Frustration & Confusion: expressed via my short story

Jan’s Predicament

The man sat resolutely on the floor of the tavern, arms cradling his besotted head and covering his eyes from the tragic scene surrounding him. Not two hours earlier he had been on the way home with the medicine he’d been sent to fetch for his convalescent mother when this same tavern’s sign had stopped him in his tracks. The ruthlessly plain exterior of the tavern only magnified the ornately designed sign full of Tartars rushing a Russian castle graced by a beautiful blonde princess in its uttermost tower. Her luxuriant hair billowed in the wind of that icy steppe and cried out for rescue from her rescuers. The scene captured Jan’s imagination as he imagined the Tartar chieftain, her former capturer and current lover, riding full gallop to free her from her autocratic noble husband. The flamboyant display of colors and passion in an otherwise nondescript street in a nameless borough of Hamburg compelled Jan to enter the tavern to inquire of the sign’s origins or purpose.
Two hours passed and Jan had no recollection of them. He sat now in the center of overturned tables and spilt mugs of German beer. In the corner stood a stricken barkeep surveying his ruined establishment. Two men dressed in red and white exited, one hoisting up his wounded comrade while the wounded gleefully chanted a German drinking song interspersed with an occasional bloody cough. Jan was puzzled and rightfully so. He had no memory of provocation nor retaliation; neither nationalist rhetoric nor hellfire sermons had ever departed from his teetotaler mouth and it seemed unlikely that an ethereal sign would’ve changed his temperament.
Rising slowly, feeling bruised all over and sensing the metallic taste of blood coming from his upper lip, he addressed his sole remaining companion, “Barkeep, what do you make of this unseemly mess? Who were those ruffians dressed in white and red and could I have done to provoke such an angry outburst?”
The barkeep remained in his corner, nervously twisting a broom in his white-knuckled grip. “Those men were no ruffians only regulars at this tavern, glad for a daily drink at Pete’s after a hard day’s work in the docks. They came for their drinks and the Poland-Uruguay football match when you came in here, in my opinion, seeking a fifth or sixth drink, if you know what I mean. You approached the three of us with a tale of Russian beauties, bedridden mothers, and Tartars smitten by love bent on destruction.
“We obliged you your stories since it was halftime of the match, but then you began to accuse us of being despotic thieves, intent on keeping in bondage the one thing you truly loved. Then you demanded we return Natasha or die like the Russian scum we are. My Polish friends, already tiring of your nonsense because the game had resumed, took offense to being called Russians and moved to the other side of the tavern. You went beserk, tearing tables out of their fixings, tossing chairs into the bar, ripping the televisions from their perches and triumphantly flinging them through my windows, and then you turned to attack the two Poles in their corner booth. Declaring that you had stormed their castle and freed the captive Natasha, you punched one of them right on the nose.
“The two of them turned on you then, provoked to rage only at your impetuous breech of personal space, and pummeled you senseless. They finished their pints and exited my ruined tavern just as you decided to come out of your wallowing self-pitiful position.” The barkeep finished his explanation, all the while keeping his eyes on Jan’s face as it contorted to differing emotions of wonderment, rage, shame, and mournful regret. The broom remained firmly in the barkeep’s grip, unsure of its duty as a sword or a cleaning device.
Jan looked around, mindful now of his role in the tavern’s ruined appearance, and edged cautiously to the doorway. “You said I entered under the auspices of asking about your ridiculous sign, but you never mentioned your response. Why did you paint such an exquisite sign for such a place?”
The barkeep’s eyes remained alert but softened at the edges as he realized something. “Step outside, young man, and tell me what you see.”
Jan stumbled uncertainly out of the tavern and into the sun-drenched street. All along the street, buildings rife with ornamentation greeted his eyes. Flying buttresses shaped like cherubim flew in motionless beauty next to gilded street signs and brilliantly crafted doorways of all shapes and colors. His eyes strove to capture the wonderful scene surrounding him and when they had had their fill, they slowly turned around to the entrance of the tavern he had just exited. Juxtaposed to the ornate architecture of the glorious buildings on this street, the tavern’s plain exterior stood in sharp contrast. The building lacked color or form. It stood solitarily as an industrial box painted in lackluster white. Instead of the romantic imagery he had seen not two hours earlier, Jan saw now a neon sign hung lackadaisically with the green letters of Pete’s Tavern blinking on and off haphazardly.
It didn’t make any sense. What had happened to the nondescript street? What of the sign? of Natasha? the swiftly approaching Tartar horde led by a love stricken chieftain? Jan looked quickly up and down the street. No limping Poles clad in red and white could be seen, no drunken anthems to be heard, nor anything else for that matter. Jan became panicked and felt for his swollen upper lip. Nothing; no swelling nor blood trickling. He staggered back into the tavern intent on getting an explanation from the barkeep for the strange occurrences. Where had the Poles gone? What had happened to his injured mouth? What of the sign? Why was his tavern so nondescript in such an ornately decorated street?
Jan barged in through the doorway. The tavern was untouched, perfect in its perfect nondescriptness. Two men sat at the bar being served by a barkeep, who alternated between bringing them beers and brooming the rest of the tavern while they watched the television. Jan, bewildered by his circumstances approached the bar uncertainly, resolved on getting an answer from the barkeep or the two men. Questions were filling his mind and his surroundings slowly faded as his confusion twirled around his head and thoughts of his ailing mother and the beautiful Natasha in her castle tower mixed with acrimonious thoughts towards the insolent barkeep and the cesspool of uncertainty into which he had cast Jan. He saw himself approaching the bar, inquiring of the whereabouts of the two Poles, of the nature of the tavern, of the impish behavior of the barkeep, of…
Two hours later, a barkeep stood in the corner of a tavern, clutching his broomstick and surveying his ruined establishment with windows broken, tables overturned, chairs strewn about the bar, television cords hanging frayed from the walls, and televisions lying shattered on the pavement. A man sat resolutely on the floor of the tavern, arms cradling his pulsing head and covering his eyes from the tragic scene around him.
*********
“But this story makes no sense!” exclaimed the old man as he sat across from his aspiring storyteller friend. “Where’s the resolution? What’s the point?”
His younger friend looked back with a twinkle in his eye and replied mischievously, “What did you expect? Do the stories of life come with meanings attached? Is there resolution in the commonplace, a narrator that explains the goings-on of our lives? Why does the evil man live while the good men perish? Why did God spare Isaac but not Abel? But since you ask, I will tell you. Jan’s predicament was that he had two competing desires: to help his ailing mother by fetching her medicine and to sort out the workings of his own mind. Obviously suffering from delusions and maybe an unknown to himself attraction to drink, Jan entered into a cyclical tale of curiosity, inquiry, delusion, destruction, and forgetfulness. What do you suppose happened to his ailing mother while he was continually trying to find out what the deal was with the tavern, eh? She died! Jan had two options, to take care of the needs of others or to sort out with own problems which we saw were never-ending. And so we are left with a despairing man crouching on the floor of a tavern, perpetually confused and curious of his own circumstances while his ailing mother passes away at home. So you ask me, what is the point of the story? Why isn’t there any resolution? The resolution, like many things in life, is hidden and only available upon deeper reflection. If there is no cud to chew, what would the cow ruminate on?”
Satisfied, the old man and the storyteller got up from their corner booth, thanked Pete the barkeep, and sidestepped over the man resolutely crouched on the floor of the tavern, arms cradling his lowered head. Laughing at the absurdity of life as well as the mental image of cow pondering what to do without its cud to chew, the aspiring storyteller supported his aged companion and the two walked out of the tavern and into the cool summer evening.