The Crucifix and the Pint Glass

A Short Story of a Night in London

If I were a tender-hearted phantom, I would reside in London. I would never tire of watching children in Hyde Park toss leaves into the wind or gray-haired gentlemen in top hats leave St. Paul’s to take their wives to lunch. This week had special warmth being the time Christmas markets wage war on the dreary sky. But the percussion of my purposeful stride reminded me that I am no phantom and gazing through café windows won’t sustain me. I want to be in these scenic comforts. I hope, with futility, that social convention would fail and these happy groups will see me, a stranger, and ask me to pull up a chair and contribute my own banter. It never happens, though. I sometimes approach strangers I deem interesting, but most often, smiles evaporate, replaced by judgmental sneers, as if to say What do you have to offer us? Can’t you see we are already having a good time? I have thick skin and don’t mind these outcomes, but the fragility of these picturesque moments makes me think London is better suited for the phantom than the outsider. Yet every now and then, the strangers I find turn out to be fascinating creatures.

This is not to say I cannot find contentment with my own company. I often prefer it, but the solo-traveler has both unique privileges and responsibilities. I expose myself to the honest thoughts a city provokes; thoughts that demand your solitude or else never emerge. Tête-à-têtes with cities are vital encounters, but a dangerous practice. There are plenty of precautions I could take for my physical safety, but fewer for my mental well-being. If unchecked, these thoughts swell to agonizing pressures within my skull. I am prone to mental overdoses, to spiraling. The only relief is had by talking to people. You must find a stranger to pull you out of your own head.

Phantoms have no concern in this regard, but as a warm-blooded creature who had his fill of monuments and museums, the River Thames and the old church bells, I was due for this conversational salve and found myself in a hurry to waste time on this London night. I was my own master. Per a stranger’s recommendation, I had adopted a brisk pace toward Camden Town and approached The Hawley Arms. It was time to make a great story.

Who was I kidding? I tell myself I travel because I’m an adventurer who lives life boldly. I collect stories, knowledge, and admiration by becoming that wise wanderer. But inside, I knew that was a lie. I was afraid. I found myself hurt and angry at life and God– yet somehow, I loved both. My life had been turned on its head. It hurt. But as long as I adventured, I could convince myself that I am the hero of my story. Every hero has things go wrong. Therefore, I must be doing something right.

The black brick building resembled a classic British pub, but pridefully distinguished itself as Amy Winehouse’s favorite, when she would be “that drunk girl on the table” and not a celebrity. I respect her taste. I later learned that they no longer hosted live music. Why give space to a band when you can pack in more thirsty Londoners?

Just as I hoped, walking through these doors dispelled my mind’s wanderings. Strangers filled the room, pressing into each other and trampling an ancient hardwood floor. Loud conversations almost drowned out the music. A bright red wall was covered in polaroids of smiling faces and rock memorabilia. String lights wrapped around the support columns and crowded shelves of liquor cast a colorful glow. The staff weren’t interested in visitors without a glass in hand, so I had about thirty seconds to observe the place before the bartender pointed at me with a raised eyebrow. Trying not to spill a house lager, I wandered upstairs and then back down. I had no greater fear than spending a night in London drinking alone. How depressing. I knew awkwardly standing around would get me nowhere. Spying an empty chair, I walked to it before allowing myself to think twice.

“Is this seat taken?” The words were out before I even observed who I was addressing. Now, I saw I had the attention of a trio. I would not say the man on the right had passed his prime, but that milestone lay on his horizon. His face was tan, weathered, and elongated by a mustache and beard where gray hairs had begun to appear. Next to him sat a striking woman dressed in black. She was the kind you would only expect to see in beauty commercials. She had very light hair and perfect skin, piercing blue eyes— all the clichés. She had to convince me her hair was not dyed, but I suppose that was because I had never met a Finn before. The final member was a man, also quite handsome. I could immediately sense he had quite a character about him. He wore a fedora and a black-and-red striped sweater. His greatest accessory was a prominent black mustache. He was a rather skinny fellow.

I had taken them by surprise, having interrupted an energetic conversation. But they answered with a chorus of “All yours” and “Feel free”– probably because they were too off-guard to say anything else.

“It wouldn’t be a bother if I sat here with you, would it?” With more polite nodding, I swung into the chair. The thing was old—wooden parts smoothed from years of finger oils, but it was the exact aesthetic for the Hawley Arms. I asked the first man for his name, for which he had to yell to be heard.

“Miguel!” he replied, giving a firm handshake. “This is my wife, Aurora!” He motioned to the woman who also extended her hand to me.

“A pleasure!” I answered

“Jack!” inserted the second man. His handshake betrayed a pent-up personality hidden behind the polite demeanor of first-impressions.

I explained that I was traveling on my own and felt my pursuit of interesting conversations gave me license for my unconventional social approach. I hazarded a guess that Miguel was Hispanic. I could not quite place his accent. He turned out to be Mexican, but I felt redeemed upon hearing that European tone in his voice since Jack was from Italy. The two had the habit of switching languages to keep themselves sharp. Jack would speak to his friend in Spanish and Miguel would reply in Italian. Poor Aurora, though teaching Miguel some Finnish, knew neither. My linguistic ability is laughable, so that meant our conversations were limited to English.

I knew the challenge ahead of me. Continuing the cycle of polite small talk would only make me a tolerated fool at best. I wanted to break the ice, make them glad I had sat with them.

“Tell me, how does a Mexican, Finn, and Italian all meet in London?”

“Ah, we’re long friends. We all first met in Italy. We travel the world together!” Miguel explained.

Aurora leaned in so I could hear her. “Miguel and I have been together for eight years! We got married five months ago.”

“Congratulations!” I said, then turned towards Jack. “That makes ya quite the third-wheel, huh?”

“Ahh, it’s nothing,” he said, swatting the air. “I love them both and I do just fine”

“So why don’t you have someone here tonight?”

“I don’t have anyone yet,’ he laughed. “I do love a little different. I tend to keep them around for a couple weeks or so then move on.” But then his chuckling ceased and he interjected with a serious expression. “I don’t hurt them though. It is important to never be deceitful. I tell them what I want and treat them well, and I only fuck them if they agree.” He broke out his flashy grin once more. “One day, I’ll find the right one to settle down with, but I do not rush, I enjoy life!”

“Should have seen him at our wedding,” Miguel added. “It was in Mexico. Took him less than a day to find quite the mamacita.”

Jack leaned back in his chair and blew a kiss into the air. “She was lovely. I still check in to make sure she's doing okay.”

Aurora, swiping through her phone, found a picture and showed me.

“That’s her!” Jack said. “That was a fun week. There were a few times we almost got in trouble with a bad crowd. If Miguel wasn’t native there…man!”

They weren’t lying. The lady on the phone was drop-dead gorgeous. “You know?” I looked at all of them. “I feel like if the three of you were a TV show, I would quite enjoy it.” I struck a chord with that remark. All three of them laughed and something clicked right then. I could tell they had decided that they liked me. I would be their friend for the next few hours.

“Would not be a child-friendly show!” Jack shouted. The chuckles died down and then he leaned in to me. “So what about you? What brings you to wander around London?” I explained I was at university in the UK. It was never something I foresaw for myself, but a product of those twists life tends to hurl. “What of you, though?” asked Jack. “Have you found a lady at your school?”

“It's not my time in life for that, Jack,” I smiled. “I think I should probably wait until things are more consistent, like being in the same country for more than a few months at a time.”

“I see,” he said half-convinced. “I don’t blame you though, these UK women are not the crème de la crème.”

“So which ones are? How are they in Italy?

“Aw, be careful with them,” he warned. “Italian women are like fire. They are very romantic and will never let you break up with them. It would be impossible for you to get away! But maybe if you like the drama and don’t mind the burns…”

Miguel interjected. “I didn’t. That’s why I needed a Finn.” He nudged Aurora with his shoulder.

“We don’t mess around, we get right to the point,” she told me.

“Very blunt,” Jack agreed. “See, on one trip I met one and we hooked up in fifteen minutes. They like you, they want to fuck you, they’ll tell you.”

Aurora laughed and I attempted some witty remark, but Jack piqued an eyebrow and studied me for a few seconds.

“Ah, I see,” he said.

“What?”

“You,” he leaned in with a confident tone, “are heartbroken.”

“Ah, no, nice try, Jack. Maybe a while ago but I’m up and running now”

“If that’s true, then, tell me! How many women have you been with to get over her?”

“None, Jack, that’s not my style.”

“Yup,” he said, turning to Aurora and Miguel. “He’s still stuck on her”

I found the diagnosis quite funny, especially considering that I have told them nothing of my own love life, but Jack still looked at me with a smile that mixed humor with pity. He stood up and patted me on the back. “What will the next one be? My turn for the next round.”

I felt a twinge of embarrassment, thinking of my student budget. “That’s kind of you, but I’m afraid I’m not spending enough tonight to join in the rotation.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. It's on me.”

“It would be silly for me to refuse, wouldn't it? Thanks, Jack. Guinness would do lovely.”

He saluted and left for the bar.

“Guinness,” Miguel nodded. “I can only do a couple of them a night. Very heavy”

“Well I’m a young guy,” I retorted. “The calories mean nothing.”

“Good on you,” he laughed. “I’m no longer like that.”

“In that case,” I replied, directing myself at both of them, “what advice from your years would you give a young and dumb guy like me?” (I do not seek my life advice from strangers in a bar, but the question is a perfect little crack into how someone looks at the world. That fascinates me.)

Miguel took the question seriously. His forehead wrinkled and ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. After a few seconds he decided. “You need to learn what you can and cannot control. Once you do, never waste time worrying about what you cannot change. And only let your worry move you to make a difference in the things that you can. You must master your emotions.”

“He holds to that,” Aurora added. “To him, every situation grows you, even with pain.”

“Have you heard of Marcus Aurelius?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Meditations is my Bible!”

“I see, you are a stoic?”

Miguel nodded but Aurora asked “What’s that?”

I don’t know how many can relate, but the experience of explaining stoicism, or any philosophy for that matter, from the ground up in a loud bar is quite the frustrating experience. Still, Miguel and I managed to tag-team with the basics. She nodded along thoughtfully.

“Are you a stoic?” Miguel asked me.

I shook my head. “Christian!”

“Right, I understand that. I’m Mexican, grew up Catholic”

“Huh, in that case, have you read Ecclesiastes?

“What?”

“Ecclesiastes. In the Bible.”

“Oh, I haven’t read that.”

“I’d recommend it to a stoic such as yourself. It’s not Stoicism, but in some ways it feels familiar. Give it a read.”

“Hm, alright.”

A beer appeared in front of me. Juggling pints for the others, Jack set full glasses on the table and jumped back into his chair. “What did I miss?”

“Just sharing our life advice,” Miguel responded.

“Ah, I see. Let me then?”

“Be my guest,” I encouraged.

He moved his chair closer to me so that we were side by side and began in his thick Italian accent, both hands dancing in front of him. “Look, this is what my father used to say all the time. I say it now, and it’s this: ‘Party as hard and as long as you want, but never forget that you must wake up in the morning.’” He let that sit in the air for a few seconds then continued. “I am a party guy, but I always hold to that. I’ve learned to always wake up, even when it is hard. You don’t want life to catch you off-guard because you’ve been foolish. It will wreck you if you haven't learned how to take it. Do you know what I mean?”

“I see what you're getting at”

“No party lasts forever, friend. You're in university right now. Enjoy it. Get as much as you can out of it. But only go as far as you know you can wake up and face the next day.”

“That’s good Jack, thank you.”

He smiled and nodded. “Miguel!” he gestured, bringing his hand to his mouth as if holding an imaginary cigarette. Miguel reached into his pocket and handed him a pack. “You smoke?” he asked me.

“Not I.”

“Good. It's wonderful, but better to never start.” He and Miguel stood up from the table and left for the back patio, leaving Aurora with me.

“So what would be your advice? I don’t want you to be left out.”

She laughed and looked at the ceiling for a while to think. “My advice,” she began slowly, “Is actually for you to keep doing what you’re doing.”

“And what is that?”

“Well, you are traveling. You are talking to us. You are exploring. Those are all good things. They teach you so much more about the world than staying comfortable in your own circle. I realized that in my own life. I wasn’t happy with my studies and didn’t know what to do, so I left for Australia and spent a year there. I needed to find a new place, to see new ways to look at life. It taught me that the memories and the experiences matter so much more than any career.”

“I like that. You three seem like good friends and the fact that you've survived all these travels together speaks to that. You’re all a priority to one another.”

“We will be done in London next year and we hope to move to my home country”

“All three of you?”

“Yeah, we need Jack in our lives.”

“That is very sweet.”

“Yes, it is.”

We began to talk about life in Finland; people, culture, perspectives. I realized she was good-hearted. Our conversation felt natural; it took no effort. She told me about how she and Miguel met, both while being in relationships with other people, and how they realized they wanted to end up with each other. It was a full 20 minutes before Jack and Miguel returned. But they did and rejoined the conversation.

“She tells me you may go to Finland with them, Jack.”

“Of course I will!” he pointed to them while looking me in the eye. “I love them. I would kill or die for them if I ever had to.” The others laughed but it was not a joke.

“That is special, Jack”

A silence settled for a few seconds then Miguel stood up. “Time for another round, Guinness again?” he asked me.

“Come on, Miguel, please don’t let me abuse your generosity.”

“Do not worry about it”

“We’re covering you for the night, friend.” Jack added. Aurora smiled and agreed.

“You guys are too kind if this is how you act toward a stranger”

“Nonsense,” Jack said. “We wouldn’t for just any strangers, but I can tell you are a good person. Really, a good person.” He grasped my shoulder. His voice carried too much sincerity to be just alcohol-induced vulnerability.

For the next ninety minutes, we traded stories, they gave me a tour of down their memory lane, and we gave each other whatever travel tips we could think of.

And stories, they indeed had.

“I got busted for coke in Italy,” Jack mentioned. “Look, once they had me, I knew there was nothing I could do. The cops are required to test the stuff, you know? ‘Look,’ I told them. ‘I know we all know what it is, but at least tell me how good of stuff I got.’ Sure enough, they tested it, came back and told me ‘We've never found stuff this clean before!’” He laughed.

“Or what about the moped?” Miguel added while Jack recovered.

“Oh yeah! That was amazing!” Jack was quite passionate now. “You see, we left Aurora at the hotel and Miguel and I were–”

“Stop!” Aurora, gasped. She grabbed my arm as if to distract me from what was about to fall out of Jack’s mouth. “He took MY HUSBAND and promised me they wouldn’t get into trouble. I can’t trust them at all now.”

“Basically,” Jack continued, “We were running from some guys. We had a moped, or something like that, you know?” He gripped invisible handlebars for effect. “Anyway, we got away but we slipped going around a corner.

“Look!” said Miguel, pulling back his hair and exposing his scalp. A scar jutted back into his skull. “Thirteen stitches!”

“Fifteen,” Aurora corrected.

“I didn’t even feel it at the time,” laughed Miguel. “Jack had to drag me to the hospital.”

Aurora was half sitting out of her chair at this point. “Here I am, at the hotel, just thinking they are out for a drink. I don't hear from them for a few hours, then I get a call from Jack, where he goes ‘Okay, don’t be mad, we are all fine!’”

“We were!” Jack insisted.

“Jack! Fifteen stitches is NOT fine!” She retorted.

We got to talking about bars and clubbing. Jack told me about lands I have never visited or intend to visit, corners of Berlin or Amsterdam, lands of strobe lights and anarchy, save for the rule of no phones or cameras to ensure the shameless and unbridled frenzy would never bleed across borders. I listened along in disgusted fascination.

“Berlin!” he insisted. “No better spot to club. In the best places, the line goes on for hours, and the bouncers will turn you away if they don’t judge you to have the appearance or energy to add to the party! But I know them, so they let me skip the line and show me right in. You’ll never believe it, but I went in once and didn’t leave the place for a straight sixteen hours! Hell of a day, you can only do that with practice.”

The more I talked with Jack, the more I realized that I had never before met a hedonist with such faith. Too easily, I equivocate hedonists with gluttonous imbeciles, burying themselves in sensuality and lacking self-respect. But that was not Jack. Despite my blatant disapproval of his way of life, he was a deeply likeable man. He was charming, considerate, and came across as genuinely happy. He exercised masterful charisma with two women who came to our table to talk to him. Jack was not a happenstance hedonist, as so many are. He was self-examined, knew very well what he believed, and was one as a means to deal with the world’s existential threats. He wasn’t ignorant of rich contemplations; I saw that side of him as we compared our photos of his Alps and my Rocky Mountains. He had a love for home, a love for nature, and a love for his friends. Jack either had found happiness, or was a damn good actor, lying to himself.

Unbeknownst to Jack, I had met a hedonist the night prior. Chatting with the bartender at my hostel, a man walked in and sat on the stool next to me. His name was Ryan. One look at him and I could tell he was a tortured soul. His eyes were dead, sunken into his skull. He was twenty-nine but moved as if he were seventy—yet lacking the grace of wisdom that a body normally gains with that extent of dilapidation. He spoke of his travels as if life were nothing but a waiting room for death. He had plunged into whatever pleasures he could find in life. We spoke for a while about his experience in a polyamorous relationship, which he no longer took part in, having resigned to the much more chaste and conservative values of an open relationship instead. We found ourselves in an invested argument, in which he adamantly insisted that photography was superior to paintings.

“The true idea of paintings is impossible,” he snapped. “No one can truly paint for art’s sake. It's elitism! Only the rich can afford to have them made, and at the expense of poor artists who do what they do in order to eat. Think of the Medicis. Call renaissance art beautiful, but it only exists as a form of segregation and class-building! Our societies don’t allow for paintings not tainted by capitalism or oppression.”

I remember feeling my gut twist in horror. God, I thought. Even art has betrayed this man. Even his idea of beauty have let him down.

Jack and Ryan are very different people. Both sought pleasure to save them, but Ryan crawled to it in desperate submission while Jack demanded it to work for him. If pleasure ever turned on him the way it did on Ryan, it would destroy him. He parties hard, but I would doubt he could wake up on the morning of the day he finds it all for nothing.

But for now, the alcohol had begun to loosen them up. Jack and Aurora danced around a bit. He brought her into a hug and planted an affectionate kiss on her forehead. I glanced at Miguel, who was watching them as well. He smiled gently, and I could tell he thought himself a very fortunate man. This trio loved each other deeply.

I felt impressed. These three people clung to each other and I realized I was witnessing an existential ecosystem. Many people are content living in their routine and never feeling anxiety beyond everyday relationship issues or stress at work. Other souls are blessed–or cursed, depending how you see it–with a deeper self-awareness, seeing the incongruity between them and the world. It is a cruel restlessness that demands answers. These three friends were all of that second kin. Miguel was a principled man, Jack was an expert in enjoying life, and Aurora found solace in being sustained by the novelty of new adventures. The hedonist, the stoic, and the free spirit within Aurora, united through a deep love of each other as they sought to quell their existential anxieties.

I am like that too. I find my mind exploring wonderful and horrible questions about the world, but there remains a further distinction that separates me from this trio. Frankly, I would be closer to Ryan. Souls like Jack, Miguel, and Aurora, find the world to be the perfect hiding place for questions of sorrow and evil in and outside of themselves. There is always somewhere new to see and experience. They are comforted by knowing there is still an unknown. I, on the other hand, fear the unknown and have not coped with my anxiety by hiding in the world but by attempting to conquer it. I wage war against a desire to stomp all reality beneath my feet, as if trying to be God would give me rest. Ryan tried this with hedonism as his weapon. but fell on his blade. He was a zombie.

I have chosen to believe that a man, who was also God, rose from the dead two thousand years ago. That sometimes seems absurd to me, but it has worked. I have made great progress in understanding that I do not need to conquer reality and instead enjoy it. Yet I have by no means internalized the notion. I often forget this and resort to my “pretend hero” game. Ah, if only these people understood what has been promised to me.

Miguel pulled me out of my speculations by gathering all four of us around the table. “Try this,” he encouraged me. “It's mezcal, a Mexican liquor.”

We grabbed our glasses and Miguel toasted to our health, to life, and my future. I swallowed the liquid and found my throat engulfed in a deep smoky burn. It was pleasant. Aurora gave me a big hug and we stood up from the table.

“Is it my turn to buy a round?” She asked.

“Think you can handle another?” asked Miguel.

“Well, are you guys getting another? If you are, so will I.”

Jack leaned over to me and whispered “Aurora is so convinced she can outdrink us, she never gets far.” I laughed. She had heard him and was visibly defensive.

I paused for a second to check how I was feeling. My cheeks were starting to feel a bit warm, which is my first sign that I’ve had alcohol. I’d have to make this next one last a while and let the others get a round ahead of me. Jack wouldn't hear of Aurora buying and went himself. He came back with a new beer he insisted I try. We walked upstairs and into the rooftop beer garden. We were done with all the heavy life topics, now just joking and teasing each other. The night was cold, but the stand-up heaters made the patio very comfortable, casting a red filter on everyone's face. We mingled with a few other strangers for another fifteen minutes. Miguel worked his way over to me to ask where Aurora was. She had left for the bathroom a few minutes ago and no one had seen her. Just then, I saw her through the window and over the banister, disappearing down the stairs.

“Oh dear,” said Miguel. He rushed after her. Jack and I paired up again and eventually the couple found us once more. Aurora had fallen quiet, offering nothing more than a gentle smile as she leaned on Miguel’s chest. “Jack, Aurora’s had enough. I think we're gonna call it a night.”

Aurora spoke up again saying “Miguel, we have to make sure we're ready for our party tomorrow.” She whispered something into his ear that made him chuckle.

“She’s worried about inviting some people,” Miguel told Jack. “We're hosting tomorrow night, we still have a bit of planning to do,” he explained to me out of courtesy.

“I told you, Aurora, it's fine!” Jack insisted. I was a bit lost, but he explained to me what they were talking about. “Aurora always ends up being friends with my exes. She's worried about bothering me by having them around. I don't mind though. Remember what I told you, I never have bad blood with them and I don’t hurt them.”

“Right, we’re out of here, Jack.” said Miguel. He shook my hand and clasped his other arm over my shoulder into a hug. “Best of luck to you, friend. I’m glad you walked up to our table. People don’t do that, but I’m glad you did.”

“You have a good night, Miguel.”

Aurora gave me the strongest hug she could muster. It was one of those hugs that isn’t just a polite gesture, but communicates I like you and wish you all the best. They began to walk away, but Miguel looked back at me.

“What was the name of that book, again?”

“Ecclesiastes”

“Thanks.” They fell into the crowd, gave final waves, then turned the corner.

Now it was just Jack and I. Over the next few minutes we hovered about laughing with strangers. But having worked our way across the balcony and almost back into the pub, he reignited his curiosity of my love life, asking how long I had been heartbroken. I wish I was. Mere heartbreak would be a lot easier than the current knots in my life. For all of Jack’s experiences with love, I found his perspective two-dimensional. I wondered if he ever considered what it was like to love someone but not the relationship, or to strive for more than butterflies and sex, or that a love life is more than a pattern of catching and losing feelings, repeating the cycle with a new woman the next day. I doubted he grasped the deeper beauty that I knew existed–even if I had yet to obtain it.

“Look,” he said, “you have to move on. The only way forward is to press into life. She’s in the past now. I’m not telling you you need to rush and find someone new to fall in love with, but you need to break out of the pit you're stuck in. You need to just get with a couple women to snap you out of it and you will be fine.”

Just then, under fate’s love of irony, two girls nudged us to the side to pass by on their way to the bathroom, a couple blondes that until then blended perfectly into the background. It was cold outside, but they weren’t dressed like it. Jack turned his head towards them for a couple seconds then snapped back to me, grabbing my shoulders. Pensive Jack was gone. A horrible, mischievous smile grew across his face. Never had I had such a long and fast conversation with just eye contact.

“Jack, NO!” I mustered my firmest voice, but he was already moving. Without a word, he went after them.

For a brief moment, I decided it was time to bid the Hawley Arms goodnight and head to my hostel. I turned in a couple circles looking as if there would be someone in the bar who might laugh at the situation and see me off with a pat on the back. But I remembered. Solo traveling. Only strangers here. It was too late. Jack returned, cackling to himself.

“Jack, my friend, what did you do?”

“Nothing! Nothing! Hey, I just stopped them and said they really ought to meet my buddy. They're just using the wash room for a moment.”

I did not doubt the quality of his intentions, but he still didn’t get how he was pushing his religion onto me. He felt so confident he knew how to get my life back on track. I disagreed. The man is a master wingman. Lord knows he had the mileage and practice, but we don’t look for the same things out of romance. Did he know the escape of chasing after others is temporary at best?

“This is the easiest pub to get laid in!” he continued. “But look, you can bring a horse to water, but you cannot get him to drink. I can only do so much for you,” he winked.

“Jack, I don’t go after that sort of thing,” I said. I didn’t know if he understood me or not because right then those girls arrived. They introduced themselves as Kathryn and Ruby, not leaving enough personal space to disguise the precarious balance between the scents of their perfume and tequila. Jack, on the other hand, took a step back, gave me another wink, and started a conversation with the bartender.

“You’re American! What state?” they asked me.

I recited the well-rehearsed “from Colorado’ script I had grown very familiar with while traveling—it was the only option I had besides walking out. Jack put me here. What was the man thinking? He probably wasn’t. How many drinks was he in at this point?

“No way!,” Ruby grabbed my arm and pulled me down to speak in my ear. “My boyfriend’s from Colorado!

“Here? I was not expecting to meet another Coloradan tonight!” I felt relieved she mentioned the boyfriend right away. But by the way she was acting you would not guess there was one.

“Yeah, he works here. Come and meet him!” The two of them took my arm and dragged me through the crowd, down the stairs, and to the bar. It was emptier now. That happy chaos was gone. The social drinkers had gone home, and the remaining patrons were making memories that would be hazy in the morning.

The boyfriend saw us coming. He was visibly drunk. We talked about the places we both knew and gave all those predictable “London could never compare to the mountains” remarks. But as soon as Ruby turned her back, he locked eyes with me. “Look, I’d hate to mess you up. Don’t try anything with her.”

“I’m not trying for anything, buddy. I’m not here for that.” Truth was, I was quite amused by the guy. He was a full head below me and a bit scrawny. I wanted to appreciate his confidence, but anyone is after enough alcohol. He returned to the bar to serve the next batch of customers, satisfied with his warning. The girls turned to me once more.

“Pretty cool, right? Do you know any of the same people?” asked Ruby.

“I’m afraid I can’t talk to you, Ruby. Your boyfriend might decide to beat me up.” My voice dripped with sarcasm, but she didn’t hear it. I took a seat in a chair similar to the one earlier, but this time without the same engaging conversation.

“Ugh, he’s always so annoying! It’s not like we’re doing anything wrong.”

I suppose her definition of “wrong” was different from mine. She sat right up to me, her hand resting on my knee.

Kathryn was speaking to someone else. I suppose social rules must expire in early AM London. This wasn’t good, but my exit came in the form of a drunk Lebanese student who shouted from his table to tell me I look like a “handsome Nicholas Cage.” I started a conversation which brought him to sit with us. He clarified that being called Nicholas Cage was not necessarily a compliment.

I would need a lot more alcohol to be enjoying myself again. A bell rang to announce they were serving final drinks. It was almost 2:00 AM. As the crowd thinned, the pub lost its warmth. Piles of empty glasses cluttered the sticky tables, and puddles of spilled beer scattered across the floor. I suddenly felt vulnerable. I had only what was in my pockets. I knew I had alcohol in my system. Girls looking for fun lingered about. Jack had brought me to his church. I had every opportunity to try his life. There was no good end to this situation, but he found me one more time.

“How’s it going?” Jack appeared, still grinning, his energy undiminished. “You gonna have a fun night?”

“No, Jack. Ruby has a boyfriend and I didn’t bother talking to the other one. I don’t think you get that I may have other reasons here.”

“Ah, the boyfriend is no problem. It hasn’t stopped many of these girls. Besides, look at you!”

“I appreciate the help, Jack, but I think I have it from here.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll let you do your thing.” He retreated back to another circle. He seemed slightly offended but I was likely just imagining it.

I didn’t know what I was doing. Actually, I did. I was waiting for the adventure to happen. Maybe someone was about to have a medical emergency I could help with. Maybe someone would find their purse stolen, or a fire would start. I just wanted something interesting to happen, but it was time to give up. I suppose there would be nothing happening tonight worth writing about. I stood up to go.

Everyone was getting ready to leave as the bartenders were closing down. I walked out with the crowd back into the streets of London. The air was cold and fog had gently gathered around the pub. I saw Jack, in his coat and fedora, already outside leaning against the corner of the building with a lit cigarette. I caught his eye and gave him a farewell nod. He returned it and I walked away.

I stepped onto a bus, climbed the stairs to the second level and sat myself in the blue plastic seats in the front, with the large windshield at my knees. I leaned back, sinking into my thoughts. The night had been thoroughly fun. I would find my hostel, get a few hours of sleep, then find somewhere to go to Church. It was Sunday morning.

Despite the conversations, stories, and drinks I had enjoyed, I was painfully aware of feeling empty. I didn’t understand how Jack did it. My soul was not filled. He would have said I needed more pints, or I should have gone home with one of those girls. The problem was that Jack and I lived in different worlds. Yes, we drank to each other's health, but I drank from a smudged glass. Jack drank, but from something he held in the manner I would a crucifix. It would be an ugly day when pleasure turns on him. He had Miguel and Aurora, though. Their council could perhaps sustain him for a while longer. That’s the future. For now, they all loved their lives.

I will never see them again. They are just ghosts in my mind, for which I am grateful. It means I can pretend against all odds that they will always be happy. They can forever float about London with their vibrant pasts and hopeful futures, spending nights in pubs where the bitter day of reckoning can never find them. Ghosts don’t worry about dying.