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(Page 2 of 2) Saturday Night by Dan Bieger
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He was already into One Tin Soldier. Instead of stagnating in a 60s mud hole, Stephen's mind vaulted to the present and his words crept under the guitar and the baritone to ask Marvin to remember to ask him, Stephen , about the other.
"The other?" Marvin asked but Stephen didn't answer, just nodded affirmation that that was what he had said.
On the bloody morning after, one tin soldier walked away so that Jesús had the opportunity to soothe his vocal chords with a taste of water. Maybe that triggered the memory because the next song was Billy Edd Wheeler's Desert Pete, a rhythm more upbeat than the previous songs so that toes tapped and hands danced on thighs in time though none missed the nature of the lyrics.
When that song finished, Marvin looked expectantly at Stephen: "The other?"
"Today's politics. They're spending their time trying to make us see each opponent as ‘other,' not one of us, not to be trusted. That's the basis of all prejudice, making the object less than human, not human, other. The consequences last long after the election, a cancer in our society."
"Most people know it's just a game they're playing."
"They know and they don't know. It's the part they don't know that lasts and..."
The music began again. Little Joe the Wrangler introduced himself to the Saturday night crowd, folk reacting to the mention of Texas as much as they reacted to anything. This was the Sonoran desert, not the Chihuahuan, and what did Texans know about anything? Noting the reaction, Stephen whispered to Marvin: "See what I mean? The other." To which Marvin just nodded. Unaware, the crowd sighed with Jesús at the loss of Little Joe.
Then the Chapel quieted, the first line of the next song commanding their attention: "He's five feet two and he's six feet four." Buffy Sainte-Marie's Universal Soldier captured the crowd, stilled them, set them thinking, had them nodding universal agreement that "this is not the way we put an end to war."
The old vaquero stood, then, setting his twelve-string against his stool, picked his way across the floor to the end of the bar where Senor Viejo placed a tequila shooter on the bar for his inspection. Lifting the shot glass, Jesús peered at its contents, reached some conclusion, nocked back half the liquid, shuddered his satisfaction, sent a look of appreciation to the old bartender. "Works fine," was all he said but the bartender smiled and moved out to satisfy other patrons.
Stephen talked to Marvin again: "That's the part that has me puzzled these days. There was a time I was proud I served. Didn't spend too much time considering the dissent. Did what I had to do and that was good enough for me."
"Know what you mean. Been there; done that."
"But, the Pentagon papers and all the noise about the Gulf of Tonkin and Cambodia and discovering truth ain't always truth but the other is always the other."
"And you didn't want to play dominos anymore."
"And that's a fact."
"Drive on, brother; drive on."
"Sons and daughters, Marv. Sons and daughters."
"WMDs, son. Colin didn't do his job and the press didn't do theirs and Congress took the opportunity to go AWOL"
"And where was Thomas E. Ricks when it counted? 2006 was too damned late. Now, the Eagles' boss puts the 4th Mech boss in charge? What kind of sense does that make?"
"Massengale trumps Damon, again; Westmoreland rides again. History repeating itself over and over."
"We really shouldn't listen to Jesús. Just makes us cynical old guys."
"But he's moving back to his guitar."
"If he plays Ghost Riders, I'm gonna have to leave."
"Either that or we're gonna close The Chapel one more time."
The first lines of Sonny Tillis and Sam Weedman's The Ride roamed across The Chapel bringing smiles to the patrons and a sense of relief to the old guys at the end of the bar. They sang along, quietly of course, with "...live like you ain't afraid to die, and enjoy your ride."
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