my empty glass. Things felt rearranged.

“Check,” I said.

Sharon slid a slip of paper across the wood. Printed at the top was Tartarus Taproom. A single heavy coin was taped to it—gold, or maybe bronze.

“On the house,” Sharon rasped. Her voice sounded like a stone door closing. “Go finish something.”

I tucked the coin into my pocket, grabbed my coat, and walked out.

Outside, the boulder was gone. Only wet pavement, neon breaking apart. I walked toward the apartment, toward Cal. Lighter, somehow. Knowing tomorrow would refill itself. Knowing I’d show up anyway.