After running back inside several times to grab things I needed to deal with society, I was finally able to walk out the front door of my flat. First thing I noticed was the air. Fresh and cold to the extent that the air runs down my throat with savage fury, it feels as if it is shredding my lung to bits. After getting used to the lukewarm, musky air of my flat, it is indeed fresh, different taste, with traces of society in it.

Definitely tastier, and more painful, than my dusty flat.

Walking down the staircase. The familiar creaks of the wooden boards and badly polished wood splintering under my weight greets me. Once I hated all this. The detestable condition, cracked walls, dirt and mould everywhere...

but now they are just familiar like old creaky chair is after years of use to its owner.

Walking past an old, dirty mirror on the way out of the building, I looked at myself. A shabby man with hunched shoulders and neck leaning forward, I don't look like 19.

With a messy beard covering my face, with tear streaks down my face, with dirty bits of cigarette and food and wine stains over my cloths, I could be 30 and without a job and people would believe me.

From the fresh high school graduate sonny boy that I was,

I've come a long way.

* * * * * * * * * *

Down the 25th street, walk from my flat about two blocks, and then turn to 26th street, then walk another block and a half. You'll find my workplace there. Don't be surprised when you see what it is though. It's not like you didn't expect it. After all, I'm only a high school graduate right?

The place I work at is an oxymoron. Old and new mingle. It's ugly, it's old, it's shabby yet it gives off a rich taste and atmosphere like a middle aged man. What's the word? It's mellow. It's a place I've come to love. It's a place I've come to loathe. Even my feelings of this place is juxtaposition. The variety of music being played here is also a mix of contemporary and classic, mainly jazz, but also others. What we deal with here is also a mixture of new and old. Or should I say young and old?

For those who still hasn't guessed where I work at. Let me enlighten you;

I work at a bar. I'm the assistant bartender, a performer, an entertainer. I am now making my way to "The Hourglass". My watch stopped working a while back. I have not bothered to check my handphone. Time does sort of stop, when you are alone, isolated from the world. A huge stream called society seems to just break part against my isolation and flow by, like a giant body of water parts when there is a rock. What it creates is a rapid - the time around you runs faster than you expect. I don't know how many days it has been, nor the time of the day. It must be sometime just past noon.

Time to take a deep breath. I could have been fired. I'll put up with that. Although that will make a very desperate situation out of me. I pushed the back door as quietly as I can. No need. The door groaned loudly as I gave it a gentle push. Boss will know that I am here now. I am the earliest here all the time. Nobody comes before me. Except my boss, who lives in the flat above. The lights are on. I can hear footsteps, chair protesting against being dragged ungracefully across the floor, and soft mumbles of conversation flowing out.

As are all bars, it is dark in here. It is slightly underground, with just necessary windows for air circulation. chairs, tables are strewn all over the floor. Messy, as usual. Another successful night of full house, I bet. I must have been standing in the doorway for quite some time, as memory overwhelm me. I walked straight into a stationary object. I look up. I see my boss staring down at me with a bemused smile.

"Er.....hey." I managed to choke out.

He still stares with that bemused smile. He just turns and walks away. Did I just catch that sad expression on his face? Just an imagination, most likely.

"The whole place needs some cleaning up. I haven't gotten to freezing cups. Oh, and we got a new set of glasses. Some are flutes, some are shots, some are highballs. Treat them, and freeze some with our usual. You know what to do. Fruits will be arriving at 4. Pierre is arriving at 6." He softly spat out a string of orders and went back to wiping cups. I called out to him.

"Hey Jacques"

"Yea?"

"I'm sorry." There. I said it. Maybe he was holding it all in. I'm his employee after all. How can he not be?

"I expect you to work harder from now on. Your customers missed you."

"So I'm still in?"

"If not, I won't ask you to work here."

So matter-of-fact. At least that saved me by a mile.