My town has a weird rule. It says, “In any bar or restaurant an individual can order and buy up to 4 drinks only; no more.” So, in order to drink my full daily dose of sedatives, I had been roaming all around town in search of new bars. During my quest, last Thursday, I reached a bar on the other side of town. As I entered, I saw an old and termite-ridden billboard that said, “God is watching you”. I laughed at it for a few moments and found out that I had made a couple of friends because of it. They looked gloomy and their faces seemed familiar, making me wonder if I had visited this bar before. Soon, the drinks were served on our table. Starting a conversation with my stranger friends, I asked them what they did in life. To my wonder, all of them said that they were social workers. The guy sitting to the left helped the poor, the one to the right helped the homeless and the one in the middle helped people without motivation or hope to live. Intrigued with their job descriptions, I wondered if they might be mocking me; I changed the topic before they had a chance to ask about me.
The guy in the middle interrupted me and started narrating a true story that he had witnessed a few days ago. He said, “On my way to this bar last night, I saw a man drunk to his eyes lying on the floor and murmuring something about his children.” His words gave me the chills. I felt like I was the protagonist of his story, but had no clue if it really happened. He continued, “I took pity and carried him to my home with help of my friends. The guy sitting to my left made some lemon tonic while the guy on my right removed his boots and prepared a bed for him. We then waited and prayed for four hours till the man returned to consciousness. He was feeling dizzy and disoriented; he was trying to say something but we couldn’t understand his alcohol-soaked words. We then decided to sleep empty stomach, tired as we were with all the caretaking. When I woke up the next morning the man was gone. No one saw him leaving and we soon returned to our daily routine.”
The story baffled me, the hunch that I might be the protagonist grew stronger. So I urged him to describe the man in detail to me. He said, “By the time this joint closes, you will find many of us in a similar condition. So how does it matter?” He was right. For the first time in many years, I felt like I had a real conversation with another human. I couldn’t finish my drink after that and left the bar after paying my tab. I bid adieu to my new friends with a promise to meet them again. On my way out, I kept musing on the story. The possibility of being that drunken man had choked my senses. I decided to head home. It had been a while since I had entered home before the nightly 11; I didn’t know what to say to my family.
As I reached home, I noticed that the front door had been kept open as if on purpose. I took the few steps across the living room and was surprised to find my family waiting for me on the dinner table – with my wife in the centre, the daughter on the left and the son on the right. They looked sad and the dinner plates were empty. My daughter was happy to see me at first but was scared to say anything. The empty table and the sitting arrangement reminded me of my new friends from the bar; it was too bizarre to be coincidental. This feeling made me restless and I rushed back bare feet back towards the bar.
The bartender saw me and reacted as if he had seen a ghost. I asked him about my new friends and when they had left. Astonished, he shook his head and said, “What friends, every day you come here and drink alone.” Suspecting that he was lying, I cross-checked this with a few fellow drinkers; none of them had seen my friends. All this confused me much, so I ordered a drink and sat in a corner. As I numbed myself with one drink after another, I noticed my son walking towards me. It being dark, I wondered if my mind was playing tricks but then something happened; my son touched my hand and said, ” Please, dad, don’t drink too much, or else mother will have to carry you home like every day.” I was flummoxed but gradually everything finally made sense. I had made the life of my family – my guardian angels – a living hell. Tears started rolling down from my eyes as I picked up my son in my arms. My family forgave me the very instance I begged for their pardon, while promising them that I would be the guardian that they need and deserve.