Christi had a birthday party scheduled over at The Glass; a gritty, cozy, and unwilling place to be. It was a bar and that was enough for me, I guess. Wednesdays are a good night to drink just like any other day of the week and it was one hell of a day. It was Christi’s twenty-third birthday and although the day was shit, I tried to have a good time. She phoned me.

“Are you coming tonight?” she asked. “It’ll just be a few of us. We’re meeting at The Glass at 7:30.”

“I’ll be there,” I said.

After work, I avoided the traffic on the highway and hit Dry Mill Road instead. It is a popular road for locals to bypass the highways, but too many people have caught on and now the traffic is just as bad as the main roads.

A hybrid pulled in front of me and persisted to cruise at ten miles under the speed limit. That shit drives me nuts. It’s only thirty-five for most of the drive but some people are just such wimps about going the speed limit on a windy road. You never see someone get pulled over for going too slow in Northern Virginia. Going very slow can be just as dangerous as going very fast.

I kept my distance from them because I’ve been in enough motor vehicle accidents to risk it happening again. There was someone behind me riding my bumper closely. It was nothing new. Most days I found myself either stuck behind a slow car or in front of a speed demon. I did not anticipate both at the same time and it was as awful as you might imagine. Like those times you get so mad in the car that you say out loud: 

“I’m gonna ram this son of a bitch with my car if he doesn’t go any faster!”

or

“That guy is riding my bumper so close. I oughtta slam on the brakes to teach them a lesson.”

No Matter, I simply let it happen and get to where I’m going. There’s no sense in getting too upset about it. Just forgive and forget that we’re all surrounded by assholes. Do you know what I mean? Yeah, of course you do.

The Glass was nearly empty when I arrived except for the regulars that occupied their corner of the bar. Most of them sported Eagles jerseys and half of them lived in the motel above the bar. The clock read “7:04 pm” but it felt much later than that.

Phil, Johnson, Johnson’s brother Malcom, their sister Alyssa, and Johnson’s girlfriend Nataly sat outside at a round table with an umbrella ejecting out of the center.

“Hey, Tom’s, here!” said Malcom.

“Hey everybody, what’s happening?” I said.

“Hangin’, drinking beer, and waiting on Christi and Jenna,” Nataly said.

“Where are they?”

“Jenna went to go pick Christi up,” said Malcom. “They’re supposed to be on their way from Leesburg soon.” Jenna was Malcom’s girlfriend. She bought her own drinks and dope; a rare and redeeming characteristic.

There was an empty chair between Alyssa and Johnson. My friends carried on but I tuned out and listened to the motorcycles go by. It was September, the sun was setting, and it was finally starting to feel like autumn out. After a few minutes of dazing and small talk I went inside to grab a drink. The Glass is a family business and all the men in the family (minus Papa) had the same hair cut: high fade. They shaved their beards in a similar fashion as well. Very clean cut. I could never remember any of their names but they each treated me equally worthlessly, so I guess it doesn’t really matter. They’re nice Greek fellas.

The bartender ignored me for a bit. The drink list was poorly written on a chalkboard above the liquor bottles. I didn’t have my glasses on and couldn’t read most of it. The bartender finally approached me a few moments later. The place was dingy, and the AC didn’t work but they had good food and good beer.

“What’ll you have?”

“Let me get the porter.”

“I’ve seen you here before, right?”

“I’ve definitely seen you here before.”

“Listen wise ass, are you twenty-one?”

“No, I’m twenty-three.”

“Okay, coming right up.”

We do this every time. Not always the same bartender but they give me the same spiel every time I come in. The guy never checked my ID, he just went off what I said. Then again, most people tell me that I could pass for thirty. My beer was foamy, and the glass was dirty.

I walked outside and sat down at the table again. Alyssa and I talked briefly about Radford University. I graduated from there a few years earlier and she was about to start her third year. She understood what good literature was. We talked about our favorite writers, and I was impressed with the pleasant conversation. I was surprised how much we had in common. Most people today don’t spend much time reading anymore. If they do it’s on their phone. It was refreshing to talk about real books.

“How’s work going?” asked Phil.

“Getting a lot done,” I told him. “Looking to release a few tunes over the next month. Teaching slowed down a bit, so I’ve had a lot of time to focus on writing and recording. How’s your new job?”

“It’s good. It pays better than anywhere else I’ve worked but it’s hard work. How’s the novel coming along?”

“The words are there but it’s taking a while. Got about two hundred pages or so now. I always round up. Looking for the first draft to be five hundred though.”

“Jesus, that’ll be a long book.”

“Yeah, but that’ll just be the draft. It’ll probably get cut down to three hundred. Just getting everything on paper the first round.”

Christi and Jenna rolled in at 8:00PM. Christi was already a little drunk. She looked good though and her boyfriend Mickey wasn’t with her. Thank fuck. I hated that little shit. They said their hellos and then made their way to the bar. They pulled up a few more chairs. Then there were eight of us crammed around that small round table. The table wobbled causing our beers to shake and some to spill over.

“Where’s Mickey?” I asked.

“Oh… he’s not feeling well. He…uh won’t be here.”

“Not feeling well on his girlfriend’s birthday? What a dummy.” Johnson said.

“Or a smart guy,” I said.

All the girls at the table knew something. Something that none of the guys knew: Mickey and Christi were splitting up, I bet. Nothing is “official” yet which is why none of them said anything, but I could tell something was not right about it. I did not want to ask and make a fool of myself. Especially on her birthday; she’d definitely remember that.

One of the regulars swung open the back door with a face red with anger. She left her Eagles Jacket inside, wore a pair of baggy jeans, and had a hard look about her. She looked drunker than I was. A friend of hers, wearing a pink nightgown, followed. It’s funny what people wear in public. Makes me feel like not so much of a slob in a flannel and jeans.

“Trina wait!” the woman in the nightgown yelled.

“I’m about to start throwing punches at people I don’t even know Ronda!” Trina screamed.

Malcom started laughing.

“Shut up!”

“Oh, it’s not worth it,” Ronda said. “Don’t listen to that arrogant woman inside.”

They both lit cigarettes. Another woman came out of the bar in a bright red business dress. She was tall and even taller in heels. She must be the questionable arrogant woman.

“I’ve got something to say to you,” she said.

“Okay, then say it.” Trina lounged in a chair looking up at her. Smoke pulled from a Chesterfield into her lungs and flooded out of her mouth.

“The music was way too loud. I had to ask the bartender to repeat himself several times and he asked me to repeat myself as well. So, I asked him to turn it down. I wasn’t trying to start anything, but then you got angry at me and said horrible things to me in front of my coworkers. What is your problem?”

“Look, I’m having the best day of my life and I’m not gonna’ let you ruin it.”

“Then don’t. You had no right to embarrass me like that.”

This was like one of those scenes in a TV show or movie where someone would yell “cat fight” right about now. Except it wasn’t reality tv. It was two very real women: a lanky businesswoman and a stout barfly. The lank had looks but there was no contest on who would win if the fists started flying. Hell, Trina could whoop my ass.

“That was my favorite song playing.”

“He didn’t turn it off. Just down. It’s way too hot in there. I’ve had a bad day.”

The song was “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond and Trina played the same song every time she came in. Sometimes more than once. The lady in red went on for a minute about her day, how it was too hot in the restaurant and too hot outside. She thought of just about as much to complain about as she could. At this point she was losing her case and walked back inside. The whole thing was terribly awful and hilarious. Ronda and Trina sat and finished their cigarettes at the table next to us and went back inside.

“Next round is on me,” Ronda said.

“Sounds good,” Trina said. She became abruptly low and depressed.

Apparently, it was just one of those days. Where a bunch of weird things happen all day long. We sat, drank, and talked about work and paying bills and working multiple jobs. A few friends left, a few others showed up including my close friend, Ernie. By the end of it, there were just three of us closing the bar: Christi’s coworker Bubba, Ernie, and I. Bubba stood at a staggering 6’4” and 400 pounds. I know this because he mentioned several times throughout conversations how heavy he was. Despite not understanding most of his yokel mumbling, he was the epitome of a “good ol’ boy.” He spoke mostly of farming and agriculture, which I had little experience in but respected.

We finished our last drinks and made our way to the parking lot. I shook hands and parted ways with the fellas. I told Bubba it was great meeting him and I let Ernie know that I would probably come out to his place that weekend.

I got home and pulled up the novel for a few minutes. It’d been at least a week since I last looked at it. I stared at the typer, and it stared back at me. Nothing. I could say all the plots in my head, but something stopped those thoughts from transferring to my fingers to type the keys. I got up, washed my face, grabbed a beer and sat back at the desk. Then I started typing and by sunrise, I had put down ten pages of something decent. The crowd in my head cheered as I took a valiant bow and sip of my beer. A little dribble fell from my lips and off my chin.

– Shawn Hatfield

Author’s Note: “Too Dark for Sunglasses” is about the strange occurrences in one person’s day. At a friend’s birthday party, two bar patrons suddenly start screaming at each other, the bartenders treat everyone poorly but the place still makes rent every month, and the protagonist takes you on an analytical journey.