All This Life

She powers off her phone and tucks it away, burying it in the bottom.

Drinking with a hangover has always had one of two outcomes for Kathleen: Sometimes she can’t get drunk the next day, no matter how hard she cocktails. She is impervious to spirits, so much swimming in her already that her system can’t take any of it in. Other times, though, she gets wasted incredibly fast and this morning is proving to be in the latter subdivision.

A lone beer and she is cooked.

The one-night stand is gone. The headache is gone. The word cunt is gone. All that stretches out before her on the morning street is good times.

She turns on 24th Street, passes the BART station and McDonald’s. It’s socked-in, but there’s not any wind. The sky is the color of raw shrimp.

At last she’s here. It has been three years since she’s been inside the bar’s black walls. In fact, the whole place is pitch, even the floors. Many a night, Kat had been so wasted here that she rested her head on the bar, staring down at the black floor like it was going to swallow her, but it never did. The bar knew better than to eat its clientele.

The room even allows its customers to stargaze, bits of smashed mirrors pocking the ceiling. Everyone gets to pretend to look through a telescope, spying a better world.

As if the bartender expects Kathleen to walk in, he peeks up from his newspaper and says, “Did you hear they’re tearing down the Elbo Room?”

He’s an old-timer, somewhere in his sixties. Kat has talked to him many times, shut this place down with him, speaking in tongues. He owns the place and wears a shirt that says Spank me, it’s my birthday. Legend has it that this bar burned down in the early aughts, and he rebuilt it, making it look exactly the same.

“Why are they doing that?” she asks.

“Putting up more condos.”

“They’re ruining the neighborhood,” she says.

“We all ruin the neighborhood when we first come in,” he says. “I did. You did. Now it’s a new set of assholes ruining things. Cities are moving targets, always taking fire. But don’t worry: In ten years, the current assholes will get squeezed out and they’ll be talking like us.”

“Small victories,” she says.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you,” he says.

Kathleen can’t think of a reason to lie. Bars can do that to you, especially in places black as confessionals. “I’ve been sober for a few years.”

“I tried that a couple times myself.”

“Bourbon.”

“Welcome back,” he says, pouring them both big ones.

They take their shots at exactly 8:56 in the morning.

“It’s not just the Elbo,” he says. “The Attic closed. So did Pop’s. They’re pricing us out. There might not be any dive bars left in the Mission. Can you imagine? My landlord would love to shut this place down and open some boutique with gourmet cheeses and pedicures.”

“Is it really your birthday?”

“You don’t need an excuse to spank me.”

“Can I have another shot?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“What does that mean?”

“Have you eaten anything?”

Kathleen shakes her head no, wonders what happened to the quality of service in this establishment. She’s seen people asleep on pool tables, taking a catnap before bellying back up to finish the job — or start the next one. She’s seen people ordering drinks with minds malfunctioning on liquor, talking like stroke victims. And now this guy wants to scrutinize the contents of her stomach?

“I’m not hungry.”

“I need a guinea pig,” he says.

“For what?”

“Be right back.” He disappears through a black door by the bathrooms.

Kathleen sits there, enjoying the beer and the bourbon zooming through her, adding some carbonation to her flat life. It’s not an exaggeration to say that Kathleen feels elated. The galloping demons are having a house party in her head. She wants to play the Beach Boys on the jukebox. She wants to dance. She wants to dance with every member of the Beach Boys. She wants to kiss every Beach Boy and thank them for their harmonies. But she’ll settle for a dance with the cranky barkeep once he’s back. He might know how to cut a rug. This is what’s been missing from her life, a release, an escape. Sobriety is all about being aware and available, and don’t get her wrong, she likes those things, but not all the time.

The bartender comes out carrying a tray. On it are two sourdough bread bowls filled with clam chowder.

“It’s a San Francisco classic!” he says.

“Why is this happening?” she asks.

“I’ve wanted to try this, and you need some food. I keep buying these bread bowls and they rot back there. I always forget about them. But these aren’t that old, I don’t think. At least, no mold I can see. This is perfect. The only way I’ll keep serving you is if you put something in your stomach. Try this with me.”

He hands her a spoon and clutches his, holding it out for Kathleen to cheers with, and she does and there’s a pitiful clinking noise and the bartender smiles.

“Fine,” she says, “I’ll try.”