Texan Station is a sports bar in the center of the glass atrium above the Riverwalk. There’s not a small screen in the place. Besides the TVs over the bar front and center is a big screen spanning over 700 square feet—the size of a modest apartment—with picture in picture of current sporting events. This time of the year it happened to be baseball. And golf. Matthew didn’t sit at the bar, or in the dining area in back. He sat at a table parallel to the big screen in the enclosed patio for customers that want to take their drinking to a place they can eat from the menu, and like what was listed there if you looked at the people there was much to choose from not just in style or appearance the dressing of business casual guests of a luxury hotel but those subtler richer truths to a sport with invisible trophies

like when you fuck up. the offense and the defense the nature of the beast whether you ever say you’re sorry and you mean it not just scared we all get scared that deer in the headlights look when in the pit of our stomach we know something’s gone horribly wrong with finger pointed straight at you what you do as you find an ear not as a witness to the prosecution and in them you try to find something someone else to blame and your words are not as the psalmist said: we are fearfully and wonderfully made… and no freedom is never having to say you’re sorry the sport of it in the endgame of forgiveness those final words before you go to sleep at night—will you will you do to the same to the least of these? and how does it feel? how does it feel when it’s not you that has done the wrong when you’re the one paying for the food is it there—is there sympathy for the devil?

like how someone looks you in the eye when they know what you’re talking about and when they do not when you let someone else talk assert control pass judgment on being judged when you know something they do not or at least you think you do and they feel the same and does it kill you kill you to just say okay alright and look away to just play the fool and they think you a fool because you just say okay alright and this to someone younger than you but older now and maybe it doesn’t get any better it’s just more of the same more of the pretending because you’ve also let someone older than you do it to you too when you were younger the truth in that beginning deceit the lie in the promise of wisdom what now crawls on its belly when you learn to hurt yourself but not hurt others to cooperate in the belief it’s in everyone’s best interest thus bringing the olive branch of peace for it’s not just in the saying of it’s going to be okay alright it’s not just this which makes you use the illusion of you are weak and someone else strong this paradox of serpents and doves that is not the true display of dominance to have someone that should be telling you what to do do what you tell them this the mere lackluster of the moment which shall pass and truly it is not in the last laugh either for that just makes way for tears because in a society where knowledge is handed down filtered through media it’s best to keep in mind that you are always the recipient even as you say what has been said to you as you practice or rebel against what you preach for in truth you can wake up one morning after a dark night of dreams and everything will go your way not just in health prosperity achievement a relationship but even in the minutiae of every interaction the right words just coming out received in the best of all possible light and then there are other days (or weeks months years dispensations) when even after sweet dreams and the focused attention on all the concepts of positive thinking nothing seems to go your way the words just don’t come out right or they’re taken the wrong way serving not as a servant to all and successes and failures are built on this on luck fate what have you and your own veritable deniability to the openness of opportunities and Matthew Malachi says:

but I am a suicide open only to the tragedies of my own vanity

so have a drink and remember
taste is a matter of timing

And so it just happened he was thirsty the man who bought him that drink not a stranger. He was an old friend who looked him in the eye. Someone who knew Matthew Malachi before all his trips to Texas as a man and not a child a man who knew him from his college days—his name Kenneth Dean…