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And you pass him a drink (that everyone knows he doesn't want) and he places it on the edge of the bar. It’s more ice than liquid and when he does drink it he'll down it in one, finishing just as the next buyer begins to collect their orders. Or at least, that’s what he’s been doing so far tonight.
It’s clear that he doesn’t want to be here.
He's on the rota to buy the next round despite only getting a few half pints of coke so far tonight, which is a more than unfair deal compared to woman cycling through the cocktail menu (who predictably returned with a tap water when it was her turn to pay. You know no one here likes her. You don’t say that aloud).
The conversation dried up twenty minutes ago, and the group’s trying to create a new one. He seems to not want them to. Even you don’t want them to, their attempts are getting tedious.
They’re at the pub for his birthday celebration tonight, the celebration organised by the boy’s roommate who barely knows him. A group of people with nothing in common other than being on the same university course. It’s a birthday party, but an outsider wouldn't know. It doesn’t look like a celebration: there are no decorations, no gifts, nothing setting them apart from a group of pub regulars hanging out. You want to make an effort, make it less impersonal. He tells you he doesn’t want that. And unlike the rest of the group,
you listen to him.
You wouldn’t know what he wants. You barely know him. No one here does.
His name is Tommy, he’s nineteen years old and he’s studying geography. There’s nothing more to know.
He's sitting on a stool in the corner, trapped against the edge of the pub. If he wants to leave he’ll have to ask someone to move. But he hasn't.
Yet.
You would think he’d be surrounded, forced to participate in conversation, the centre of attention given that this is a celebration for him. But his chair is tilted towards the wall and he hasn’t said the first word all night. His blond hair is greasy and the bags under his eyes seem to get more heavy as time passes. And it’s clear to you:
He doesn’t want to be here.
And then a brunet man is walking through the door with his head held high and a grin plastered to his face. He glides past you, barely looking your way, and approaches the blond boy. He ruffles Tommy’s hair, makes an unheard but seemingly kind-hearted remark as well as wishing him a happy birthday before asking the person on the closest bar stool if he can have their seat. He sits down and starts speaking about his day. The blond boy seems to be drowning out all of the surrounding noise, ignoring every other fucking person in this pub. And you know:
He doesn’t want to be here.
And there’s nothing you can do.
The brunet picks up Tommy’s half pint of coke, complains about the abundance of ice and begins to sip on it as he speaks. Constantly changing from holding the glass between his fingers and putting it down on the bar to wildly gesture with his hands. When the glass is empty he puts it back in front of Tommy. And so Tommy goes to move.
He stands, cutting off the guest’s monologue, and starts asking people what drinks they want. You see that all of the glasses are empty and wonder how you didn’t notice.
He asks you what you would like, you give him your order, he leaves.
The brunet stranger isn’t one to keep his voice quiet and begins to interact with the rest of the group. They ask him who he is, he introduces himself as Wilbur - Tommy’s older brother.
Tommy returns a few minutes later, those minutes were enough for the group to get to know his brother. You now know more about a man you met ten minutes ago than someone you’ve been going to university with for ten months. You wish that isn’t the truth, but it is.
He places the tray of drinks on the table, nearly knocks over the martini that cocktail woman picked out this time, before he harshly grabs his half pint of coke (mostly ice, the way it always is) and returns to his stool in the corner. His brother sits next to him again and keeps talking at him. Tommy’s eyes are full of annoyance and his back is beginning to slouch. And by now most of the people with you have realised:
He doesn’t want to be here.
Another man turns up, with elegantly braided pink hair and a suit that is too high budget to not stand out in the casual pub. Like the other arrival, he walks over to the blond boy in the corner, asks a nearby person if he could take his chair and quickly glances at tommy before turning Wilbur’s monologue to a dialogue. They speak as if they’re old friends. Tommy isn’t speaking to them at all.
Brother, Wilbur calls the man. And the group begins to feel guilty about how little they know about their class mate.
He introduces himself as Techno, and when someone expresses their interest he begins to tell them about himself. You know more about Techno than you will ever know about Tommy. And that’s not an assumption, it’s a fact.
His name is Tommy, he’s nineteen years old, he is studying geography and he has two older brothers. But now you know there’s a lot more to it.
Techno offers to buy the next round. No one refuses his offer. Before the brothers arrived the conversation was as fleeting as the sunlight, but now it has begun to pick up. Awkward silences being replaced with pleasant conversations as our group begin to get to know the two men.
You sit through another round of drinks, and then Wilbur passes Tommy a small wrapped box. He puts it into his bag. He doesn’t open it. And people begin to notice:
He doesn’t want Wilbur to be here (or Techno for that matter. But especially Wilbur).
Their dynamic confuses you. Wilbur seems like the perfect older brother, caring and supportive with pure excitement to see his youngest brother. (Or at least, you think Tommy is the youngest. You wouldn’t know, no one here would). Yet Tommy doesn’t seem to care for him, as if Wilbur’s love isn’t genuine.
And the process continued.
Techno was a different story. He was stoic and distant towards Tommy, and Tommy is the same to him. You find it rather sad. Not a word has passed between them in the half-hour since Techno arrived. And for the whole night no words would be exchanged by the two men.
Techno reveals that he is a business man, has his own company, carved his own success. Tommy sneers as he tells us that but you’re unsure as to what he’s sneering at. Was it distain for his brothers success or claiming his words are falsities? You will never know. You will never know anything more about Tommy.
Techno starts asking Wilbur about his band. Apparently they’re going on tour next month, starting in Cornwall and making their way towards Inverness .Tommy looks as if he’s heard it all before. The same story twenty times over with the details staying the exact bloody same and the narrative following the same path. He’s sick, and tired, and you wonder,
why he’s still here.
Around Tommy the air is tense. He’s not angry, but he isn’t excited by anything that’s happening right now. The dismal feeling he’s extruding should be floating between the group but Wilbur is keeping it at bay, replacing it with his own infectious joy. A man, practically a stranger, is making Your night entertaining. You don’t know why you came, you don’t know why anyone came. But most people seem glad Wilbur did.
(Tommy is not most people).
Techno points towards the small stage at the front of the pub, there’s a few instruments leaning against the side and a few stools rested on top of it. He asks his brother if he feels like playing them all a tune. Wilbur just smiles. There are no bands playing tonight, just the ambient playlist coming from the bar, so the stage is his own (much to Tommy’s dismay).
He walks over to the stage, asks if he can borrow the guitar, and soon sits on the short stool with a borrowed guitar strapped to his chest. A small crowd builds in front of him while he lazily smiles as he begins to introduce himself to his audience, captivating them with every word, tightening the guitar pegs as he speaks.
Capturing the attention of everyone but Tommy, who’s twirling the coke and ice around his glass as if it’s the most interesting thing he’s done all day.
It probably was.
The lyrics that come out of his mouth are that of a breakup to a country. And you want agree with everything he’s saying. Because ‘good riddance grey Albion’ are words to live by. But as a first year university student you have two more years stuck in the same shitty life you’ll most likely be trapped in forever. His voice is calming and his words are pretty,
but no one sees the bullshit he’s saying,
not even you. But Tommy does (the man who knows that the empty promises Wilbur’s making are no different to the ones he’s made for all of his life. He’s sick and tired of hearing Wilbur repeating like a broken record). And if anyone in that godforsaken pub were to turn and look Tommy in the eye, they would know:
He doesn’t want to fucking be here.
Wilbur begins his next song. The same as the last but also not. You admit, he has talent. But this time you can hear his thinly veiled lies in the tone of his voice and can interpret the obscure political references weaved between the syllables. You’re beginning to see why Tommy doesn’t want Wilbur to be here. He can spin a beautiful lie like a spider it’s web but no matter the form it’s still a fucking lie.
Out of the corner of your eye you see Tommy stand up. He slips his arms into the jacket that’s been hung on the back of his chair all night and picks his backpack off of the floor.
And with more joy than you’ve seen on his face so far tonight, he leaves. Because Tommy doesn’t want to be here and so he sees his chance and walks out the door. He set his eyes on the doorway and doesn’t look back: Not at his brother on the stage, or his other brother at the bar, or the group he came with who were drinking what felt like their hundredth round of drinks.
His brothers don’t notice he’s gone. Wilbur’s still singing and Techno’s still sat at the bar with his whiskey sour and nothing has fucking changed. Tommy has left and everything has stayed the same. And you know there’s more too it but there’s nothing you can do.
And so you pick up his glass from the edge of the bar (More ice than liquid and not a sip missing. Everyone knows he didn’t want that drink. He hasn’t wanted a drink all night) and you pass it to the barman by the sink, who places it next to the glass of ice left over from Tommy’s previous drink.
In return, with a flushed red face the barman holds up a fancy cocktail and asks if you’ll give it to ‘your friend over there’. You walk towards the group that have slowly shifted towards the stage and pass the girl her drink (you still hate her, and if anyone asks you’ll tell them that because you now realise you have no reason not to) and you join them watching the show.
Because Wilbur’s still singing and Tommy is gone and it’s no longer a birthday celebration, just a group of pub regulars hanging out.
And when the glass of ice is melted and gone, so is the wool over your eyes and you are seeing in perfect clarity. But you wish you didn’t, you’d rather it blurred.
You realise, none of you want to be there.
Because now you see,
(it’s all futile. )
(It’s all pointless.)