A young man and an old man sat in a smoky bar.
The young man was unflappable, his leather jacket askew over his white shirt, cocky, assured, with nimble fingers and a nimbler tongue to match.
He looked around with old eyes, not missing a beat.
The old man, wise and fazed, wrinkled hands caressing his pitcher, had a small smile on his weathered face, with a gap or two where once teeth had been.
He looked around with young eyes, curious and interested.
They had been sitting beside each other for a while now, neither had spoken a word. Not that they needed to. Communication happens in many forms, only a small fraction of it spoken.
The serving girl came up with a fresh round of drinks, and the men looked, the younger one hungry, the older one appreciative. Both nodded their thanks as she sat the mugs on the table.
It was not late in the evening, but there were already plenty of people in the crowded alehouse. Some of them tolerably drunk. Some of them swearing it was their last glass. Some of them happily drunk, some exuberantly so, some sober on too much to drink, some high on too little.
The critical point in any establishment of this sort on an evening of this kind was bound to appear soon. And the masters of statistics and the students of human nature were not disappointed. Their gods, while ineffable, were also punctual.
A push turned to a shove. One abusive holler greeted another. Hands disappeared into scruffs only to appear miraculously as self defense from another lifetime made itself heard over the din. Sides were chosen, and observers relegated to the background. The stage was set, the lighting was adjusted, the tinny band in the background retreated to the safety of the barracks and resumed their chorus.
The young man and the old man watched.
They watched as words turned to actions, as ideals turned to protests, and wars were fought over what would have been pittances. In another lifetime.
They watched as innocent bystanders were swept into the inexorable tide of events, as good ale was laid to waste, as chairs were smashed and table legs were extricated from their parent bodies in an effort to provide for the cavalry. The hippies in the barracks sang about love.
Then someone caught the young man by the arm, and pulled him into the fray. The old man nodded sorrowfully, and stood up. Dusted his clothes ruefully, and followed him in.
The battle raged on, feeding on a hundred repressed emotions and a thousand unsaid words, too late, too late. Cards from a game of poker fluttered about dismally, their aces in the hole worthless now.
The young man remained calm, discouraging eager assailants with a desultory swipe of his long limbs that made the battle crazed barbarians remember Attila the hun. The older man did the same, with a gentle push, and a kindly nod that made the draftees of someone else's war remember their kindly grandfathers.
They reached the center of the fray, the eye of the storm, where the seed of the violent tree of events stood facing each other, a broken bottle in one hand, a wooden mug in the other. The remaining two hands clutched at lapels that did not belong to their parent bodies.
They looked at each other, eyes crazed with anger and disappointment. The old man and the young man looked at each other as well, sadness in one, a grim determination in the other. The stepped in, and exchanged the lapels being held for those of their own.
Startled glances were passed around as the hostilities paused for an uncertain moment, assessing the new development, unsure of how to proceed. The warmongers wanted to continue, venting and exhausting that which had been pent up for so long, but how could they? Before that question could be answered, the two men embraced each other. The one with the youthful eyes, and the one with the gray ones.
Fifteen minutes later, the two sat at their table, watching the two men talk, watching the bar as it put itself together again, as fresh grass grew from the scorched earth, pushing the ash away, letting it drift in the breeze, to lands were it would become fertilizer for growing potatoes. A waitress came up to their table with fresh drinks, and bestowed a grateful smile upon them before being pulled to her more insistent patrons.
The two clinked their glasses, and drank deeply. A satisfied sigh. A sated burp. Something new. Something old. Always fun, always bold. The honky tonk bar played its honky tonk music.
'Next one's on me.', one said. The other nodded. They walked out. The glasses sat on the table and watched the bar.
The young man was unflappable, his leather jacket askew over his white shirt, cocky, assured, with nimble fingers and a nimbler tongue to match.
He looked around with old eyes, not missing a beat.
The old man, wise and fazed, wrinkled hands caressing his pitcher, had a small smile on his weathered face, with a gap or two where once teeth had been.
He looked around with young eyes, curious and interested.
They had been sitting beside each other for a while now, neither had spoken a word. Not that they needed to. Communication happens in many forms, only a small fraction of it spoken.
The serving girl came up with a fresh round of drinks, and the men looked, the younger one hungry, the older one appreciative. Both nodded their thanks as she sat the mugs on the table.
It was not late in the evening, but there were already plenty of people in the crowded alehouse. Some of them tolerably drunk. Some of them swearing it was their last glass. Some of them happily drunk, some exuberantly so, some sober on too much to drink, some high on too little.
The critical point in any establishment of this sort on an evening of this kind was bound to appear soon. And the masters of statistics and the students of human nature were not disappointed. Their gods, while ineffable, were also punctual.
A push turned to a shove. One abusive holler greeted another. Hands disappeared into scruffs only to appear miraculously as self defense from another lifetime made itself heard over the din. Sides were chosen, and observers relegated to the background. The stage was set, the lighting was adjusted, the tinny band in the background retreated to the safety of the barracks and resumed their chorus.
The young man and the old man watched.
They watched as words turned to actions, as ideals turned to protests, and wars were fought over what would have been pittances. In another lifetime.
They watched as innocent bystanders were swept into the inexorable tide of events, as good ale was laid to waste, as chairs were smashed and table legs were extricated from their parent bodies in an effort to provide for the cavalry. The hippies in the barracks sang about love.
Then someone caught the young man by the arm, and pulled him into the fray. The old man nodded sorrowfully, and stood up. Dusted his clothes ruefully, and followed him in.
The battle raged on, feeding on a hundred repressed emotions and a thousand unsaid words, too late, too late. Cards from a game of poker fluttered about dismally, their aces in the hole worthless now.
The young man remained calm, discouraging eager assailants with a desultory swipe of his long limbs that made the battle crazed barbarians remember Attila the hun. The older man did the same, with a gentle push, and a kindly nod that made the draftees of someone else's war remember their kindly grandfathers.
They reached the center of the fray, the eye of the storm, where the seed of the violent tree of events stood facing each other, a broken bottle in one hand, a wooden mug in the other. The remaining two hands clutched at lapels that did not belong to their parent bodies.
They looked at each other, eyes crazed with anger and disappointment. The old man and the young man looked at each other as well, sadness in one, a grim determination in the other. The stepped in, and exchanged the lapels being held for those of their own.
Startled glances were passed around as the hostilities paused for an uncertain moment, assessing the new development, unsure of how to proceed. The warmongers wanted to continue, venting and exhausting that which had been pent up for so long, but how could they? Before that question could be answered, the two men embraced each other. The one with the youthful eyes, and the one with the gray ones.
Fifteen minutes later, the two sat at their table, watching the two men talk, watching the bar as it put itself together again, as fresh grass grew from the scorched earth, pushing the ash away, letting it drift in the breeze, to lands were it would become fertilizer for growing potatoes. A waitress came up to their table with fresh drinks, and bestowed a grateful smile upon them before being pulled to her more insistent patrons.
The two clinked their glasses, and drank deeply. A satisfied sigh. A sated burp. Something new. Something old. Always fun, always bold. The honky tonk bar played its honky tonk music.
'Next one's on me.', one said. The other nodded. They walked out. The glasses sat on the table and watched the bar.
