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...”
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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