War Eagle
David P. Barker
He sat on the same barstool, ordered the same drink and ate from the same bowl of peanuts. He didn’t even bother to shell them, just ate them whole. He liked the salt on his tongue from the shell and the way he could chase it with a Lone Star. The juke box played one of the same twenty songs it could play and the television stayed on highlights of the Rangers or the Cowboys or Mavericks or Stars.
There was just enough noise to allow himself to get lost in the sweat rolling down the bottle and the swing of ash at leather covered rubber hurtling through the air at eighty-eight miles per hour. He didn’t have to talk to anyone. He didn’t have to be anyone.
The bartender was the same mousy blonde that was pretty once before menthols and whiskey made her a shell of herself. He didn’t care. She smiled at him and patted his gnarled knuckles like he was still young and handsome and it warmed him to the core. He wasn’t dead yet after all.
He took a long drink from the bottle, let his thumb caress its neck like an old lover and stared at the screen up above the bar.
“You want another?” Sandy asked. Her voice had that Texas drawl that was so often the butt of jokes by high class society that classified the South as backwoods and unintelligent.
“Yeah,” he replied. His voice was low and strained from too many Pure Golds and late nights.
She pulled another bottle out of a cooler and set it in front of him. He did his best to smile but it wasn’t impressive and she moved on down the bar to check in on the other regulars.
What did it say about a man to be an afternoon regular in a bar in the middle of who cares? Malachi wasn’t sure and he wasn’t willing to lose valuable drinking time trying to assess his status as a man. He finished the first bottle and immediately started on the second.
He tossed a handful of peanuts into his mouth and held them there. He let his saliva soak the shells before biting into them. He chewed, swallowed, and chased with more beer.
“You want a sandwich or something?” Sandy asked as she cleaned a glass.
“Who’s cooking?”
“Billy.”
“You think he’d make me a meatball?”
“Probably.”
“Let’s hope.” Malachi said and once again Sandy left him to his beer. This time she disappeared to the kitchen. Malachi shifted on his stool and took another drink.
“You coming to the fish fry tomorrow, Eagle?” The man at the other end of the bar asked. Bob. Or Rob. Or Paul. Something like that. Malachi could never remember and he had been coming to this bar too long to clarify.
“You bet.”
“Oh that’s great. Real great. You know they’re putting matches on after? Some sort of fundraiser for the Turner kid’s medical bills.” The man who’s name Malachi couldn’t remember said.
“Is that so?” Malachi asked with all the interest of a prisoner being forced to talk to the warden.
“Yep. They’ve got a couple of guys who’ve been in TV before coming in for it. Missy tells me it’s done a real good advance.”
Bob. Malachi was sure of it. Missy was married to Bob. “That’s great.”
“You think you’d want to stay for the show. Maybe sign a few autographs? Take a couple of pictures. I’m sure it would help.”
There was always something someone wanted. What had happened to the world? Couldn’t a man sit at a bar in the middle of the day and drink in peace? “Nope.”
Bob’s face sank. Malachi took another drink and watched the door to the kitchen, silently pleading with Sandy to rescue him.
“You sure?” Bob asked, “it’s for a good cause. I bet people would come out in droves to get the War Eagle’s autograph.”
Malachi finished his second beer and sized up the trash can. He could probably toss the bottle into the can with no problem, but if he missed then Sandy would be pissed and that was never fun.
“I’m not the War Eagle anymore. Haven’t been in a long time.”
“Oh come on,” Bob started in, moving several stools down to close the gap between the two men. Malachi signed internally, “People still remember you. I can’t go anywhere without someone wanting to make sure I know that this is the War Eagle’s home. You’re on the damn town sign.”
Sandy appeared from the kitchen with a plate of fries and a meatball sub. All off of covered in a thick layer of deep red marinara sauce that smelled like what Malachi imagined his slice of heaven would be. She set the plate down in front of Malachi and Malachi smiled gratefully.
He slid the plate closer and took a dry and Sandy gave him another Lone Star.
“It would mean a lot, that’s all I’m saying. It would do some good.”
Sandy cocked her head, “What would?”
Bob looked at her, “Eagle signing autographs at the Turner kid’s benefit show after the fish fry.”
“Who’s the Eagle?” Sandy pretended not to know and it took all of Malachi’s reserve not to groan.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bob shook his head and Sandy shrugged with an innocent smile.
“Malachi War Eagle. Four time World’s Champion. Thirty five years as a pro. The only guy to ever come out of here and be something.”
Sandy looked at Malachi who tried to shrink into his stool with a façade of shock. “You’re famous?!”
Malachi grunted and took a bite of his sub. With his mouthful, he replied, “Not anymore.”
“Oh don’t let him fool you,” Bob said excitedly, “He’s still famous. All of the boards and forums and Twitter talk about him. Everyone wants to know when he’s going to do a convention or go into the Hall or something. People love him.”
Malachi could feel his own eyes rolling back into his head. No one loved him. They wanted things from him. Autographs they could sell on eBay. Shoot interviews where they could ask him embarrassing questions or get him to run down his former friends. They wanted to monetize him and he was done with making other people rich.
“People love you?” Sandy winked and Malachi smiled with his lips coated in marinara.
“Only when I’ve got a spare fifty dollars and fifteen minutes.”
Now it was her turn to roll her eyes. Malachi took a long drink from the beer and Bob sighed.
“It really would mean a lot. We might even get coverage out of Dallas. All the sheets would pick it up. We could raise a killing for that kid.” Bob gave his best salesman smile.
“I’ll think about it,” Malachi lied. He wasn’t going to think about it. He didn’t know the Turner’s or their kid. He didn’t owe them anything. He didn’t owe anyone anything. He had spent thirty five years giving himself to the world. He had bled, been slammed onto concrete, whipped with a leather strap. He had spent hours in planes and cars traveling the globe and making guys who wore three thousand dollar suits and drove Mercedes rich while he lost three wives and hadn’t seen any of his kids since he still had a full head of hair.
When he broke his back the last time, no one tried to help him. There were no fundraisers. None of his friends asked if he needed help paying his bills. The fans didn’t send letters or cards. He was alone in a hospital recovery room unable to move with a body that had given up and a lifetime of scars for a business that had used and taken and left nothing but a hospital bill and a lien on his house.
Bob shuffled away and Malachi let his attention rest on his sandwich and fries. He drank his beer and he didn’t speak. Sandy left him alone for a long time.
Bob left and the other afternoon regulars filtered out and Malachi finished his fifth beer and Sandy took his keys. He ate another sandwich and two bowls of peanuts and three more beers and Sandy called him a ride.
“You’re not going to help that kid are you?” Sandy asked. Her voice was sad. Malachi could feel the guilt twinge at his stomach when she settled those tired eyes on him.
“He’s just a kid, Chi.” She added. She was the only one who called him that anymore. Sometimes when he was drunk and sometimes when she was and sometimes when they both were. It happened here or in her trailer or in his little house off Apple Street with the screened in porch and a bedroom that looked out into nothing.
This was the part he hated most. The guilt people would lay on you when they thought you owed the world for your little bit of celebrity. Like he was supposed to grant wishes and surrender his life to the needs of the unfortunate or the downtrodden.
He rose from his stool and swayed unsteadily. “The car here?” He slurred and she checked her phone.
“Two minutes.” She said and avoided looking at him. He couldn’t blame her. He would too. He swayed and stumbled to the door and ignored the looks of the early off work crowd that had filtered in. He braced himself against the door jam.
“Hey Sandy,” he called out. She looked at him, “The kid really sick.”
She nodded, “Yeah. He needs new lungs or he won’t live much longer. Shame too. He’s a good kid and they’re a good family.”
Malachi ran his fingers over the cracked wood of the door jam, “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Tell Bill I said okay. Damn it all.” Malachi growled before stumbling into the dusk.
David P. Barker is an American writer from Indianapolis, Indiana. During the day, he teaches middle school. At night, he writes stories exploring a wide variety of genres but consistently comes back to grit-lit. He lives with his wife and five animals.
David P. Barker
He sat on the same barstool, ordered the same drink and ate from the same bowl of peanuts. He didn’t even bother to shell them, just ate them whole. He liked the salt on his tongue from the shell and the way he could chase it with a Lone Star. The juke box played one of the same twenty songs it could play and the television stayed on highlights of the Rangers or the Cowboys or Mavericks or Stars.
There was just enough noise to allow himself to get lost in the sweat rolling down the bottle and the swing of ash at leather covered rubber hurtling through the air at eighty-eight miles per hour. He didn’t have to talk to anyone. He didn’t have to be anyone.
The bartender was the same mousy blonde that was pretty once before menthols and whiskey made her a shell of herself. He didn’t care. She smiled at him and patted his gnarled knuckles like he was still young and handsome and it warmed him to the core. He wasn’t dead yet after all.
He took a long drink from the bottle, let his thumb caress its neck like an old lover and stared at the screen up above the bar.
“You want another?” Sandy asked. Her voice had that Texas drawl that was so often the butt of jokes by high class society that classified the South as backwoods and unintelligent.
“Yeah,” he replied. His voice was low and strained from too many Pure Golds and late nights.
She pulled another bottle out of a cooler and set it in front of him. He did his best to smile but it wasn’t impressive and she moved on down the bar to check in on the other regulars.
What did it say about a man to be an afternoon regular in a bar in the middle of who cares? Malachi wasn’t sure and he wasn’t willing to lose valuable drinking time trying to assess his status as a man. He finished the first bottle and immediately started on the second.
He tossed a handful of peanuts into his mouth and held them there. He let his saliva soak the shells before biting into them. He chewed, swallowed, and chased with more beer.
“You want a sandwich or something?” Sandy asked as she cleaned a glass.
“Who’s cooking?”
“Billy.”
“You think he’d make me a meatball?”
“Probably.”
“Let’s hope.” Malachi said and once again Sandy left him to his beer. This time she disappeared to the kitchen. Malachi shifted on his stool and took another drink.
“You coming to the fish fry tomorrow, Eagle?” The man at the other end of the bar asked. Bob. Or Rob. Or Paul. Something like that. Malachi could never remember and he had been coming to this bar too long to clarify.
“You bet.”
“Oh that’s great. Real great. You know they’re putting matches on after? Some sort of fundraiser for the Turner kid’s medical bills.” The man who’s name Malachi couldn’t remember said.
“Is that so?” Malachi asked with all the interest of a prisoner being forced to talk to the warden.
“Yep. They’ve got a couple of guys who’ve been in TV before coming in for it. Missy tells me it’s done a real good advance.”
Bob. Malachi was sure of it. Missy was married to Bob. “That’s great.”
“You think you’d want to stay for the show. Maybe sign a few autographs? Take a couple of pictures. I’m sure it would help.”
There was always something someone wanted. What had happened to the world? Couldn’t a man sit at a bar in the middle of the day and drink in peace? “Nope.”
Bob’s face sank. Malachi took another drink and watched the door to the kitchen, silently pleading with Sandy to rescue him.
“You sure?” Bob asked, “it’s for a good cause. I bet people would come out in droves to get the War Eagle’s autograph.”
Malachi finished his second beer and sized up the trash can. He could probably toss the bottle into the can with no problem, but if he missed then Sandy would be pissed and that was never fun.
“I’m not the War Eagle anymore. Haven’t been in a long time.”
“Oh come on,” Bob started in, moving several stools down to close the gap between the two men. Malachi signed internally, “People still remember you. I can’t go anywhere without someone wanting to make sure I know that this is the War Eagle’s home. You’re on the damn town sign.”
Sandy appeared from the kitchen with a plate of fries and a meatball sub. All off of covered in a thick layer of deep red marinara sauce that smelled like what Malachi imagined his slice of heaven would be. She set the plate down in front of Malachi and Malachi smiled gratefully.
He slid the plate closer and took a dry and Sandy gave him another Lone Star.
“It would mean a lot, that’s all I’m saying. It would do some good.”
Sandy cocked her head, “What would?”
Bob looked at her, “Eagle signing autographs at the Turner kid’s benefit show after the fish fry.”
“Who’s the Eagle?” Sandy pretended not to know and it took all of Malachi’s reserve not to groan.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bob shook his head and Sandy shrugged with an innocent smile.
“Malachi War Eagle. Four time World’s Champion. Thirty five years as a pro. The only guy to ever come out of here and be something.”
Sandy looked at Malachi who tried to shrink into his stool with a façade of shock. “You’re famous?!”
Malachi grunted and took a bite of his sub. With his mouthful, he replied, “Not anymore.”
“Oh don’t let him fool you,” Bob said excitedly, “He’s still famous. All of the boards and forums and Twitter talk about him. Everyone wants to know when he’s going to do a convention or go into the Hall or something. People love him.”
Malachi could feel his own eyes rolling back into his head. No one loved him. They wanted things from him. Autographs they could sell on eBay. Shoot interviews where they could ask him embarrassing questions or get him to run down his former friends. They wanted to monetize him and he was done with making other people rich.
“People love you?” Sandy winked and Malachi smiled with his lips coated in marinara.
“Only when I’ve got a spare fifty dollars and fifteen minutes.”
Now it was her turn to roll her eyes. Malachi took a long drink from the beer and Bob sighed.
“It really would mean a lot. We might even get coverage out of Dallas. All the sheets would pick it up. We could raise a killing for that kid.” Bob gave his best salesman smile.
“I’ll think about it,” Malachi lied. He wasn’t going to think about it. He didn’t know the Turner’s or their kid. He didn’t owe them anything. He didn’t owe anyone anything. He had spent thirty five years giving himself to the world. He had bled, been slammed onto concrete, whipped with a leather strap. He had spent hours in planes and cars traveling the globe and making guys who wore three thousand dollar suits and drove Mercedes rich while he lost three wives and hadn’t seen any of his kids since he still had a full head of hair.
When he broke his back the last time, no one tried to help him. There were no fundraisers. None of his friends asked if he needed help paying his bills. The fans didn’t send letters or cards. He was alone in a hospital recovery room unable to move with a body that had given up and a lifetime of scars for a business that had used and taken and left nothing but a hospital bill and a lien on his house.
Bob shuffled away and Malachi let his attention rest on his sandwich and fries. He drank his beer and he didn’t speak. Sandy left him alone for a long time.
Bob left and the other afternoon regulars filtered out and Malachi finished his fifth beer and Sandy took his keys. He ate another sandwich and two bowls of peanuts and three more beers and Sandy called him a ride.
“You’re not going to help that kid are you?” Sandy asked. Her voice was sad. Malachi could feel the guilt twinge at his stomach when she settled those tired eyes on him.
“He’s just a kid, Chi.” She added. She was the only one who called him that anymore. Sometimes when he was drunk and sometimes when she was and sometimes when they both were. It happened here or in her trailer or in his little house off Apple Street with the screened in porch and a bedroom that looked out into nothing.
This was the part he hated most. The guilt people would lay on you when they thought you owed the world for your little bit of celebrity. Like he was supposed to grant wishes and surrender his life to the needs of the unfortunate or the downtrodden.
He rose from his stool and swayed unsteadily. “The car here?” He slurred and she checked her phone.
“Two minutes.” She said and avoided looking at him. He couldn’t blame her. He would too. He swayed and stumbled to the door and ignored the looks of the early off work crowd that had filtered in. He braced himself against the door jam.
“Hey Sandy,” he called out. She looked at him, “The kid really sick.”
She nodded, “Yeah. He needs new lungs or he won’t live much longer. Shame too. He’s a good kid and they’re a good family.”
Malachi ran his fingers over the cracked wood of the door jam, “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Tell Bill I said okay. Damn it all.” Malachi growled before stumbling into the dusk.
David P. Barker is an American writer from Indianapolis, Indiana. During the day, he teaches middle school. At night, he writes stories exploring a wide variety of genres but consistently comes back to grit-lit. He lives with his wife and five animals.