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It was a fancy bar that had a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
I'm gonna swing from the chandelier
He didn't used to go here. He didn't used to drink at all. He hated alcohol. It tasted nasty, burned on the way down, and left him feeling like half his brain was asleep.
Tonight, that was the only thing he wanted.
I push it down, push it down
Guilt, doubt, fear, misery. All the terrible feelings roiling in his chest could be muted for a while, given enough alcohol. He could forget his dead end job, failing relationships, and even ease his broken heart. For a little while.
Running from problems was never the permanent solution, and he knew that very well, but blinded by despair, he frequently saw no other way out. That was why the bartender had begun to recognize him by face, feelings stirring in him every time he saw the pathetic borderline alcoholic walk in through the glass doors.
One two three, one two three drink...
The bartender poured him a whiskey. No money for school, paychecks stretched further than they could go; dishwashing at the restaurant across the street didn't pay well. Childhood dreams of being a famous historian welled up along with the trauma of being kicked out without warning. Nothing to his name, he struggled to make ends meet, and his inability to keep up saw him falling further and further behind, losing those he was closest to as they abandoned him while chasing their own dreams.
Here comes the shame, here comes the shame
He didn't dream anymore. Not about big things. He dreamed about a paycheck big enough he could hole some of it away in a savings account. He dreamed of a life in which he didn't live alone in an apartment rotting from the inside out. Once in a while, he would dream at night that he was a professor, standing in front of a massive lecture hall speaking about the technicalities of artillery. It was after those nights he would order three shots of the strongest liquor the bar had.
Tonight he did the three shots all in a row.
Throw 'em back till I lose count
The world started to fade a little now, fuzzy around the edges. Cheap gold rings on his fingers glinted in the flashing lights of the dance floor. He knew he was drunk because he was sure the messy black haired bartender was checking him out between shots and looks of pity.
He didn't dance, and by this point it was doubtful he could stand on his own anyway. He was completely oblivious to the people passing by and brushing against him, couples moving together on the dance floor, making their first connections.
He had another drink.
The world was truly almost gone now. All that existed was the music, and that damn bartender. He hated the way he kept looking at him, making eye contact as he poured another shot. The way the shape of his head was burned into his eyes like a bright light. Through the haze of alcohol, the thought that he and the bartender could be married in another life worked its way listlessly into his mind.
He drowned it with the shot, wiped his face with his hand, and pulled it back wet.
I'm gonna fly like a bird through the night, feel my tears as they dry
He wouldn't know how he got home that night. He wouldn't remember anything after the first drink. He would have forgotten the name of the bartender but, for a split second when he woke up, his silhouette would still be burned into his eyes. He would go to work despite the throbbing headache behind his eyes, and back to the bar the first available opportunity, killing his sorrows with ethanol and the bartender, because to stop would be to give up living entirely.
Help me I'm holding on for dear life, won't look down won't open my eyes, keep my glass full until morning light, cause I'm just holding on for tonight