It was a Friday afternoon and I was running late, as per usual, to meet my best friend at our favorite bar. With an espresso martini already waiting for me, I plopped onto the barstool. I was beyond elated to be here after such a busy week, not to mention, I hadn’t seen my girl in what seemed like an eternity. Our lives were changing so rapidly, I was afraid we’d soon be strangers. How silly, though, because our conversation and laughter echoed a friendship that was from many lives and not just this one.
We shared, toasted, giggled and enjoyed one another. Soon enough, the empty bar filled up and space became a luxury. We didn’t even notice the mass until my girl was almost capsized by the hoard. Holding firmly to our coveted seats, we people watched; interacted with a slew of unexpected friends and acquaintances. And, essentially, became the anchor in a sea of conversations.
My girlfriend excused herself for the bathroom and I protected her seat with the ferocity of a lioness with her cub. As I waited, a random stranger sidled up to the bar. Noticing my protective stance, he offered to guard the seat for me, which made me laugh and lead us into an easy conversation. “I’m here with my wife,” the stranger pointed to a beautiful brunette surrounded by a group of friends. I smiled and stated how pretty she was. He grinned, clearly proud that she was his wife.
The growing crowd heaved us into the bar, almost knocking over the stools. The stranger frowned, “I’m not used to these crowds. It makes going out rather miserable.” I nodded in agreement because I have a people-space density issue to begin with- courtesy of my ever so lovely OCD. I asked if he went out often and he shook his head no. “I’m here because my wife forced me to. I don’t like going out. It's why I got married, but she’s a social butterfly.” I nodded and replied, “Well, in my opinion, love is the best reason for dealing with this zoo!”
Our conversation continued as we spoke of our careers. The stranger was hesitant to tell me at first, “I’m a police officer.” But, relieved when my face brightened and I exclaimed, “You are my heroes! I know cops get a bad rap but being a single woman, I depend on you to protect me. Thank you!” He chuckled and said, “That’s a first. Most people shy away from me when they find out.”
I asked him if he liked his job and he answered, “I did, but not so much anymore.” Being a curious creature, I asked why. After a deep sigh and a long pause, the stranger whispered, “I shot and killed someone in the line of duty a few years ago. I’ve never gotten over it, I guess.” His tall stature slumped. His brow appeared heavy. I could feel the load dragging down his soul.
My heart hurt for him, for I understood the conflict that weighed upon this stranger. Not from personal experience, per say, but it was the reason I never joined the military. I knew that my personality would never recover from killing another even in self-defense. “I’m so sorry for the burden that you carry for us all. That must feel isolating especially when you see us laughing, drinking and being merry.”
His eyes widened as he confessed, “I can’t shake the guilt even after years of therapy. It haunts me. I feel damaged and I'm scared that I'll always be this way.” I wanted to cry the tears that he could not shed yet it was not my place. With compassion threaded in each word, I asked, “You know what guilt is, right?” Perplexed, he shook his head so I explained, “It means that despite everything you’ve seen including all the rot in the core of our society, you’ve managed to keep your soul intact. That’s what it means!”
Shocked, his head snapped to attention. I continued, “Instead of pushing the guilt away, maybe it would help to take comfort in it. You are a good man or you wouldn’t feel such remorse. Look, we all make mistakes. We all have skeletons. And, it is guilt that lets us know that despite our failings and our wrongs, we still bare the light of a consciousness. Sometimes in the darkness, it’s all we have.” The stranger blinked, paused and a slight smile began to peak out from his apparent sorrow.
He cleared his throat, “I can’t believe that in five minutes, you’ve helped me more than my years in therapy. Thank you.” I smiled and said, “No, it is I who must thank you for the sacrifices that you’ve made. Never forget what guilt really is, a gauge of your soul. It’s when you stop feeling anything that you should be scared.” His wife beckoned him over and he turned to say good bye. Before leaving, he promised, “I’ll never forget.”
