At this point, after smashing a dent in the table and screaming about Germans, Jews, and Americans at the top of his voice, The Interloper’s friends finally came over from their table and, in very soft and calming voices, said, “Roger? It’s about time that you put down the jar and get back to the Uni, don’t you think?”
“Fuck off!” shouted The Interloper.
One of his friends, a man who looked like he stepped out of a Led Zeppelin picture, sighed and took out a black canvas bag. “I hate when you make us do this, Roger. I really do.”
The Led Zeppelin man then forced the bag over The Interloper’s head. The Interloper struggled for a moment, and then we heard soft snoring coming from inside.
“He thinks its night-time,” said another one of The Interloper’s friends.
They took him from underneath his arms and dragged him out of the pub, tipping the barman generously.
When they left, I took the seat previously occupied by The Interloper, and said, “Now what in green Hell was that?”
The Traveler, starry-eyed and beyond confused, said, “I have no idea. Frankly, I don’t think I want to know what goes on in that man’s mind. Knowing might just kill me.”
There is a special sort of silence one experiences after a tragedy. It is heavy, remorseless, and, usually, full of regret. In the wake of whatever it was The Interloper was saying, our party felt that silence full-force. In fact, we found ourselves unable to speak for the rest of the time we were in the pub. I imagine that the brute force of racism, xenophobia, and nationalism acted as a sort of kryptonite to everything we held dear and forced us to reboot, as it were. After about an hour of sitting still and drinking in silence, we filed out. The Traveler and The Student went back up to campus to browse through course material for a module they shared; The Writer mumbled something about going for a walk for a few hours; The Stalker left at some point without the rest of us noticing; and The Drunkard and I went to buy a very greasy, unhealthy food known as doner meat and chips.