Chapter 2: Travis Wilson 2
Chapter 2
Sigh.
With a loud sigh, I entered the bar. The colorful lights and celebratory atmosphere did nothing to cheer me up. I felt really down, akin to a musician whose life had ended too soon. The bartender, who also happened to be the bar owner and my landlord, called me over after noticing my depressed face.
"Yo, Travis, come and have a drink with me here," he shouted from his spot behind the counter, which, surprisingly, didn't draw attention my way.
I silently thanked God because I was about to get a free drink and someone to listen to my stories. The bartender was an excellent listener and always offered the right advice when needed.
I'm not sure if these are typical bartender traits, but they're certainly admirable, meaning I could never be one. Dodging tables and inebriated patrons, I finally made it to the counter.
With a gloomy expression, I sat down in front of him and instantly downed the glass of whiskey that had been placed before me.
Ahh, that really hit the spot, I thought, gazing at the empty glass. Alcohol was then the only solace for those who didn't smoke or do drugs.
"So, Travis, why the sad face on this beautiful Friday night?" He asked, his face filled with compassion and concern.
"Hmm, where should I even begin, Uncle Ken? A straight-A student like me can't find a simple job in all of New York. I know if I settle for less, I'll find something, but I just can't bring myself to do that."
I paused to take a breath and gather my thoughts.
"Here, boy, down this one too and let your pain wash away," he said, sliding another whiskey my way.
I downed the second whiskey and continued with my story.
"I have big plans. I want to be a millionaire, and if possible, a billionaire. I want to make my deceased mother and father proud, wherever they are. But with the way things are going, I'm not even sure I can do that."
Tears started to well up in my eyes. I was tired and stressed out.
Uncle Ken placed his hands on my shoulders, prompting me to look him straight in the eye.
"Son, I understand you. You want a better life filled with riches, happiness, and, if possible, a beautiful wife."
At the mention of a beautiful wife, I remembered the blonde-haired woman in the Bugatti Divo. Thinking about her now, I figured she was European, likely Russian. Uncle Ken's words of advice pulled me back from my thoughts.
"But the question is, do you really have what it takes to achieve it? Success isn't about owning big cars, houses, and women; it's about doing things that can be achieved now and feeling proud of them. You're a 22-year-old man; I don't know why you're in such a rush. You should just relax and ask yourself this question: What am I not doing right? If you can find that answer, you'll know what you must do."
What am I not doing right?
What am I not doing right?
What am I not doing right?
The question echoed in my head three times, but I had no answer.
I had never asked myself this question before. I began to shake my head gently as I pondered his words.
"Uncle Ken, I'm grateful for your words of encouragement and the whiskey."
"No problem, son. You can have this last glass to go to bed with," he said, offering me another glass.
I downed it in a single gulp. My head had never felt clearer. I decided to head upstairs and ponder the question.
"What am I not doing right?"
I mumbled it as I climbed up. Despite the noise in the bar, I was so deep in thought that I didn't hear a thing. For the first time since I started living in an apartment above a bar, I felt real peace and silence.
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