In a sequestered downtown bar on the border of Lakewood and Cleveland, today brimming with post-work alcoholics and coquettish housewives, an old friend waits patiently for his girlfriend to finish her bartending shift. He's adorned in his usual attire - a tattered old T-shirt, littered with holes and stains, and dark denim "girl jeans" he acquired at a thrift store.
I've known him for five years, and I've never seen him look so sullen. He speaks less feverishly than he used to - and less of grandiosity, more of imminent failure.
"I'm not happy," he admits, between gulps of Rolling Rock, "I'm sad. Really sad, actually."
He's emaciated, and his skin is ridden with nickel-sized bumps, which he dismisses as "stress bumps." I'm not sure if there's such a thing as a "stress bump," but I nod anyway.
I nod a lot when he talks. He's one of those guys. One of those guys who talks a lot and you just gotta nod your head.
He talks of humanity, of his incredible worry for things he can't control, of his insatiable passion for creating music, and of his feelings of detachment from the people most important to him.
"I can't have this sort of conversation with my girlfriend," he maintains, and then admits that he's not sure if he loves her anymore.
Christmas lights and an Irish flag and a pudgy old fella buying me drinks - I wonder if this will be my "scene" in twenty years. I fucking hope not.
Depression and alcoholism and a hoard of mothers buying him drinks - I wonder if this will be his life in twenty years. I fucking hope not.
I'm at this bar for nearly six hours, and I never remove my coat. I forgot how chilly everything is.
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