Every stupid night out ends in some shirtless idiot yelling to the band “PLAY FREEBIRD!”

To their credit, this time the band didn’t “play Freebird.” More on that later.

I sat at the bar, beside some drunk Americans who were yammering on about clueless Dollar Riders, heartless A3 assholes, and other crap like that. My strategy is simple: use my words to order my meal and initial drink, and then shut the fuck up for the rest of the night. The shrimp was alright, the rice was a little less than alright, and the pastel-colored pagoda reminded me of the candy-colored, miniature horses typically seen on Saturday morning cartoons. The really interesting part was how the ceiling apex, when viewed through the reflection of the bar’s glossy reflection, looked a whole hell of a lot like a radiological hazard symbol. See the video, if you care to.

As time went by, I looked and listened to my surrounds as best I could manage while tired. Earlier today I read “Cold in Gardez”’s personal account of an IED attack he survived. I think back to my own experience, and scowl at nothing in particular. The band plays a cover of Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb.” I drain another water. Or Bud Light. Might as well be the same. The group of guys to my left includes some slob who is arguing with his friend about a potted plant on the bar. This guy insists that the plant is Basil, even though at first glance, it’s obviously Mint, which the bartender uses for Mojitos, etc. Whatever. In my mind, this guy is forever “Basil”, the guy who doesn’t know anything about mixology/biology/plants.

I turn my attention to the TV, which is tuned to a History Channel special about the domestication of wolves. The initial scene portrays a lone, isolated human surrounded by a pack of wolves. It was a very gradual process, apparently. Still, in many social and genetic ways, they are far more sturdy than we are. We’re dangerous. Really fucking dangerous. A tropical downpour erupts with no notice, causing a number of tourists to scurry under the protection of my bar’s pastel, candy-colored overhang. I don’t like this. I have no intention of inviting anything prematurely, and I awkwardly maneuver to prevent my back from being exposed to the surge of strangers. The History channel drones on about how men in my position, fifty thousand years ago, had a life expectancy of 19 years.

19 years. Right now I’ve surpassed that by about a decade. It makes me glance over my shoulder almost continuously. I try to tell myself that this place is safe. That I can get a tan, wear a shirt with Chinese letters, not directly associate with Americans...and be safe. It’s a nice thought, but that shit ain’t the truth. That’s how they get you. That’s why I always look over my shoulder. Or alongside the highway shoulder. Or why I can’t sleep when somebody else is driving. The truth is...one day, I will die with a knife in my back, a million miles from home. If I continually worry about it, it will sap years from my life. If I ignore it, it could instantly steal decades from my life. I fucking hate people. This too siphons away my life.

The jackass I call “Basil” eventually hears the song he wants to hear, dances on the bar and goes to sleep. To the band’s credit, the guitarist didn’t “own” Free Bird. He didn’t “nail” it. He slaughtered that shit back in the Precambrian period. Including an epic 10 minute outro guitar solo. I smiled, genuinely enjoyed the show, and gave the band a $50 tip. When I’m gone, they’ll still be entertaining people on a beach in paradise.

For now, I study my 3-3, I collaborate with a friend on writing a horror story, and I sleep a dreamless sleep. And I think of landmines, and mushroom clouds. And wolves and men. I am not ready.