Conversations in the Desert: The Soldier
The ride down the winding mountain road had been majestic, inspiring, uncomfortable, and terrifying. I spent a couple of nights on the summit, working off the debt I incurred for room and board. Then, I began to look for my next ride eastward. It appeared in the form on a rust colored pick-up truck. It looked as if it hadn't seen a day off since the Great Depression. I sometimes wondered if it was actually made of rust. Othertimes, I deliberately, desperately, tried to keep that thought far from me. Mostly, I did that when I was actually on it. Especially when it was moving. The owner of the almost literal rust bucket was an old man who looked equally as antiquated as his mysteriously still running truck. He didn't say much, only asked where I was going towards. Then he asked me to watch the boxes in the back as he drove down the mountain. He was delivering them, but the rope that was supposed to secure them had frayed and worn. All of that conspired to giving me a free ride down the mountain.
As the brakes screeched their discontent at the base of the mountain, I took a moment to look out over the vast dry plain. As the sun set behind the mountain, a true shadow extended to fill the space of the peaks' invisible rain shadow. And there, appearing for all the world as if it was the last outpost on the edge of the world was a single weathered building. The large-esque building was slightly raised from the desert floor. The wood that composed it had the faded, worn look common to anything that defiantly withstood solar glare, shimmering air, and scouring gale. Simple graying letting proclaimed "Desert Inn and Bar". I thought to myself that it was an imaginative name as the old main asked me to help him move the boxes to the back.
Afterward, I asked him what he wanted to be paid with. He insisted that he needed nothing in return. While his back was turned, I placed my pen in the passenger seat of his car. He had eyed it a moment longer when he first appraised me in my worn coat and carrying my canvas travel bag. He wished me luck and returned to the summit. I walked across the threshold of the Desert Inn and Bar.
The air was hazy with smoke, and likely dust, but I couldn't smell it over the smoke, alcohol, and people. With only a few cars in the parking lot, I was surprised at the number inside. I was only mildly surprised at the amount who appeared to already be feeling their drink. I approached the bar and took a seat on a stool whose vinyl had seen far, far better days. I looked to my left and saw a man in his early 20's who appeared to be wearing the uniform of the country's army. He was hunched over his small glass. The bartender asked me what I would have.
"A beer," I responded. She didn't ask what kind. I didn't care, and it seemed like she knew as much. At least, that's what I like to think about my bartenders. I turned to the man next to me, "What're you doing out here, soldier?"
His throat made a noise that was almost a cough, almost a grunt, and thoroughly derisive. "I'm no soldier," The bartender returned with an open bottle for me and disappeared. "But, to answer your question: I'm waiting. Thinking, but mostly waiting."
"Waiting for what?" I asked, getting down to the serious business of drinking.
"Well, if I knew that, I probably wouldn't be waiting anymore," He said irritated. Then the man sighed. It resounded with resignation, "I'm no soldier, but for the longest time I thought I should be. Thought I was. Now, I don't know. So, I'm waiting. I come from a line of fighters, soldiers, even the old tribal warriors. My friends are in the service, but I'm not."
He took a large swig of the brown liquid in his glass, emptying it. He pointed to his right sleeve. More specifically he pointed to the place on the khaki uniform there were feather patches going from the middle of his forearm up to his shoulder. "Reasons to leave," He said simply, then pointing to individuals he added, "Friends, family, duty, honor, service..growth...believing that being there could help protect my loved ones, believing that being there I could protect my other friends serving their country," Then he turned so I could see more than his profile. His left ear had a heavy earring in it. Then there was another ring hanging from that, and another, and another.
"My shackle," He said pointing to the earrings, "Knowing that I can't protect my loved ones from everything, already finding love here and not wanting to give it up or test it to a breaking point, commitments, objections to this war, qualms about the military psychology, ...even fear. Right now, there's as many links in the chain binding me here as there are feathers wanting to fly me into harm's way."
Turning back to his drink, he said, "So, that's why I'm no soldier. That's why I'm waiting here. I'm waiting for something to tip the balance so I can go one way or another, but until then, there's nothing to do but wait."
As the brakes screeched their discontent at the base of the mountain, I took a moment to look out over the vast dry plain. As the sun set behind the mountain, a true shadow extended to fill the space of the peaks' invisible rain shadow. And there, appearing for all the world as if it was the last outpost on the edge of the world was a single weathered building. The large-esque building was slightly raised from the desert floor. The wood that composed it had the faded, worn look common to anything that defiantly withstood solar glare, shimmering air, and scouring gale. Simple graying letting proclaimed "Desert Inn and Bar". I thought to myself that it was an imaginative name as the old main asked me to help him move the boxes to the back.
Afterward, I asked him what he wanted to be paid with. He insisted that he needed nothing in return. While his back was turned, I placed my pen in the passenger seat of his car. He had eyed it a moment longer when he first appraised me in my worn coat and carrying my canvas travel bag. He wished me luck and returned to the summit. I walked across the threshold of the Desert Inn and Bar.
The air was hazy with smoke, and likely dust, but I couldn't smell it over the smoke, alcohol, and people. With only a few cars in the parking lot, I was surprised at the number inside. I was only mildly surprised at the amount who appeared to already be feeling their drink. I approached the bar and took a seat on a stool whose vinyl had seen far, far better days. I looked to my left and saw a man in his early 20's who appeared to be wearing the uniform of the country's army. He was hunched over his small glass. The bartender asked me what I would have.
"A beer," I responded. She didn't ask what kind. I didn't care, and it seemed like she knew as much. At least, that's what I like to think about my bartenders. I turned to the man next to me, "What're you doing out here, soldier?"
His throat made a noise that was almost a cough, almost a grunt, and thoroughly derisive. "I'm no soldier," The bartender returned with an open bottle for me and disappeared. "But, to answer your question: I'm waiting. Thinking, but mostly waiting."
"Waiting for what?" I asked, getting down to the serious business of drinking.
"Well, if I knew that, I probably wouldn't be waiting anymore," He said irritated. Then the man sighed. It resounded with resignation, "I'm no soldier, but for the longest time I thought I should be. Thought I was. Now, I don't know. So, I'm waiting. I come from a line of fighters, soldiers, even the old tribal warriors. My friends are in the service, but I'm not."
He took a large swig of the brown liquid in his glass, emptying it. He pointed to his right sleeve. More specifically he pointed to the place on the khaki uniform there were feather patches going from the middle of his forearm up to his shoulder. "Reasons to leave," He said simply, then pointing to individuals he added, "Friends, family, duty, honor, service..growth...believing that being there could help protect my loved ones, believing that being there I could protect my other friends serving their country," Then he turned so I could see more than his profile. His left ear had a heavy earring in it. Then there was another ring hanging from that, and another, and another.
"My shackle," He said pointing to the earrings, "Knowing that I can't protect my loved ones from everything, already finding love here and not wanting to give it up or test it to a breaking point, commitments, objections to this war, qualms about the military psychology, ...even fear. Right now, there's as many links in the chain binding me here as there are feathers wanting to fly me into harm's way."
Turning back to his drink, he said, "So, that's why I'm no soldier. That's why I'm waiting here. I'm waiting for something to tip the balance so I can go one way or another, but until then, there's nothing to do but wait."
posted by C R Coda | 03:30
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home