Alexandra M. Lopez (she/her/hers), Low Entropy Volunteer Writer
“It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at oneself through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.” – The Souls of Black Folk, W.E.B. Du Bois
“What are you still doing here, go get us more pitchers Bobby,” calls an unnamed voice from the expanse of bodies sitting around the table.
Exclaiming to no one in particular, Bobby acknowledges the order, unsticking his feet from the floor, meandering toward the bar counter. His first impression of the establishment, the uneven bar tops from years of being wiped down, worn chairs with groves born of supporting thousands of asses, and the sour smell of spilt spirits and beer, become less sharp and instead, a soft charm for his dampened senses to admire. Resting his elbow on the counter to balance himself, he calls for three pitchers, hoping one of the bartender’s ears will perk and fulfill his request.
A calloused hand slaps Bobby between his shoulder blades, causing his chin to slip from the comfort of his palm. The man’s boisterous laugh blares over the twangy banjo vibrating the floor. Bobby raises his hot cheeks into a smile as a greeting. The man’s protruding brow bone and thin, pursed lips help him recall who the forceful slap belonged to, though the name escapes him.
“Bobby, do you like it here in Fort Mac?” The question escapes as a whistle through his missing canine.
“Not really, no,” Bobby responds haphazardly, shifting his weight to his dominant leg.
“Well, I could’ve sworn you loved it here, holding us all back with the drill breaking and all. I mean, aren’t you supposed to be one of the good ones?”
With a certain suddenness, Bobby becomes aware of the vast veil that shuts him out from their world. Though he had no intention of tearing down that veil, he had hoped to creep through, withholding himself from feeling common contempt for it. Yet, the man’s comment, as he experienced time again, distills into his mind as a singular question, how does it feel to be a problem, a question he seldom answers. As the contradiction he is, Bobby wraps his arm around the man’s neck and plays into his words, promising to show him what his people are really good at. With two pitchers in his hands, and the third in the man’s, they walk to the table, smiles decorating both their faces.
To escape his company, Bobby leans into the conversation of the group beside him. Letting his beer fizzle on his top lip, he hears them joke about the women they take home. Women who, as they say, are not meant to be brought home to their mothers, but just to enjoy. Listening to the reckless arrogance rising to his throat, like the warmth in his chest, he laughs along. He joins the stretch of smiles as one man teases the other for having an interest in a woman who shares the same eye colour as his mother, the skin tone of his sister and the lips of his wife. Cleansing the bead of uneasiness in his stomach with his drink, Bobby joins in the discussion, winning the unspoken title of “cream of the crop” from his co-workers. A muffled ring from his pocket disrupts the moment of comradery, shifting all hazy gazes onto him. With an unconvincing, innocent smile, the man beside him urges Bobby to answer the phone. Awkwardly wiggling the phone from the pocket, the man takes it, an expected move, though the rest of the men snicker as though he had been deceived. Clearing his throat with great gusto, the man answers his phone.
On the other line, the raspy voice of his wife whispers with hesitance, “Roberto?”
She had started to call him at night when the discomfort of her pregnancy woke her. Instead of relishing his soft words of comfort, she hears the voice of a man whom she has never met before rolling his tongue, the spit muffling the speakers.
“Roberto can’t come to the phone right now, he’s busy . . . no Roberto, don’t do that with her, you got a wife at home!”
Bobby shakes his head to mimic an embarrassed laugh to the unconvincing performance. He hears a click on the other end of the line.
“You’re in some trouble now Bobby!” The table booms with laughter, the men beside him wrap their arms around him, demanding Bobby to smile, vowing that his next drink is on them.
***
“I don’t like how you act when you’re out on the field.”
The early morning rays refract off the snow, creating an illusion of warmth. Bobby does not respond, instead, he blows into his hands, cursing at his truck for not warming up his rigid joints faster.
“Hello?”
With a tone of depravity that always seems to follow him from the bar, he groans, “We talked about this before. You know I enjoy what I do. The boys, they’re just rough around the edges. I promise, they’re good people who just got too drunk.”
His wife returns his silence, the heaviness of her exhale rising to the ceiling with the hot air from the vents.
—
Leave your thoughts for Alexandra in the comments below. You can also follow us on Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, LinkedIn and YouTube to stay up-to-date with Low Entropy news!
