Free Shifters by Edward Lee Page A

halibut fish & chips swirled in the air. It was one of those nights, Locke supposed: they arrived in droves—the downtown restaurant crowd, armies of beer snobs, and revelers in general. It gave the pub its spirit; this was no pit stop for singles but a consortium of cool and happy people. Carl jockeyed drinks like a madman. Music beat in the walls. In no time Concannon’s rocked in frolic.
    Locke sank in despair.
    It didn’t take him long to get drunk. How many pints had he had? Six? Eight? Alcohol pursued his despair—it always did. I’m becoming a drunk,  he drunkenly considered. Each beer delved further into his memory of Clare.
    He felt locked out of the crowd’s revelry. He felt totally alone. Where is she now? What’s she doing? How come she doesn’t come here anymore?
    Because you’re here, asshole.
    Was that it? She didn’t want his love anymore. She didn’t want him in her life anymore. She didn’t even want to be in the same room with him.
    Is that it?
    Locke ordered another pint.
    Lehrling was trying to make time with two waitresses from The College Inn. “I’m a novelist,” he bragged. “Big deal,” they both said at the same time. “I have five million books in print,” he tried again. “Oh, we care?” they both said again. Eventually they picked up their Nordic Wolfs and moved across the bar. Then a girl from the art college sat down next to him. “Hi, my name’s Dan Quayle,” Lehrling said. “Can my father buy you a drink?”
    That one seemed to work.
    His friend occupied, Locke was left to his thoughts. Before him lay balled-up examples of his current work, on bar napkins. Exorcism,  he remembered Lehrling’s advice. He wrote another one:

    Through twilit nights my love still soars.
    I am forever and ineffably yours.

    He crumpled it up at once and ordered another beer. What good was poetic exorcism if it didn’t exorcise? Perhaps Locke’s love was so great it could never  be exorcised. Perhaps his love for Clare would be in his heart forever.
    Every now and then he craned around. Couples holding hands. Couples kissing. Couples in love. Was the whole world in love tonight? Even Lehrling was making it; the art school girl had her arm around him!

    Kissing couples, holding hands,
    passions swirl in glee.
    Everyone’s in love tonight,
    everyone but me.
     
    Forlorn asshole.
    Could anything feel this bad? The beer entombed him in regret. If he had no feelings at all, then at least he could cope with himself. But how do you get rid of feelings? How do you kill  your feelings?
    “How do you kill your feelings?” he muttered aloud.
    “Wish I knew,” a voice muttered back.
    Locke’s gaze flinched up. It was White Shirt. He’d come back from the john to find his barstool gone. He stood next to Locke at the rail, pasty in inebriation. “God on high, I wish I knew.”
    Locke launched into more scribbling:

    Once upon my love,
    once upon my glee,
    once upon the resplendent promise
    of all we were meant to be.
    God on high, forgive my grief,
    and kill my feelings—I beg of thee.
     
    White Shirt stared crosseyed at the bar napkin. “A poet, huh? That’s not bad.”
    It sucks,  Locke augmented.
    “But I don’t think God does stuff like that, do you?”
    Locke shrugged.
    “If there even is a God. Well, I’m pretty sure there is.” White Shirt wobbled in place. Carl had stopped serving him an hour ago. Some goateed guy on the other side got up and left. White Shirt began drinking what was left of his beer. “My girlfriend broke up with me.” Then he paused to stare up at the rows of pewter beer-club mugs hanging from hooks on the ceiling rafters. “I still love her.”
    Locke didn’t want to hear this drunken carbon copy of himself spout his sorrows. Was love relative? Was grief?
    White Shirt gulped, digging in his pocket. “We were going to get married. She gave me the ring back last week.” He opened his palm to reveal the ring. “Fourteen hundred bucks. Can you