"People always ask the wrong questions." A cloud of beer breath enveloped me and I looked up to see a typical Friday night lager jockey. Six pints in, tie askew, sweaty, aging skin loose and jowly. Washed up on my table, spun into me by a social eddy, pushed loose from his office friends by a strange current in the busiest pub in London. He looked down at me, searching for comprehension in my eyes.
"And then they get the wrong answers," he continued, his logical emphatic.
There seemed to be nothing to say but he was determined, his palm spread on my table as he swayed, his thoughts crystalising.
"Take you. You're sitting here as your mates spin through the herd. And what did they do to deserve such largesse?"
He had hit upon a good question. What was I doing, indeed? I'd been the one to introduce them. Loose acquaintances. Friends of friends. And now I watched them wrapped so tightly in each other that the world stopped turning. At least until tomorrow morning. An answer formed on my lips and I looked up to an empty space where the man had been. He had no doubt been carried away on a haze of empty Friday night possibilities. He would end up in the curry house with his friends, then to stagger home to his disillusioned wife, a half-watched DVD before sleep overwhelmed him on the sofa, beer-shits in the morning and an enforced day of domesticity. But he had hit upon a good question.
My warm gassy lager was suddenly unappealing, and I had clearly had the last meaningful conversation in that pub for that night. I stood and began to walk out. It was just about the longest pub in town, swirling colours mixed with hope and desperation, failure and compromise. I plugged myself in and began to move, a step ahead. I found each gap between the glassy-eyed revellers and I noted them driving each other higher into the realms of the unreal, shouting out their deepest desires to others shouting just as loudly. I swerved and spun and pirouetted and was never touched, my balance impeccable, my decision making perfect, and after a mere four minutes my greatest ability left me standing in the neon glare of the impersonal West End street. 'How to leave a packed pub' will be my autobiography and my epitaph.
I ploughed my way through the slush, head down to keep the sleet out of my eyes. The street sang it's own song, less obviously despairing but with more despair. Here were the people who weren't in the party, empty glasses yearning to be at least half-full. My collar was up, a defence against intrusion as I set out on my quest. I'd ignored a call too long, and I thought I knew the right question now.
