Here is a story what i did gone and wrotten, let me know what you think in the comments section please. thank you

There is a certain type of American bar that is very different to what us English call a ‘pub’. They’re normally tatty, sticky, and dark with the ghosts of a thousand good times giving them an extra dimension in the day time. It was one of the dive bars that I found myself walking into a couple of years ago in Chicago. The bar was empty apart from the bartender counting bottles in the fridge and a pile of dirty washing heaped on the bar that upon inspection turned out to be a man with his head in his hands.

The jukebox was loud but only highlighted the lack of other noise, so I could hear the man sniffing and when I approached the bar I saw tears hit a napkin below. Of course I did what any Englishman would do in that situation, and pretended not to notice.

The barman heard my third polite cough, or it got to a large enough volume he couldn’t ignore it any longer, and turned to serve my drink in a way that could compete with your average French waiter in casual rudeness.
I smile.
‘I can see why this place is so busy’
‘Fuck you’ replies the barman wearily. Again I smile
‘And who says the Americans don’t understand irony?’ I riposte as I turn away, not exactly Oscar Wilde I know, but if I was in the mood for sparkling conversation I wouldn’t be letting my shoes stain in the shithole. I survey the place I’ve ended up, shafts of white sunshine attack through the high windows like spotlights highlighting the losers on god’s stage.
‘He’s OK Clyde – he’s with me’ I turn at this new voice, to see the bar tender pulling his hand away from under the bar, the place I know from experience some of the smarter bar owners keep a bat.
‘My names NOT Clyde – you know that’ says Not-Clyde
‘Sure it is Clyde’ says the once crying man as he pushes a note across the bar. He faces me and confides
‘It’s amazing what a Finnski can do to a guy’s attitude’

I look at the stranger starting from his slightly shaggy side parting, taking in his red childlike eyes, pausing at his smile, like a charming shark. The was tailored but had seen at least a months of drunk nights, complimented with a animal print waistcoat.
‘Put him on my tab Clyde’ the stranger says and as I go to protest he holds his hand up explaining ‘ I get free drinks here since I accidently sang the national anthem at a Cubs game’ the smile flickers briefly and his voice cracks ‘It’s a long story – join me for one?’ I’m not in the habit of drinking with crying men and my instincts were telling me that the stranger smelt of tragedy and vice, but his voice had the air of someone who was used to persuading people into doing what they didn’t really want to AND he had just possibly averted my head from having more cracks in it than usually prefer so, I obliged. Beside it wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve done for a free drink. I look to the barman for guidance, he shrugs and says
‘My name isn’t Clyde’
.
We find a booth that least resembles a crime scene and sit down.
‘I’m waiting for results – the doctor thinks it’s inoperable and nasty, but it’s a false alarm’ not the lightest of opening conversational gambits for someone you’ve just met, but it is America I think and try and match him for frankness
‘How do you know it’s a false alarm?’ I say, he stops swirling the ice in his glass for a second
‘Because everything works out for me’ there was no boast in his voice only a small bitter sigh
‘That’s a bad thing?
‘Drove my sister nuts’ he says, a nostalgic smile shadowing across his face as he focuses somewhere over my left shoulder ‘my best friend too – we fell out of touch when we went to collage, like he predicted.’ The smile dies and the head droops a little ‘One of his suicide notes was addressed to me it said “he felt sorry for me” because I “would never know what its like to struggle to win”’
The shafts of light highlight the swirling particles of dust, they look like they’re dancing
When I look back he’s wiping fresh tears with the palm of his hand ‘His parents did a real number on him, uptight you know? Diamond forming uptight. He was right of course, I’ve worked harder at not working than anything in my whole life, and everything just falls into my lap.’ The last few words are spat out like they taste bad. I let a couple of beats pass and try to change the subject.
‘Are you not in work today?’
‘Day off’ he blankly replies ‘the doctor will be phoning me here any minute to tell me it’s a big mistake and the results are negative.’ Now I’m as accommodating and polite as the next guy, more so considering the next guy is a bar tender not called Clyde that was potentially willing to brain me 10 minutes ago. But this is a lot to lay on anyone.
‘If you’re so sure that the results are going to positive why are you semi-drunk in the middle of the day treating an Englishman like a shrink?’
He finishes the scotch, stares straight at me and says
‘Because I want the results to be positive’
‘You can’t mean that’ I say flippantly, suddenly he’s standing
‘You have no idea how hard it is! How hard it is to have everyone think you’re this “righteous dude”’ he pause and fills my stunned silence and sits ‘I’ve spent so long tricking people into liking me I have no idea if people actually do anymore, if I’m someone worth liking’ his eyes drop and an old Wayne Newton song fills the bar from the pathetically neon jukebox.
‘Well, if it helps – I think you’re a wanker’ he smiles at this
‘You’re just saying that’
‘Straight up’
‘Thanks man’ he stands up smiling a resigned smile and straitening his suit ‘Tell Clyde I’m sorry’ he says shaking my hand
‘Where are you going?’ I ask
‘Just to the bathroom’ he lies, takes a deep breath and leaves the booth. The suddenly ringing phone masks the flat crack noise from the gent’s toilets. But I hear it.

As I leave I meet Non-Clyde’s eye as he calls the man in the bathroom that I’m pretty sure will never answer.
‘Bueller?….Bueller?….Bueller?