The night was chilly and blue. Gusts of wind whispered gently through the narrow streets of the city. The old – and arguably – outdated street lamps emitted an antiquish orange hue throughout, narrowly cutting through the emerging mist of the night. Matching the golden light pollution were the ancient maple and oak trees, which shed their honey leaves onto the brick streets and alleyways below.

In the city center, laid two men in an old dive bar – one young, and the other old. Neon red and blue vaguely lit the interior, tonally matching the emerging night’s air. The old man had been there for a while, sipping on a variety of libations; amber ale, vodka tonic, malbec – and now, a rob roy. The young man, just entering the bar, walks up to the counter and orders an old fashioned. 

“But don’t muddle any fruit or shit in there. And I swear to fucking God, if you top that off with sprite, I’m going to shove that rocks glass up your ass.” The bartender looks at him for a moment, as if debating whether to comply or flip him off.

“Fuck. All right, man.” The bartender says with a chuckle. He gets to work, dropping a large cube into the rocks glass. 

The young man’s tense shoulders relax, and he sits at the stool two-down from the old man, who is smiling at his rob roy. The young man gives him a confused look, then shakes his head, turning back to watch the bartender make the drink. By this point, he’s already poured in the simple syrup and dashed the bitters. He’s now reaching for a bottle of Buffalo Trace Bourbon to pour in.

“No, no, no. You keep that bullshit away from my mouth. Bulleit Bourbon. Old faithful – and doesn’t artificially inflate its prices.” The bartender, catching onto his antics, smiles and nods. He reaches for a short, fat 750 ml bottle with a black label and red print. 

“We’re all out of Bulleit. But this. This is my shit.” Says the bartender, smiling. He whips the bottle upside-down, giving the pour an eight-count, flips it right-side-up, and puts it back, center-shelf. He takes out a peeler, an orange, and two maroon black cherries. In a smooth motion, he takes the skewered cherries, stirs the old fashioned eight times, peels the orange, and mists the top with its oils. He looks down at the drink, pleased with his one-minute masterpiece.

“Barrel-proof old fashioned, sire.” The bartender says, presenting the drink in proper knighthood form. 

The young man gives the bartender a stern nod, taking the drink from his hands. He takes a sip, sets the drink down, and looks back up at the tender. 

“That’s some good fucking bourbon right there. But it ain’t what I asked for.” The bartender reciprocates with a nod, then leaves the man to his own devices. 

The young man shifts his attention to the television behind the bar. Airing, is a guest segment of ABC News. A professor is talking about male crises in the modern world. The young man watches intently – the topic invigorating his attention.

“You see, the problem with men is that we have infantilized the concept of emotional susceptibility. If a man is angry, he’s toxic. If a man is sad, he’s weak. If a man is happy, he’s not taken seriously. If a man is serious, he’s full of himself. Where can men truly stand? And I don’t say this, as if to say it’s women’s faults – it’s not. It’s been conditioned into men for decades, and the culture we’ve cultivated has peaked this epidemic.”

By this point, all three men at the bar are looking at the television. They uncomfortably stare at the screen, and in a sudden moment of self-awareness, they all break their gaze and retreat to contemplation. The old man breaks out into a laugh, his grey mustache jumping with each breath.

“What’s so funny about that?” Asks the young man.

“Isn’t it ironic that three men are sitting in a bar, alone, watching this?” Says the old man, smiling. The young man glares at him. 

“I’m not a part of this bullshit ‘male crisis,’ unlike most, I actually talk to women.”

“Oh you’re a charming guy, I can tell, no doubt. But how many make it past a few nights with you?” The young man scrunches his face in confusion, as if recalling the exact number. 

“Yeah, well, maybe I like to keep it casual. Why would I inve-” The old man cuts him off. 

“Invest so much energy into a person who you’d inevitably have to open up to, leaving you vulnerable to scrutiny?” 

“Okay, Freud. What are you going to say next – that this stems from my mother?”

The old man lifts his bushy eyebrows and smirks, as if to tease the possibility. He puts his elbow onto the counter, resting his head on the propped up arm. Examining the young man, he takes a deep sigh. 

“Look at yourself. You’re a textbook attractive guy. But you’re also textbook. You’ve outfitted your entire aesthetic to fit a category of women you want to attract. Even your demeanor, your jokes, your wit. Is any of that really you?” 

The two men sit in a moment of uncomfortable silence. The young man downs the rest of his old fashioned, and signals to the eaves-dropping bartender to make another one. 

“I’m not saying this to make you feel bad about yourself. But, come on. Do you really think you’re going to catch a walleye with a bass lure? You put on this big, showy mask for what?”

“Okay, old man. So, what makes you so God damn perfect then? If you’re really the love guru, then why are you at this shitty dive bar in the bum-fuck of nowhere on a Wednesday night?”

The old man locks eyes with the young. His lips perch flat upon his face.

“Because some of us don’t learn these things until it’s far too late.”

They sit in silence once more. But it’s quickly broken by the sound of the bartender dropping an ice cube into the rocks glass. 

“Listen, I’m not blaming you. My generation normalized divorce and infidelity. My parent’s generation kept women locked in their houses like servants. Your generation has so much freedom, but all of it is just an illusion.”

The bartender finishes the old fashioned and places it on the counter in front of the young man. The old man downs the remaining ounce of his rob roy, and waves down the tender. 

“I’ll actually do one of those too, but squeeze an orange slice – and Woodford Reserve please,” he says, signaling to the old fashioned.

“Could’ve said that two minutes ago…” The bartender murmurs under his breath, reluctant to make another. 

“Be careful what you say to him, or else he’ll send one of these existential crises to you next.” Says the young man. 

“Can you even stop to think that an existential crisis is exactly what you need? What do you have to prove right now? You’re sitting at an empty bar with a sad old man and a college bartender. You think you’re so free and rebellious with your tattoo sleeves, cowboy boots, and a ‘fuck you’ attitude. But you’re just a conformist to the modern taste. A free man develops his own character.”

The old man looks off for a moment, as if giving up on the conversation. But the young man retorts with ferocity.

“And how the hell am I supposed to do that? You try to be yourself in this world, and they eat you the fuck up. You get cold-shouldered, manipulated, and belittled. They’ll go on Instagram and post about ‘green flags,’ then proceed to pick Great Value douchebag number four. So, why put in all that effort when ‘conformity’ is what works.” 

The young man’s face is bright red and flustered – a result of both alcohol and the uncomfortable moment of self-realization. He takes a deep, stuttered breath, and gulps his old fashioned. The bartender finishes the old man’s drink, and delivers it to him. He promptly accepts, then slides it down to the young.

“See? Look at yourself, so pathetic. Chasing shallow dopamine loops, thinking that it’s ‘working’ in your favor. Maybe if you felt comfortable in your own skin, you wouldn’t have to chug 116-proof gasoline to say how you feel to some lonely, old man. Maybe you wouldn’t have to spend so much time and money covering yourself in meaningless bullshit to blend in with everyone else. You’re a walking cliche – and that’s putting it nicely. The truth is, that women just want you because you’re an emotionless fuck-doll to keep them entertained while they find real men. And that’s all you’ll ever be if you don’t stop feeling sorry for yourself – a cliche fuck doll.”

“Okay. Stop, I get it.” The young man says, defeatedly. He toys with the cherry skewer in his empty glass for a moment, then he looks at the old fashioned that the man slid down. He slides it back. 

“So, what do I do?” The young man quietly asks. The bartender looks up from his phone, then to the old man – as if wondering the same. 

“Stop being so tense – trying to hold it together all the time. These people in power, they’ve brainwashed you into speed, efficiency, focus. You see a girl you like, stop treating her like something you need to win – like she’s a damn task to accomplish. She’s a person to be experienced – just like you. And have some fucking empathy – stop expecting perfection out of women. Let them feel safe letting their guard down around you, and actually accept them when they do. That’s what love is – it’s two people seeing each other in their entirety, and accepting that they deserve someone – deserve an entire someone.”

The old man takes a breath, sips on the old fashioned, then slides it back down. The young man understands the cue, and takes a sip.

“Hrm, that’s not my style. But pretty good, I’ve never had one like this.” He turns to the bartender, signaling to make another one his way.

“But give it to him to try.” Says the young man. 

“See, you’re starting to get it. The drink isn’t yours – and it isn’t perfectly catered to you. But it’s the fact that someone’s willing to share something that’s theirs with you that gives it all the more value. We’re in a weird time, where everyone is convinced that their passions are the important ones, that everyone must care about them.”

The bartender finishes the drink, and sets it in front of him. The old man takes a sip, lifts his eyebrows in approval, and nods. 

“But when it comes to them taking the time to care about someone else’s dreams and ambitions. Well, that’s just too much energy to invest into someone.”

The old man shakes his head and sets the glass down. He lips to the bartender for water, then rubs his eyes and stretches out. 

“I get what you’re saying. But it all feels so cyclical.” Says the young man, taking a sip of the old man’s old fashioned. 

“We’re creatures of rhythm. Cycles are a form of rhythm, and that’s why they’re so hard to break. Like music, they’re anticipatory. When we listen to musical notes that land in accordance with our rhythm, we feel in sync. That’s why we listen to songs that suit our mood – it’s reflective. We’re a country of insecure people. We seemingly have everything at the tip of our fingers, but it’s an ocean as deep as a puddle. Like I said, an illusion.”

The old man pauses, to draw a circle on the countertop with his finger. He stops at the ‘12:00’ with his finger.

“We’re surrounded by technology and culture which guarantees immediate safety and security, at the cost of long term fulfillment.”

He moves his finger to the ‘3:00’ part of the circle. 

“Every day life becomes monotonous, unfulfilling, and unchallenged.”

He moves his finger to the ‘6:00’ part of the circle. 

“We go out, explore the possibilities of the unknown in an attempt to find something worthwhile. But have we built the tools to succeed, when all we know is instant gratification?”

He moves his finger to the ‘9:00’ part of the circle, tapping it three times for emphasis.

“We inevitably fail when things don’t work out. We’re so conditioned by the mask of perfection, that we view other’s imperfections as overbearing, while our flaws simply don’t exist. We’re left feeling empty and then?”

His finger returns to the ‘12:00’ marker, then circles around the clock a few times. 

“Return to the illusion. We return to the safety of the lie because it makes us feel better about the parts of us we don’t like and won’t face.”

The old man’s face twists into a painful frown. He turns his seat to face the television behind the bar, and watches intently. 

“So, what I’m saying is. Get the fuck out of this bar.”