“Cynicism isn’t a personality trait,” he vibrated his words across the bar top, spitting out a fume of whiskey and ginger ale in the genesis of his diatribe.

 I never particularly agreed or disagreed with Buckley in his pattering, instead my tactic was to nod along ever so gently, never more than forty-five degrees south, and never less that ten degrees north. This was the only way to enjoy my gimlet and Lucky Strike in the last smoke-inside-bar of Grenada Vistas.

“It’s not ya know?” Damn. Eye-contact. I broke my first rule. I learned to not do this after he moved a few seats down one night to vituperate on the underground freak shows of the uber rich. The FBI was involved he assured me, our tax-payer dollars being used to make a new church-and-state. One that involved the worship of the mutant, the invalids… or something like that. It’s not a conspiracy theory if no one has heard of it.

“Look around you… generations of people believing not believing is meaningful,” he was now a seat down from me, that cracked leather stool was the only thing buffering me from his hot breathy madness. My cigarette was freshly cherried and my gimlet topped off by the barkeep, who’s apathy to Buckley exceeded my own, Joe used to give B the time of day, not this new kid, with his uneven mustache and clean apron. My substances were replenished, and so my time with Buckley wouldn’t be short. I made peace with this and listened to his--

“I believe ya know? It’s not hard. I’ve been believing for, well shit, since I was born. I believe when I walk out into that street I won’t be hit by a car. I believe when I jump up I’ll come back down. I believe in The Christ, The Buddah, The Prophet, The Torah and The Buick… American made.”

Buckley stuck his finger in his amber ice cubes. I was worried he might fall into one of his inebriated mumbling fustians, vivid in vocabulary, lacking in sober thought. Too tight for the slight buzzed eavesdrop audience to follow. Instead he carried on…

“Disparagement, contempt, cynicism. How original! ‘Oh there’s no way that’s real’ they say… well I’ve seen real. Your lack of imagination, or your lack of reality as I like tothinkofit. Look at you… with your high level of intelligence, able to criticize. Ah yes, I’m sorry, I forgot it’s the critics who win out, distancing themselves from the art, staring on with subjection. Clap and bully for you. A critic’s words are the one lauded in museums, people from all over the world throw on fanny packs and pilgrimage to the Louvre to see a critical essay on why DaVinci was a hack. Millions flock to the silver screen to stare at a blog on why a film doesn’t work. That’s a real vulnerable and smart thing you’re doing there. Clap and bully for you. What has this world come to, seeing through everything… criticizing everything—sarcasm is the poor man’s wit and the highest form of intelligence Wilde says. He’s right, but Iduntthink intelligence is a compliment Mr. Wilde…

Look, at the bird, not very smart when they dive into a clean glass window, but dammit are they better than us. They learned to fly millions of years before we learned to accidentally make fire, and I bet you some Neanderthal was staring at the fire Gork made and said, ‘Oh I see better fire before. This fire small. This fire weak.’ That cynical pea-brained bastard offered no alternative either. Just complained as he slept his hairy ass in the carcass of some woolly. Clap and bully for you, you glorified ape. Clap clap clap.

Listen here, I’m not plopping down skeptics, enlightenment, the whole gamut, I’m just pointing out that by pointing out faults’n’offering no solution you’re just as bad as the problem to begin with. Just as bad. P-shaw.

At the gates of heaven when God opens up the golden doors, the lights shine in, the comfort and peace of the afterlife fill the entirety of your essence so that you are one with the universe and see all things, and all things stand before and after you, but there is no you, because you are an illusion and the false self is removed and oneness makes up beginning and end throughout all eternity, love abounds and nature is made whole, you’ll be the one to say, ‘Meh, heaven is a little derivative don’t you think?’ 

I’m not a preacher, never damnwellclaimedtobe, but the best form of criticism, in my divinity-licenseless-opinion: the BEST form of criticism, is doing it better. Sick, I’m sick, you know? ‘Cause deep down, past all these words of… of… I wooln’tcallit wisdom per se. Words of mine. Yeah that’s good. Deep down, I’m just as bad as all ya: cycnical, grimacing, ugly old man. Pissed off at the generation before, angry at the one after… But it’s the fight I suppose. Bein thankfulloving neighbor, the whole nine yards.”

Buckley stared at his glass, the ice melted to a textured brownish water. His head tilted to the splintered and glossed over wood of the bar. I knew he wasn’t done…

“My difference is that I recognize it.  I want to be present dammit. I need to be thankful. For the air, for this health, for this body. I live like a king, ya know? Two-ish nights ago I bought a full rotisserie chicken and a beer from the store and watched TV. Seven-hundred years ago that was reserved for a royal bloodline: to enjoy fine mead, a roasted bird, and to be entertained by the court jester. Now I can do it for less than ten dollars, and I don’t even need a gator filled moat. Yet we all have something to complain about. My feet itch, or my internet is slow, or my car makes a noise I haven’t heard before, or I get cut off on the highway, or the movie was boring. Or my life is boring. All I do is workworkwork and come home, and my wife doesn’t listen to me, and my boss doesn’t give me time off. Well listen: I AM RICHER BEYOND MY MEANS! I AM FULL TO THE BRIM! HEAVEN IS NOW! I AM! I AM!

This dark itchy, grimy, slimy, timely, bitch of a part of the human psyche… cynicism and all its lies that tell you you’re ‘different’ because you’re detached. HAH! Clap and bully for you. Excuse the subsequent hypocritical sarcasm, but I’m sure you’re funataparty. I’msure everyone loves to hear your complaints about a popular piece of music. I bet everyone finds you real original for always tearing apart work but never getting vulnerable yourself. It’s a shitty shield you know? I’ll take one more Highball please, add it to the tab. What was I saying? Depression loves company, too bad the group never tells it about the party… Your cool attitude toward getting involved never impressed a potential romantic partner. I know, I was twenty-two once, I just to get the girl by being the aloof. I’m sure in certain circles that’s a nice gift you can offer, but I’d rather beamiledeep AND amilewide. The older I get and the less life I have ahead’a’me the more life I want. Even the mundane. I want to explode in orgasmic joy when I press down on the stapler at my desk. Knowing that this now attached stack of papers reminds me I’m alive, and I’m doing something… maybe I’ve gone too far. Idon’tknow. Screw it.

I don’t know what I’m saying. Just want people to stop praising turds I suppose. Cyncism isn’t a personality trait. Clap and bully for you if it is... Just a damn excuse to cover up your own fear. I like fear. I thrive on fear. Fear makes me feel alive, same as love, same as sadness, same as joy, same as grief, same as celebrations, don’t numb me out with your boring lame unoriginal take on nothing. Let’s try to be earnest. Idon’t know. I do, but I don’t. Just would be nice if we all were involved…”

He was done, the light left his eyes, I could tell the spins were creeping in and I didn’t want to be the one to walk him out, so I stubbed my newly lit cigarette and left cash on top of my quarter full gimlet. Mostly ice anyway, I told myself. In an hour, Buckley would get a cab called for him by the barkeep and stumble home to wherever and I would probably see him tomorrow ranting about some new subject, but for tonight I was too tired to give his words any thought. I suppose one day when I would be enjoying a coffee, or in the middle of an argument, or on vacation, maybe on a boat somewhere, though I had no plans to do this, but maybe I would remember this night… remember his words, but for tonight I’m walking out that door and going to sleep.