A nameless saloon on a nameless street. A nameless street in a nameless town. A nameless town full of nameless souls. Their faces carry the deep sadness that befit a society embroiled in the entanglements of intergenerational impoverishment, but behind their darkened eyes and sunburnt skin, one can see the spirit of a lost people ready to be found. They were all born here, and most of them will die here. All of them live here, and most of them work here. Beaten and downtrodden, stuck in an endless loop of work, eat, sleep, repeat, the nameless souls drift about town lost in a collective depression. As they wander their minds go elsewhere to a better place. To a better place free of poverty, free of the cursed dirt that promised hope, but delivered despair. Free of the monotonous mind drudgery of mining sand. They dig and dig all day long, but they are not searching for anything, nor are they building. Instead, they dig, they gather, and they dig some more. These decrepit souls spend their days shoveling, scraping, and piling sand into trucks, bags, and crates. They all wish for better, want for better, but they do not know better, and they do not how to work for better. This is all they have ever known and all they will ever have.
A stranger rides into town on the back of a mule, perched on a worn-out saddle that had had its better days decades ago. Walking at his side is a young boy, nearing the cusp of puberty, and years away from manhood. The man sat atop his lumbering mule and looked down on all the nameless souls around him, wandering, sitting, staring off into space. He took note of their condition and with a scoff, brushed them off. As he rode down the street, he noticed the lonely saloon on his right and turned the mule to approach it. He slid lazily off his saddle and instructed the boy to hitch the mule to the post and remove the saddle. The boy does so swiftly and obediently, then takes out a brush and begins to clean the mule.
The swaggering stranger stumbled into the silent saloon and swung his saddle onto one of the many the solitary stools. He looked as if he just walked in off of a movie set, and he acted like it too. A fake machismo accompanied every step he took, and he was entirely too top heavy; the slightest gust of wind would be enough to send him tumbling. He approached the bar and ordered a bottle, taking it from the bartender with gusto and a flair for the dramatic. He turned the bottle up and started gulping down every last drop. When he finished the bottle, he slid it back across the bar and became noticeably rowdy and noisier than before.
“BARKEEP,” the man bellowed, “Lemme get a uhhhh shot o’ the cheap shit, an’ a round for all my friends!” The bartender, previously unbothered by the boisterous guest, shot a quick look around, making brief eye contact with each of the other patrons in the joint – all two of them.
“And to which friends are ya referring to?” the bartender inquired. It was a rather warm day, and the bartender was sweating so much he looked as if he may dehydrate himself. The sleeves on his white collared shirt were rolled all the way above his elbows and the top three buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned. A burly bearded man, but barely assuming, the bartender recognized trouble when he saw it. The uneasiness he felt at the sight of the already overconfident stranger did nothing to satiate his perspiration dilemma, and sticking his head in the icebox was out of the question. That man needed to be watched.
“All of ’em!” the man slurred. “Him, and her, and him, and me. A whiskey for you, a whiskey for me, a whiskey for, uh, everyone! Pour some damn drinks, damnit!” By now the man was clearly heavily intoxicated, and the bartender and patrons recognized that they were likely in for a marvelous display rambunctious behavior. As he poured out five careful drinks, the bartender took note of each of the man’s friends. One for the old man sitting at the end of the bar, who hadn’t so much as looked up during all of the commotion. Another for the young woman staring out of the window, lost in her own past, or maybe her future. One for the bartender, he would certainly need it. One for the stranger, who likely doesn’t need another, and yet another for the stranger, for in his drunken stupor, he mistook his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar as another person.
The bartender passed the drinks out along the bar, making sure to leave two for the drunken man. A couple more shots won’t hurt, he thought. Much to his displeasure, he thought wrong.
“Much obliged!” the man hollered as he threw back the two shots in front of him. The second glass nearly missed his mouth and half of it wound up running down his cheek. He sat up, wiped his face with his sleeve and faced to the bartender.
“Hey, uh, barkeep,” he said, “tell me something, do ya have any kids? I’ve got some kids. And I’ve got one waiting outside. My son.” He swayed as if a breeze were gently pushing him in the wind, struggling to maintain his balance, but doing so, nonetheless.
“Oh, by all means,” the bartender replied, “do tell. Please, tell us all about this son of yours.” A hint of sarcasm floated from his voice, but the man was either too drunk or too stupid to realize, and he began to ramble about his son.
“I love that boy,” he began, “but I don’t like him very much. He’s got all this potential, and heaps of ability. He could be a great man someday, and all he needs is a little bit of confidence. Problem is that I hate almost everything about him, ya know? He’s too damn smart, but he’s got no common sense. And his head is in the clouds, it’s like he’s always somewhere else. Yeah, I love him cause he’s my son, but I don’t like him.” The man, feeling the dizzying effects of the copious amount of alcohol he had consumed, spoke earnestly. The others in the bar were clearly troubled with what the man had said, but they were not concerned enough to ask any follow up questions. Besides, it was better to just mind their own business than to get involved with the raucous man.
“Hey son, get on in here,” the man shouted. The young boy sprinted into the room, running straight through the door, and navigating the tables and chairs with ease before stopping directly in front of the drunken man. The man looked him up and down, his glazed over eyes burning a bright red. The boy stood straight as a statue as he awaited a command that he could complete with haste, which just might earn him praise rather than the usual scolding.
“Hey there little man,” the bartender said softly, “would you like a soda?” The offer was a simple one, but a meaningful one. The young boy perked up, a visible smile stretched across his face, lit up like a campfire with one too many logs.
“Yes please, sir,” the boy responded, “thank you very much.” Before the bartender had the chance to so much as reach for the bottle opener, the drunken man spoke up loudly from his stool. He was clearly upset by the suddenly flippant attitude of the boy and felt the need to speak up.
“Hey! He’s MY son, and I’ll order for him,” he slurred. “Get him a beer.” The boy was not yet at the age where he could or should consume alcohol, but it appeared this did not bother the drunken man as much as it did the bartender. The boy, saddened by the rather abrupt end to the possibility of a simple pleasure, looked at the man with disappointment in his eyes.
“But I don’t want a beer,” the boy said, “it’s nasty.” As soon as the words rolled off his lips, the boy wished he could take them back. He regretted ever learning them as he watched the man stand up off of his barstool. The young boy began to recoil, fearing a strike from the back of the man’s hand, but instead of a quick strike he felt the coiling of the man’s left hand around his wrist. The man’s right hand reached down and grasped his belt buckle, unfastening it with ease.
“You wanna talk back to ME?!” the man screamed at the little boy. He began to lead the boy outside, pulling and yanking his arm as he unsheathed the belt from the loops on his pants. With each smack of the belt against the man’s jeans, the boy filled more and more with dread. He knew what was coming.
“I’ll teach you!” the man yelled, raising his belt over his head. With each strike a vicious slap sounded against the backside of the little boy. Every strike landed and every strike lasted a lifetime.
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The boy stopped counting as his soul departed his body. He was alive, and he was in pain, but he escaped through the only means he had available: his mind. He left his body and viewed the situation from above. He watched as the man hit him over and over and observed the nameless people as they watched the situation unfold, either utterly helpless, completely terrified, or shockingly amused. He prayed to every god that ever existed and he hoped beyond hope that death would greet him and free him from the pain. With every lash, the boy cried out, and when he tried to deflect a blow away from his raw rear, it simply landed on his arm, on previously unstruck skin. The boy’s tiny left wrist was firmly in the man’s grasp, so there was no chance of physical escape. He tried to run, he tried to jump, he tried to avoid the belt in every manner his little brain could consider, and nothing worked. No matter where it landed, the blow from the belt left a welt. Back, butt, thighs, knees, hips, forearms, hands.
There was no method to the madness, no end goal in mind. No consideration for the harm done to the boy. In the man’s mind, there was only anger, so he struck. He struck and he stuck until he could strike no more. When he finally grew tired, and he could no longer lift his arm, the man released his grip on the boy, who collapsed to the ground in a heap. The man dropped his belt and knelt next to the cowering, whimpering boy. He caught his breath, put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and said,
“You know I love you, son.”
bryton.
The Writings of Bryton Chain 