There they were. Not so much unlike any other Saturday evening. Maybe a bit more aggressive in their attempts to be involved in the events of the night than most. For this night, rather than standing by, shrouded by the darkness that inevitably encompasses the darkest remote corners of the establishment, they are seen in the forefront. There they sit. Faces clear to those who pass. Illuminated by the lights on the exterior of the structure. There they are. To announce their presence would be unnecessary. They sit at the front table. Not the small one next to the door, but the large one, immediately next to that. The one with enough room for eight, yet it is just the three of them.

The one directly in front of the window. Streetside. For all the passersby.

There they sat. There they spoke about times past; that is, in the short time that they’d known one another. Yet somehow, their friendship seemed to extend far beyond the physical truth that was. It begged the questions, at least from one of the participants this evening: What is time? What is reality? And how can one place into perspective those events of the past, and those current? From his viewpoint, the present somehow always won.

Now.

Right now.

This very moment answered all the questions that he had longed for his entire life. Sure, there were still uncertainties, but somehow, those questions that could be answered at this moment somehow derived there clarity, their certainty from this moment. Not directly from the events, but more from what this moment stood for. This comfortable moment. This moment in time, and in space, where all things, whether they be personal experience or lessons learned from those mistakes inevitably made, somehow came together. This comfortable moment where all things seem right, all important questions required for survival answered all in the good company of those next to him.

* * *

This venue was unique in it’s particular ability to literally manufacture inebriation through the sweet concoctions that the bartender produced, regardless of who was tending bar. If one weren’t very conscience of the plot against them, they would certainly fall victim. Sometimes the same fate would befall even the patron most aware of the plot.

The drinks were served in a large jar, the very same jar that someones grandmother might use to store tomatoes of turnips in over the course of a long Midwest winter. The sheer size of the container, along with it’s unusual diameter and thickness of glass made it difficult for anyone to estimate the amount of the beverage within that was consumed. Even with these threats to their ability to make proper decisions, somehow the three maintained that ability. At least partially.

The evening progressed. The colorful characters, inches away on the opposite side of the thick-paned glass of the window, passed by. Some noticing their presence. Some interacting with them, though probably not consciencely due to their own intoxication. Others made gestures. One, in fact, danced in a circle while suckling on his right thumb, then proceeded to present a certain finger of his left hand to the three. Amazing. Somehow, this one particular individual managed to entertain, insult, and perform three consecutive acts that none of the three could ever recall witnessing from a single human being or otherwise at the same time.

Throughout the course of events, the conversation of evening continued, only briefly interrupted by those happenings about them. The table, being far too large for just the three, separated them by several feet on all sides. On one end, next to the window sat one always concerned with where life might be headed with respect to his ambitions toward his romantic aspirations, but lack of action. On the other side: the quiet observer. Along for the ride, along for something to fill his time with those individuals that he calls friends. There he sits with them. Senses most acute to the ploy that this particular establishment has deployed against the patrons with the dangerous potion offered for a mere $3 in an enormous glass jar. He partakes, but knows the limit. His line is drawn just below that of the nearly equally quiet member (at least to this point) on the opposing side of this table. Between them resides the only one of them with real responsibility in life. Yet somehow he is the one that livens up the evening. Possibly the repression that true responsibility inevitably brings to one’s life is the source of his unhindered excitement. Not that he doesn’t absolutely relish the happiness that his daily life brings, but something different appears in situations like these. His line is drawn a full two or three measures above that of the either counterpart to his right or left.

Enough time had been spent. The three rose from their seats and were soon off to what was next.