Something I'm Working On

deerslayer

Milforum Swamp Dweller
Well, I've always loved writing and the military, and as a result my work has usually leaned towards soldier life and such. As a musician, I was always told by my band director to "make good sounds", and have an appreciation for music, so this piece blends the two together.

Bitter Notes

A Civilian’s Look At Coping With War


“War is a profession by which a man cannot live honorably; an employment by which the soldier, if he would reap any profit, is obliged to be false, rapacious, and cruel.” Niccolo Machiavelli

It was, Adam decided, shaping into one of those performances which seemed to be becoming rarer and rarer as time passed by. He had seen some of the best in the business- Paul Butterfield, B.B. King, on one occasion had met R.L. Burnside- headliners did not necessarily mean good bluesmen. Bluesmen- he knew them well. He was one himself, styled between the modern electric blues of the Three Kings and the traditional 12-bar strums of Blind Willie McTell. Fair, not great. He knew just enough to get in trouble, and this fact seemed to dominate all other aspects of his existence besides music. Adam consistently defined himself by that one common denominator that makes each of us distinctly human: failure.

Through the refraction of the bottle of Stolichnaya he caught his first real look at the five-piece on the barroom stage. The show wasn’t bad for a bar; in fair-quality suits the band appeared professional, polished. The pieces were polished as well: the staple “Stormy Monday” lacked no luster, full to the brim with vibrato from the guitar and a soft backing by the drum set. Adam was reasonably sure that the Stoli had nothing to do with the fact that the band was sounding, all things considered, not all that bad. Then again, he’d only been here twenty minutes. As the guitarist hit the opening notes of “Texas Flood”, he was expecting good things.
One, two-and-three, four, one-and-two-and-three, four-and, one, two, three- mentally he kept time with the guitarist. The first bars went off without a hitch- Adam liked what he heard. The picker came to what was arguably one of the best moments in the tune, a series of arpeggio runs of high notes just before the entry of the rest of the band. Adam continued keeping time, until- screeeech- the intonation was suddenly shot to hell; the guitarist slipped and slid over half of the run- an amateur’s mistake.

“Oh, Christ,” Adam said, looking at the bartender. He raised a finger towards the bottle. The bartender slid towards him, poured a shot glass of Stoli, and passed it across the bar to the man. The barkeep knew his face and mannerisms well, but he looked Adam over once anyway. He was a tall man, just over six feet, dark-haired, with broad shoulders, powerfully built. He looked fit- a year struggling under a pack in the desert would do that to anyone. The bartender had gotten a good look at him when he walked in; there was no missing the tan Corcoran boots with their well-worn Panama soles. The boots told the man’s whole story- like his footwear, he had taken a helluva licking along the road. The old keep never once saw him crack into a smile, except when the band was performing well.

“What is it with you and the pickers, anyway?” he said as he passed the shot glass to his client. “So they play an instrument- why is that so important to you?”
Adam propped his left arm on the bar and leaned in close to the keep. His biceps was large and appeared to be well-toned. The bartender looked at him quizzically until his patron shoved his sleeve back to his collarbone. His face fell and he started to understand his customer’s sentiments. Centered across Adam’s deltoid was a livid scar- thick and red-white, obviously still healing. The soldier said nothing for a moment, taking the time to collect his thoughts.

“Before Afghanistan,” he finally intoned lowly, “I used to hustle a little side money playing blues shows at stands like this one. Thanks to National Guard benefits picking up most of my tuition, between a job at the campus and picking I was a fat college student. Was an all-right guitarist, but I knew it wasn’t going to pay the bills outside of getting the occasional burger.” He took a drink and paused.

“Damn, got memories with it then?”

“Not so much that as the music itself. I didn’t major in music- no money in it. Before I shipped out, I was a connoisseur. Couldn’t stand to hear a bad act- I still can’t.” Another sip. “And this one could be going downhill.”
The barkeep was now perplexed. “They screw over one number, why’s that so important in the scheme of things?” He was no music man, but knew what a good band was when he heard it.
Adam looked at him a second, and with a straight face told him, “sir, let me tell you. I served two tours in that mountain hellhole, and even after I got out, a guitar out of tune sounded worse to me than an RPG popping off. Some nights I get the feeling these bands wanna bring me back there.”

The barkeep nodded and raised his eyebrows as a signal to continue. Adam kept on talking, seeing he probably had a respectful audience.

It’s different here, back in the World, y’know what I mean? Over here, what’s the worst that can happen to you? A cardiac from too many Big Macs? Get clipped by a drunk driver? Get booted out of school or spend a night in jail? I spent two years in a place where the worst that could happen to you was land mines, RPGs, and small arms, in that order.” Again the barkeep nodded- this much he could fathom.

“So what’s the story with you? You come in here three days a week with a backpack full of textbooks, prop your arm up on the bar and start slamming shots back. What happened to you in the service?”

Adam glowered at his new friend. “Ain’t anybody’s business but my own,” he muttered, turning his head towards the band. He listened to the band’s rendition of “Tightrope” for a few moments, trying his best to ignore the bartender until he felt the old man’s surprisingly strong grip on his forearm.

With the veins in his neck bulging, the ex-soldier turned his head back towards the man and stared at him for several long seconds. Adam clenched his hand into a fist, but the old keep maintained his steady pressure on the young man’s arm. With an increase in pressure and a soft look in his eye, the bartender asked, “So what branch did you serve in?”

Adam didn’t want a fight, least of all with an innocent old man, so he looked down at the bar and said, “Army, served as a paratrooper. 82nd Airborne Div. Captain.”

“Light infantry unit, Afghanistan?”

“Carried my rifle and ruck over and around mountains, that’s right. What difference does it make to you, anyway?” He was still looking for a way out, but he daren’t break the man’s surprisingly strong grip.

“So, that all your story is? Straddled a few mountains and jumped out of a few planes? There’s more to it. What happened in Afghanistan? It can’t be all that damned bad.” His tone was calculated to move the younger captain to anger.

Adam paused before answering. His words choked in his throat. The keep stood his ground.

“Look, just let me pour you another shot and tell me your story. On the house tonight.” A
college student, Adam didn’t want to refuse free liquor. With his free hand the barkeep returned the $20 that the soldier had paid in advance and stuffed it in the captain’s breast pocket.

“Well, my name’s Adam Hobbes, and I deployed to Afghanistan in early 2002...”
 
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You've got talent, I like to sometimes just sit down and type up a storm until all the words blend together in short story, or the chapter of a would be novel. The problem is, I find myself searching for info to fill the gaps, so, I don't write, not now at least, when I get my chance, maybe you will be famous then, and I know who to ask for advice!;)
 
I guess the secret about writing your story is to put it all down on paper and then sort out the jumbled stuff, fill in the gaps and push through to completion. Its a long journey but you do get some satisfaction at the end of it, seeing your lifestory or novel in print.

Cheers

Steven Preece
 
This is the ending I eventually drafted, still need to fill in the actual plot of the story:)

As Adam finished his story, the keep turned his eyes to the bar and hung his head in reflection. While he remembered the events of years past, Adam turned to leave. As if on cue to cause trouble, two patrons took a look at the scar on Adam’s shoulder and his boots and eyed him with contempt. They were feeling their liquor, looking for a fight. One of them said to Adam, “Hey, crip.”

The bar fell silent. The keep kept his head down and said, “Barry, don’t cause my customers any trouble.” He rummaged silently around for the sawed-off ball bat he kept behind the bar for these cases. Adam looked the two men up and down, knew he was more muscular and younger. He didn’t want a fight, but he stood up and grabbed a bottle just in case. Barry’s partner decided to lay a hand on Adam’s shoulder and was met at the wrist by the captain’s hand; the keep gently laid the bat on the man’s elbow as a warning- he backed away from Adam. His buddy followed suit.

“Get out of here, you drunk *******s,” said the bartender, still brandishing the bat. They obliged, and Adam sat back down, released his grip on the bottle and turned to face the keep again. The keep turned to the captain and said with a shrug, “Don’t worry about them, son, they don’t understand.” Neither did Adam, who was still trying to digest the scene that just happened, until he saw the green beret and jump wings tattooed on the keep’s shoulder- hidden from view until he extended the bat. “Glad to help a brother. ‘Nam, 72-73. I came home to the same welcomes, and didn’t want to see it happen to some other man.”


Adam was dumbstruck, angry at himself for shunning the old man, in awe that, after all these years, the bartender still knew how to hold his own and defuse a dangerous situation. He choked for a moment, then simply asked the keep if there was anything he could do in recompense for keeping him out of a fight. The old man smiled and wagged a finger for Adam to lean in a little closer. As he spoke, Adam smiled. After a few moments, the two soldiers, each representing his own generation and realizing that they were no different, shook hands and parted.

Adam never went back to the juke joint for drinks again- from that day on, he found himself center stage.
 
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