Bar 1 Update “Death of a Friend”

My health has not improved over the following weeks. However, I still have made an effort to keep up my visits to Wellington Street. One of the places I tried to visit regularly is a local bar, which so happens to be one of the first place I visited when I began my studies here. However, the thought of going back has become very difficult to rationalize, as a recent death has caused the thought of going back to fill me with dread.

It has been over a month since I had been there, after hearing that one of my first interviews, and oddly enough a friend of sorts, had died. Though the man’s mental state has always been in question, the things I have discovered since I started my research have led me to wonder just how much of his condition was caused by his own mental health, and how much of it was a product of the place in which he resided. This street seems to perpetuate these sort of stories, and despite the schedule I have been keeping, there are still no shortage of tales to tell.

The man...Harry...had insisted to me that some monster had taken his eyes, and had replaced them with teeth. He...didn't die well. He got in an argument with one of the other patrons, who had grown tired of his story. When the other person tried to claim he was making it up, Harry took a fork and shoved into one of his eyes. I think he meant to demonstrate his ability to eat.

The fork went in too far, and ended up lodging itself into the flesh behind the retina. He stood up, and in his inebriated state his feet got tangled in the legs of the chair. Then he fell forward, his full weight...

I have heard of some terrible things occurring on Wellington Street, but somehow this has been the hardest one. The man was obviously disturbed, and needed help. But to be killed like that. It just seems so empty of a death. It was simply an accident. I mean, the other patron was tired of hearing his madness, and I can't blame him for that. And Harry...he was just as tired of hearing people call him crazy. Though I did not know him well, he was one of the reasons I started all this in the first place. In my mind at least, that makes him terribly important.

I returned though, despite my desire to never come back. It was much the same as when I left it, which in its own way only made it worse, as if the man's death meant little to the place where he spent so much time. I bought two drinks, and had one on my own behalf, looking over at that dark corner where he always found himself. The place simply didn't have the same feeling for me as it did before. But this place never seems short on unique people to talk to, and I was able to find a distraction.

I have been to the bar enough times that is rather easy for me to notice a stranger to the place. The person in question was a middle aged man, with heavy features and loose, blonde hair of around shoulder length. He had a grizzled look about him, but was obviously sick, his flesh drawn and his eyes and skin yellowed. I could tell instantly what was bothering him. It was cancer, something I had become familiar with after parents had passed away six years ago. I came up to the man, offering him my other drink. Took him a moment to notice me, but when he saw the drink he took it gratefully.

I explained to him that I was a researcher and told him how I had been collecting stories about the street. The look he gave me was one I had seen many times. My work is after all based on a system of risk/reward. People don't generally like having people come up to them, but if I don't there is no guarantee that they will find the research I need. Fortunately, after the man’s initial dismissive behavior, he turned out to be rather friendly. I discovered that he was originally from the Ukraine, and that he had recently come here to “retire.” I knew what that language meant. He was terminal.

I asked him why he choose to come here, so far away from his friends and family. What he told me next truly stunned me. The man claimed that he was formerly from the area of Chernobyl, and was in fact formally part of the crew that had been used to try and clean up the waste after the reactor meltdown. They were called “Liquidators,” and were instrumental in helping to keep the disaster contained.

Despite the contributions of these people, fights with Russian officials to maintain their compensation and medical support are common, which have continued to deteriorate as the years have progressed. Despite the level of protection offered, and the precautions that were taken, the truth remains that in the decades following the disaster, more and more cases of illness have continued to surface. In the face of all these issues, the man moved away from his home country in search of better medical treatment, having acquired progressively larger sums of money after relatives and friends continued to succumb to their personal bouts of sickness.

I asked him why he decided to settle around here, as I was aware that there are far better hospitals he could be going to for treatment. He became quiet after that, solemn as he sipped his drink. He looked at me a glassy stare. He said that if I wanted to know, that I should meet him the following week. By the way he slurred his words I assumed he was too drunk to talk about it coherently. Then he stood up and walked out, leaving me to pay for his drinks.

Next week isn't all that far away, yet I find myself apprehensive of the thought of going back. It was hard enough this time, after the death of my “friend.” I am not sure if I want to come back to this place. But I know I cannot avoid the chance to talk to this man. If what he can share will be truly unique, then I will not regret going up to him. And if he simply stiffed me for the drinks, then at least I brought a small amount of joy to someone with very little to be happy about.