The Reconstruction of Walter Emanuel

This too, had gone poorly. Originally, it had been Walter’s intention to visit the poster store first; to practice basic social interactions by discussing options with a clerk and eventually make a purchase. Although it would be by no means easy, he assumed a low-key conversation in a situation where another person was essentially forced to interact with him would be a good place to start his return to society at large. His inability to wake up on time however, had scuttled that part of the plan and he was instead forced to practice conversational techniques in his head until his lunch break. First he would exchange pleasantries, then he would find out which bar his co-workers liked to frequent. Finally, he would excuse himself and leave. Simplicity and brevity would be his watchwords. Leaving nothing to chance, Walter had even planned out the time frame for his dramatic entrance; choosing to arrive halfway through the lunch hour to avoid large clusters of people and smokers. At the appointed time, Walter strode confidently out of his cubicle and directly up to three women in the general vicinity of the water cooler.

“Hello ladies, it is a lovely day today isn’t it? Such a perfect day for socializing and what not, wouldn’t you agree?”

Something was off however, he was speaking too fast and Walter could immediately tell that he’d missed some sort of social cue. All three women starred at him in shock, although it had certainly looked like one of them was about to speak; and from the look on her face, it would not be a pleasant reply. His plan was already falling apart. Desperate to salvage the situation, Walter immediately spoke again.

“I’m terribly sorry to bother you ladies, but I simply meant to inquire which bar you might be going to… I mean, with the other workers… later,” he’d stammered quickly.

To his sheer horror, the women had looked amongst themselves before bursting into audible, but uncomfortable laughter. He stood silently as they gave him the side-eye and slowly walked away from the cooler. Although they’d turned their backs towards him, Walter heard much of their conversation as they passed down the hallway.

“Wow, did he just ask you on a date?”

“I didn’t even know Emanuel could talk.”

“Wow, whaaat a desperate creeper; who goes to a bar for lunch?”

Eventually, their voices drifted off into the distance, leaving a paralyzed Walter standing alone in the middle of the lunch room, mouth agape. Summoning the strength of a man terrified at the prospect of further humiliation, he’d shuffled back to his cubicle as best his quivering legs could bear him.

This time it had taken him hours to silence the voice inside and unwind his petrified muscles. His plan to rejoin society had thus far been such a complete disaster that he saw little point in continuing the farce. He knew that he would fail Doris, just as he had failed Melissa so many years before. All of his courage had been worthless, his determination nothing in the face of his own utter cowardice. He turned the day over and over in his mind, each setback an open wound to be examined and amplified because he deserved no better. During this time, he found his thoughts drifting towards both his pistol and an old prescription of morphine tablets he kept in a bottle under the sink. He wasn’t thinking of killing himself, not yet anyways, but he’d kept the means to do so around, just in case the darkness ever won completely. Walter found their existence comforting, a final kill switch to use against the mental demons that controlled so much of his life. As he meditated on the curiosity of his own death, he clasped his face in his hands, slumped over his desk and began to weep softly. Approaching both complete exhaustion and the end of his workday, Walter Emanuel had given up completely.

“Wait, what if the reason you can’t talk to anyone is because you have nobody to relate to? You said it yourself Walter; you’re decades older than anyone else in this office. Why don’t you try socializing with someone your own age, someone who has a common interest with you?”

Walter knew that voice was also from inside his head, but he’d never been quite sure it was his own. That voice cared for him, that voice believed in him, that voice was only around when he needed a reminder that the whole world wasn’t filth and pain. As the idea that his plans had failed because of his target audience began to cross his mind, Walter discovered that his fingers were already typing. Quickly pulling up a list of bars near his workplace, he’d begun whittling them down based on the drinks they served and their music selection. Walter liked lagers on tap and early rock and roll, so he reasoned that a place with lots of keg beers and an old jukebox would also attract people who liked those things. He finally settled on a bar only three blocks away that boasted “thirty house beers and a classic, Classic Rock jukebox.” Grabbing his coat and confirming he had physical money in his wallet, Walter had sauntered out of work ten minutes early – headed towards the Rexington Tavern.

That had been well over two hours ago and now Walter found himself almost alone in a terrible bar; with only a sour-faced young bartender for company. There was another patron, a young woman who’d emerged from the bathroom almost immediately after he’d arrived. Some distantly-recalled instinct had told him she was a working girl; whether as a prostitute, a dealer or a policewoman was beyond his ability to deduce. Regardless, she certainly didn’t seem like she wanted to chat with Walter, having spent the last couple of hours playing the same three songs on the jukebox and ordering rum and cokes without the rum. With no sign of any other patrons and desperate not to waste a rare burst of confidence, Walter decided he’d have better luck engaging the bartender.

“It really does amaze me how many people think The Doors, the Rolling Stones and the Beatles are all there is to classic rock. I mean, how many times do you have to hear Let it Be, Start Me Up and LA Woman before you go crazy, do you know what I mean?”

“Actually, I really like The Doors” the bartender replied flatly.

Walter’s head immediately snapped down towards his drink and his hand gripped the bar for support. His body slumped in his chair awkwardly as the muscles in his legs went limp. He’d said something wrong again somehow, and now any hope of salvaging a genuine human interaction at this bar was gone forever. The bartender simply stared at him coldly, as Walter tried desperately to defy the laws of physics and melt away through his seat. Several agonizing seconds passed before he heard a pleasant but determined voice from behind him.

“Lay off the guy Ryan, can’t you see you’re stressing him out?”

Walter pulled himself back up into his chair, turning around to see the young woman from before standing by the jukebox and glaring at the bartender behind him. In the darkness, her eyes flashed quickly between the two men and Walter swore she tossed a slight nod in his direction. Dumbfounded, he just starred at her in a mixture of appreciation and outright terror. Somewhere off in the distance, he could hear glasses clinking together and realized that Ryan had gone back to work.

She then smiled at Walter and said “hey mister, there’s a couple of other songs I like on this jukebox. When this one’s over, I’ll switch it up. Okay?”

He tried to say that sounded like a nice idea, but once again his voice had left him and all he managed was a weak smile and a nod. That was enough for the woman though; she marched over to the jukebox and plunked in another couple of quarters. As the closing chords of Light My Fire floated across the empty bar, he found himself attempting to guess which song she would choose based on what little information he’d gleaned moments before. Finally, just as Walter decided she would surely pick John Lennon’s Imagine, the record changed over and the mystery was solved.