The bar was filled with a hazy glow that emanated from a few old brass light fixtures on the ceiling and smoke filtered lazily throughout the room. The bar itself was polished from decades of use and the multitudes of bartenders that had passed through. The door opened to let in a gust of chilled October air, ruffling the pages of the novel that Didion was pretending to read. Though the bar was not crowded, a man sat next to Didion. His somber black clothes did not seem out of place, but the white clerical collar at his throat did. Didion watched him out of the corner of her eye, curious about this older man who seemed so at ease in a place that did not appear to suit him. She watched covertly as he ordered a drink (non-alcoholic), sipped it, and conversed briefly with the bartender. The bartender knew him by name (Walter) and seemed to like him well enough.
After a few minutes, Didion felt her novel pulling at her attention, and she gratefully slipped back into it. As soon as she felt immersed, for the first time all night, she heard a gentle throat clearing to her left. She glanced up, intrigued by the sight of Walter looking at her so intently. He was older than she originally presumed. Laugh-lines framed his soft eyes and the hint of a smile pulled at his lips. “What is a young woman doing at a bar like this on a Monday night, and reading a book nonetheless!”
Startled by his direct question, Didion snipped, “clearly, I’m reading. What is an old priest like yourself doing here?”
Despite her attitude, Ong chuckled. “I come here to watch people. The most interesting folks show up at a bar on a Monday night.”
“And you think I’m interesting?”
“I don’t know for certain yet, but we’re off to a good start.”
Didion took a moment to respond to the odd man, using the time to mark her book and put it down carefully. When she turned her attention back at him, she found he was staring at her with the same intensity at before. Unnerved, she responded, “Well, how will you determine if I’m interesting, then?”
“We will talk for a bit, then I will tell you what I think. Does that sound okay?”
“I suppose.” Didion let the silence sit until her frustration peaked, “What do you want to talk about?”
“What are you reading?”
“It’s a biography of the Reagans. I wrote a few essays about them years ago, though I don’t know why I chose to read this.”
“What type of essays did you write?”
“Nonfiction, mostly, but from my own perspective.”
“So you told stories.”
“I suppose, in a sense, that’s true. But my stories were real, they dealt with real issues and real people. They were never meant to mislead or misinform-“
“but they were from your perspective?”
“Yes.”
“And they were written and published?”
“Yes.”
“So whether or not you meant to mislead or misinform, once they were published and read that is no longer up to you.”
Didion stared at the man. How did she end up in such a conversation? “Perhaps not, but they are still my words and my stories.”
“So why are you reading about the Reagans?”
“Well, I guess I wanted to look back and see how they measured up against my expectations at the time.”
“So you are looking for validity in your own writing?”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Clearly, you care about what you chose to say in those essays about the Reagans. You care so much about how you present your subject matter because it will remain written for anyone to see for the rest of time. If you had just been having a conversation about the Reagans back in the sixties, do you think you would be here now reading that book?”
“Most likely not.”
“No, most likely not.” Ong repeated, staring at the bottles behind the bar.
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