lions at a feast

Perched on stools near the end of the bar Sterz and the boy devour an order of Buffalo wings. It's a sight straight out of the Serengeti, two beasts focused on the fresh kill, sauce and scraps all over, lions satiating a roiling hunger. I watch it like a nature film until Sterz grunts for me to join in. I'm not hungry but accept anyway as not to disturb the feast. I pour more beer. The boy eats well for once and doesn’t require any encouragement; Sterz notices too and encourages him in turn. “I’m proud of you.” “Why Papa?” “Because you ate well tonight.” The boy takes another bite. They both look pleased.

Just beyond the feast three men ordered pitchers of beers raucously and a fourth sits a bit to the side looking forlorn but putting a good face on. Sterz gleaned from their conversation prior that the fourth was a son and brother of the others and heading back to Iraq for a second tour of duty in a few days, this was their farewell celebration. When we first entered the bar, the boy immediately ran to make friends with the guys at the video machines while we sat at the center island where we could keep an eye on him. We moved to the bar proper after feeling swarmed and annoyed at the volume and stupidity of the conversation. It was early evening, much too soon for horse shit. The bartender, a gorgeous young woman wearing a low cut red number whose hair lifted with cinematic elegance each time the door opened was also visibly annoyed with the noise. It was better to sit and watch her anyway. The guys causing the raucous clearly didn’t frequent the bar. They were behaving as they would in their neighborhood and made no apologies about how they did things, a point I wouldn’t normally protest except for the honored guest’s demeanor which projected a competency his family hadn’t ever learned. “No. No man, fuck her, let the bitch wait. She gonna act up, let her wait!” One brother says to the other loud enough for the whole bar to hear. They suggest moving the party elsewhere. The father responds. “Hell no, I ain’t going there, there ain’t no females there.” Again, for all the bar to hear. Two of the guys are on cell phones talking loudly and the father is talking over them. It’s nearly impossible to determine who is talking to whom. They take frequent trips in and out of the bar and the whole mess seems unorganized. They’re waiting for the women to show up. The soldier waits quietly and patiently then disappears to the restroom while the others order another round. He returns some time later. There’s a cadence to the speech that makes it hard to follow despite the volume. A few years back I’d have felt embarrassed for them or pissed at the artless babble but now I just watch. I feel for the soldier and the distance that his discipline has rendered. The others seem oblivious to it, but he doesn’t. It’s visible in his expression and the false smile he dons for their humor. Between drinks the soldier stares into a glass of water or scans the television screens feigning interest in the scores. As the father gets more drunk he paces and shakes his head in bursts of laughter before settling back at his stool, an uncomfortable distance from his son to the left. Over the course of the evening Sterz and I observe this without discussing it much. If the soldier survives his next deployment and I assume he will, the real battle will be coming home again to a world which can’t really celebrate his changes or worse, doesn’t want to.

At the bar, the boy returns to his new friends in the back and another drunk stumbles in and sits where the boy had been. “I’m gay.” I look up and he’s looking right at me. “How’s that going for you?” “I just want to be loved,” he adds swaying a bit from drunkenness. “Don’t we all.” “Well I’m straight but it hasn’t exactly been easy in that department for what it’s worth.” Sterz adds in, “I’m bi. I just haven’t found the right lover yet.” The man reaches out and grabs Sterz’ hand and he allows it. I look to Sterz, “I can watch the boy if ever you want to explore some possibilities.” “Um, Can you watch him tonight?” he quips with a smirk. We laugh. “Sure, why the hell not.” It’s pride week in Rochester so we’ve been getting a fair amount of come-ons from men. I imagine most of our haunts assume Sterz and I are a couple, it’s always just us, occasionally with the boy and I’m usually attending to him in some way like patiently holding the door while scanning the floor for dangers, helping him onto barstools or picking him up from a fall when we’re drinking the hard stuff. Plus my whole look is ambiguous, shaved head, sandals, toned from exercise, plain white t-shirts, fashionable jeans, approachable. Fags and women like it, straight guys don’t. Fuck ‘em. But after a nice start to an interesting conversation, the guy starts talking and ruins any small window of opportunity with a lame ass story about kids after he makes the connection that Sterz is the father of the only 5 year old in the bar. He leaves after a few more lame attempts. A second drunk fills the spot but this one’s silent. A bar back approaches. “Is that your son in back?” He’s looking at me, not because he thinks I’m the boy’s father rather because it’s easier to talk to me than to the cripple. I look to Sterz to answer which is my usual procedure. He answers, “Yup.” “It’s just that it’s getting late and usually we don’t allow kids in here after nine but I’ll keep an eye on him. Those guys back there get to drinking and cussing and like to fight one another so usually it’s not good for kids to be back there after nine. But I'll keep an eye on him for you,” he repeats from nervousness. I sit unfazed and pour the rest of the pitcher. Sterz nods to the bar back who looks a bit nervous about having offended him. We sip the beer for a moment in thought until he leaves. I look to Sterz, he nods, “Go get him.” We finish our beers and leave, the boy exchanging goodbyes with his new friends on the way out past the center island where the soldier sits sober among his drunken family.