One Shot

 

In my early twenties I went on a mission to take a drink in every bar in Cape Town. Not because I was particularly thirsty, but because I wanted to broaden my education. My aim was to observe the behaviour of ‘the common man’ and reach some kind of conclusion about human nature.

I had discovered that not only do bars attract a variety of men who enjoy a drink in the company of other men, but also that there was an underclass of patrons who retreated to the pub as a place of refuge. They were, without exception, weak individuals who struggled to cope with their own inadequacies and inability to overcome the tribulations that came their way. Like some people go to Church in order to gain solace through communal rituals, these individuals went to a bar to dull their pain with alcohol and to share their troubles with anyone who would lend them an ear.

I found the best time to encounter one of these barflies was between eleven and twelve in the morning. This was before the lunchtime customers started coming in, and anyone sitting at the bar was bound to be an unemployed loser eager to tell me his life story. I soon discerned certain recurring themes that led me to some generalisations about these men and what they had to say. Almost without fail, I would hear a tale of woe in which the narrator was a heroic victim who had been treated unjustly by malicious individuals and by life in general. They all swore they would overcome their adversaries in the future, given half a chance. The testimonies were sordid and the characters despicable, and I listened with a mixture of disdain and compassion. I was able to empathise out of an awareness of my own flawed character. Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto. I agreed with this sentiment that, as a man, I am capable of anything humans get up to, no matter how degrading the choices and actions might be.

Of the dozens of characters I interviewed, one man stands out in my memory, mainly because he blamed himself for the miserable condition he found himself in, and did not tell me a pack of lies about how hard done by he was. It was in the Kimberley Hotel bar, if I remember correctly, and our conversation began when he looked up from his glass of beer and said, “One shot. Only one shot.” All I had to do was say, “Oh, yes?” and he launched into his confession.

He appeared to be around 50, but he told me he was 42. His voice was phlegmy and his lower lip, which was flabby and the colour of cooked liver, trembled as he spoke. His eyes were bloodshot, and I suspected this was on account of a heavy dagga habit. Then I realised the redness was caused not by smoke but by excessive weeping. He blew his nose on a sodden wad of toilet paper and proceeded to tell me how he had messed up his own and other people’s lives. He had cheated on his wife, a wonderful woman, and abused her verbally, physically and sexually. In a drunken rage, he had thrashed his son so viciously the child had ended up in hospital. Through bad judgement, incompetence, dishonesty and laziness he had ruined the family business. This had led to sequestration and the loss of house, cars and movable assets. His wife divorced him, he was refused access to his own kids, and the wider family ostracised him. He was alone in the world. And now, to crown it all, he had been sacked from his job at the City Council after it was discovered he had lied about his qualifications.

“And sometimes I say things to people that I don’t mean to say, and they think I’m insulting them. Just two weeks ago there was this man sitting right where you are, and he smacked me in the mouth.” He curled his upper lip and opened his mouth to display a black hole where an incisor and its adjoining canine had been. I can’t blame him, because I was very rude and I don’t know why. You see, everything I do is a fuck-up. My whole life is a fuck-up and I am all washed up, totally and completely.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and his nose on a sleeve. “You see, you only get one shot at life, and if you fuck it up, that’s it. You can’t go back and live your life again. You get only one shot, and that’s it. Just one shot.”

I left him crying into his beer and went on my way, thinking about this ‘one shot’ business. Was there something in it? Well, before I reached my humble abode in Woodstock, I had decided the fellow was talking shit. How many people fail at something and try again and again, and then strike it lucky and make a pile of money? Or destroy their reputation, only to bounce back and reinvent themselves? And what about all the failed relationships? Christ, you don’t have to curl up and die just because your partner has walked out on you, or kicked you out! No, that man in the Kimberley bar was definitely talking a load of crap.

Like I said, I was in my twenties then, and at the time it seemed obvious the man had got it wrong. Now I am in my seventies and this notion that you only get one shot at life can be interpreted differently. At 40 there is still time to turn things around. But, at 70, if you think your life has been a disappointment, there isn’t much you can do about it. Your mind and body are in decline and the distractions that accompany old age, like mental and physical ill-health, sap the energy needed to tackle some new enterprise that will be so successful you will finally achieve the recognition you believe you deserve. Too late for that, I’m afraid.

So, what options are you left with? As I see it, there are two possibilities to choose from. The first is to rewrite history. This would involve intentional self-delusion starting at no later than retirement age because it takes a good deal of practice to accomplish. It entails constructing a narrative in which you are the leader, and everything that happened in your life was as you planned it. You tell yourself and those around you a version of events in which you are always in control. For example, instead of saying, ‘We went on a family holiday to the Drakensberg,” you say, “I took the family away on holiday to the Drakensberg.” To explain why you never owned a new car, you claim it makes better sense to buy a second-hand vehicle. You don’t talk about retrenchment, but rather refer to the time you decided to change careers. You have always treated your employees fairly, which implies you once had a sizable workforce, when in reality there was only ever a maid, and sometimes a gardener. Of course it was a wise decision to downsize, etc. etc.

By putting a spin on everything that happened to you over the years you can fool yourself and some of those around you that you have led a meaningful life full of purpose and accomplishment. This strategy works for some, but, for individuals like me, it is a feeble subterfuge.

Instead of pretending otherwise, I would prefer to admit that I have led a life of mediocrity punctuated by a series of minor triumphs and disasters hardly worth mentioning other than to amuse myself. This strikes me as a more realistic and honest way to assimilate the memories of one’s past. It is also advisable, when thinking about successes and failures, to bear in mind that heroes and villains, millionaires and paupers all end up dead, and are oblivious of whether they are celebrated and famous, honoured and admired, or despised and maligned, or just ignored as nonentities, whose passing was as insignificant as the squashing of a flea.

In the sense that you only live once, the man in the Kimberley Hotel bar was right. What he failed to see, however, was that having fucked up was nothing exceptional, and instead of feeling sorry for himself, he should have said, “Look, I have screwed up, big time, but it’s no good crying over spilt milk, and I must stagger on and try to enjoy this stupid life, and just treat it as a sick joke, because if you cry, you cry alone; but if you laugh, the world laughs with you.” He should have consoled himself with this kind of hackneyed wisdom, as I do, and carried on with his meaningless existence. Which he probably did. Unless he took one last shot.

To view my longer work as an author, you can find me on Smashwords here.