One Shot: Reflections on Life's Choices
In my early twenties, I went on a mission to have a drink in every bar in Cape Town. Not because I was particularly thirsty, but because I wanted to broaden my education. My aim was to observe the behavior of 'the common man' and reach some kind of conclusion about human nature.
I had discovered that bars attract various men who enjoy a drink with others, but also an underclass of patrons who seek refuge there. They were, without exception, weak individuals struggling to cope with their own inadequacies and life's tribulations. Like some people go to church for solace through communal rituals, these individuals went to a bar to numb their pain with alcohol and share their troubles with anyone who would listen.
The best time to encounter one of these barflies was between eleven and twelve in the morning, before the lunchtime rush. I soon discerned certain recurring themes in their stories, which led me to some generalizations about them and their experiences. Almost without fail, I would hear tales of woe in which the narrator portrayed themselves as heroic victims treated unjustly by life. They all swore they would overcome their adversaries in the future, given half a chance. The stories were sad, and the characters pitiful, and I listened with a mixture of disdain and compassion, empathizing with their flawed characters. Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto. I agreed with this sentiment that, as a man, I am capable of anything humans get up to, no matter how degrading the choices and actions might be.
Of the dozens of characters I interviewed, one man stands out in my memory, mainly because he blamed himself for his miserable condition and did not fabricate tales of victimhood. It was in the Kimberley Hotel bar, if I remember correctly, and our conversation began when he looked up from his beer and said, "One shot. Only one shot." All I had to do was say, "Oh, yes?" and he launched into his confession.
He appeared to be around 50, but he told me he was 42. His voice was phlegmy, and his lower lip, flabby and the color of cooked liver, trembled as he spoke. His eyes were bloodshot, and I suspected this was due to a heavy dagga habit. Then I realized the redness was caused by excessive weeping. He blew his nose on a sodden wad of toilet paper and proceeded to tell me how he had messed up his own and other people's lives. He had cheated on his wife, a wonderful woman, and abused her verbally, physically, and sexually. In a drunken rage, he had thrashed his son so viciously the child ended up in the hospital. Through bad judgment, incompetence, dishonesty, and laziness, he had ruined the family business, leading to sequestration and the loss of house, cars, and movable assets. His wife divorced him, he was refused access to his children, and the wider family ostracized him. He was alone in the world. And now, to crown it all, he had been sacked from his job at the City Council after it was discovered he had lied about his qualifications.
"And sometimes I say things to people that I don't mean to say, and they think I'm insulting them. Just two weeks ago there was this man sitting right where you are, and he smacked me in the mouth." He curled his upper lip and opened his mouth to display a black hole where an incisor and its adjoining canine had been. I can't blame him because I was very rude, and I don't know why. You see, everything I do is a screw-up. My whole life is a screw-up, and I am all washed up, totally and completely." He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and his nose on a sleeve. "You see, you only get one shot at life, and if you screw it up, that's it. You can't go back and live your life again. You get only one shot, and that's it. Just one shot."
I left him crying into his beer and went on my way, thinking about this 'one shot' business. Was there something in it? Well, before I reached my humble abode in Woodstock, I had decided the fellow was talking rubbish. How many people fail at something and try again and again, then strike it lucky and make a pile of money? Or destroy their reputation, only to bounce back and reinvent themselves? And what about all the failed relationships? Christ, you don't have to curl up and die just because your partner has walked out on you or kicked you out! No, that man in the Kimberley bar was definitely talking nonsense.
Like I said, I was in my twenties then, and at the time, it seemed obvious the man had got it wrong. Now I am in my seventies, and this notion that you only get one shot at life can be interpreted differently. At 40 there is still time to turn things around. But, at 70, if you think your life has been a disappointment, there isn't much you can do about it. Your mind and body are in decline, and the distractions that accompany old age, like mental and physical ill-health, sap the energy needed to tackle some new enterprise that will be so successful you will finally achieve the recognition you believe you deserve. Too late for that, I'm afraid.
So, what options are you left with? As I see it, there are two possibilities to choose from. The first is to rewrite history. This would involve intentional self-delusion starting no later than retirement age because it takes a good deal of practice to accomplish. It entails constructing a narrative in which you are the leader, and everything that happened in your life was as you planned it. You tell yourself and those around you a version of events in which you are always in control. For example, instead of saying, 'We went on a family holiday to the Drakensberg," you say, "I took the family away on holiday to the Drakensberg." To explain why you never owned a new car, you claim it makes better sense to buy a second-hand vehicle. You don't talk about retrenchment but rather refer to the time you decided to change careers. You have always treated your employees fairly, which implies you once had a sizable workforce when in reality there was only ever a maid and sometimes a gardener. Of course, it was a wise decision to downsize, etc. etc.
By putting a spin on everything that happened to you over the years, you can fool yourself and some of those around you that you have led a meaningful life full of purpose and accomplishment. This strategy works for some, but, for individuals like me, it is a feeble subterfuge.
Instead of pretending otherwise, I would prefer to admit that I have led a life of mediocrity punctuated by a series of minor triumphs and disasters hardly worth mentioning other than to amuse myself. This strikes me as a more realistic and honest way to assimilate the memories of one's past. It is also advisable when thinking about successes and failures to bear in mind that heroes and villains, millionaires and paupers all end up dead and are oblivious to whether they are celebrated and famous, honored and admired, despised and maligned, or just ignored as nonentities, whose passing was as insignificant as the squashing of a flea.
In the sense that you only live once, the man in the Kimberley Hotel bar was right. What he failed to see, however, was that having messed up was nothing exceptional, and instead of feeling sorry for himself, he should have said, "Look, I have screwed up, big time, but it's no good crying over spilled milk, and I must stagger on and try to enjoy this stupid life and just treat it as a sick joke, because if you cry, you cry alone, but if you laugh, the world laughs with you." He should have consoled himself with this kind of hackneyed wisdom, as I do, and carried on with his meaningless existence. Which he probably did. Unless he took one last shot.
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