the opposite of an Ode

Author’s note: This is a work of fiction. However, my appreciation for dive bars is legit.

Content Advisement: Alcohol use

There’s an art to a good dive bar, almost a magic to it. Not magic in any mystical sense, but magic as in a well-crafted illusion. It’s about striking a balance and diverting the eyes to what people want to see. The lighting sets the stage, it needs to be dark enough that you don’t see too many stains where they shouldn’t be and the lines of the faces of potential friends (or lovers) are softened in a welcoming haze. Too dark and there’s a pressure to be someone. To be cool or nefarious, just as dark as the ambiance. But this mask is fragile when you knock over a votive or a drink because you can’t see, and I certainly don’t come to dive bars to feel worse about myself.

Next comes the smell. If it can manage to be nostalgically musty, and not tinged with vomit or urine, the battle’s halfway won. The best ones smell old, like they’re established, you can count on them. But they can’t smell so old that it reminds you that everything rots. It’s ok if they smell like opened liquor, whiskey in particular. But if they smell too much like skunked beer it just makes me feel like a regular drunk.

Then the seating and spacing, you need room to breathe and room for choice. If someone talks with you it’s because you chose to sit near enough to invite the conversation. If you want to be alone with your drink, fuck, you should be able to. And the chairs or stools need to be made for sitting comfortably, slouched and relaxed. A lack of any back support, or pressure on the thighs because the stool is too high up reminds me that I should have better places to be.

Lastly the bartender, they need to be engaging but not trying too hard. I like mine on the surly side; quick to refill your glass but disinterested in your bullshit. Maybe if you make yourself a regular, you might be worth their time. Typically, I don’t stay long enough for that. If a bar checks all the boxes, it’s ultimately about expectations: somewhere between novelty and familiarity breeds loyalty, and I like imagining I’m around loyal people, even if I’m not one myself.

I check my watch, 12:45pm. My musing only killed five minutes. My heart starts fluttering in a way that’s approaching panic. My mouth goes dry and so I down my shot and chase it with my beer. It feels a little better. I order another. Just like I’m a connoisseur of dive bars, I’m a specialist of intoxication: there’s a perfect amount of drunk. When not all of my cylinders are firing but neither are all of my defenses. I feel words ready to flow out of my mouth like a dam release. All my pent up thoughts and opinions suddenly feel worthy of the pressure and oxygen it takes to form them. I want to stay in this state, if he shows up. If he comes. But I already know he won’t. We were supposed to meet at 12:30pm and he’s never late.

I flip my phone over on the bar: no new notifications. I flip it back face down and take another swig. He would text me if he were just running late. But I tell myself that he’s busy at work, it’s hard to get away, that 15 minutes isn’t very late, and he used to care about me once, so maybe…

I slip my coaster over my beer and down my shot. I promise myself that I’ll wait fifteen more minutes and that I won’t cry if he doesn’t show. I head into the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror. There’s a crack in the ceramic sink, held together with tape. I debate whether or not this is a point in favor of this particular bar. If it’s charming or just gross. I lose my train of thought and I make sure my mascara hasn’t drifted. I force myself to breathe and to blink. I wonder if my face looks drunk, or if the perceived puffiness is just sadness waiting to burst forth on the bathroom linoleum.

Back at my barstool, I wait and I let my mind wander as I try not to think about him but I do. He was an English major and he used to read me poetry. I remember something about odes, love songs, songs of worship, I think? What’s the opposite of an ode? A dirge? No. That suggests you miss something. Something died and you’re sad about it. I pick up my phone and google it and it says the opposite is prose? Because prose doesn’t rhyme. I don’t think I really knew odes had to rhyme. He always wrote free verse. I google “ode”. A poem that’s intended to be sung. Directed at an object. I guess odes don’t have to be positive, that’s just tradition.

I click on the second link on the page, “Ode to a Grecian Urn” and peruse the lines. I don’t know how much Keats even liked this urn, he just wanted it to mean something. Maybe that’s what odes are about, wanting things to be a certain way. Heard melodies are sweet, Unheard ones are sweeter. So we play on in silence. I order another round. 12:55pm.