Low Men in London Fogs*

The guy has a thread of shiny saliva, mucus-heavy, pooling on his left shoulder from where he's lost his battle with the drink on the way over to the sandwich shop where I work-- from whatever dark bar he has been holed up in all night. I've seen him here before, both loaded & sober. Sober, during the day, he is someone you wouldn't expect to see this way. He looks, then, like Joe Average Businessman. Probably sells insurance, or appliances. Probably why he has to drink enough to get puke on his London Fog at 2 am on a Friday night.

The cocky young guy I work with likes to close the shop early if it's "dead"-- which is a safe bet at 2 am. But the sign on the door says open till 3; the guy has just puked and needs something to fill his rolling stomach other than bile, mucus, and Jack Daniels (hey, we've all been there).

They get into a shouting match at the door as young guy stands there, locking it, and drunk guy stands outside--locked out of his intended rescue by bread and meat.

It's only 2:30!! You're shposed to shtill be open!
Piss off you old drunk.
I'm tellin your boss
Yeah, like you'll remember this in the morning.

I think of Willy Loman, suddenly. Stepping through the imaginary walls of the stage, breaking theatrical convention to signify reality's break. Seeing beautiful women where there are no more (at least not for him). Taking silk hose to the girlfriend while the wife scrapes by on potato soup and ground beef again. Willy Loman, dying of insignificance.

The young, obsessed with drugs sandwich artist guy thinks his tattoos will save him from being uncool. He thinks one day he will be like the handsome Native American guy in the detective series where Lorenzo Lamas rides a motorcycle for justice while his hair streams sexily out behind him, a la romance cover art.

The reality is he won't be (and will be) just like puke jacket guy, though, and you know it, even if he doesn't.

Washed up. Only thing to look forward to a fucking sub sandwich at 3 am on a Friday night in Florida after a long trip down KillLiver Lane. The only thing to look forward to all day and the goddamn door is locked and the shop is closed early. And young asshole calling him a drunk cause young guy wants to leave early to drink his own cheap 40 oz that is sitting on the counter in the back, beads of water dripping down the bottle's neck into the crumpled paper of a brown bag.

No. I know there really are no more Willy Lomans. Willy Loman actually had more dignity and promise and potential than these two mirror images locked in opposition this night. There are truths and there are TRUTHS. One of them is that pathetic is all the more obvious at 3 in the morning.

*With apologies to Stephen King's Low Men. Different but.