We watch the war begin on television. The networks’ scrambling first minutes of awareness give us a sense of helpless despair. Their disorder makes unfolding events seem runaway and the world a place out of control.
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At the door we say “Rich” and are ushered into a crowd of well-groomed recent-college-graduate types. We meander through the main bar and a side room full of bar games–pool tables, Foosball, shuffleboard, Pop-a-shot, puck bowling–checking each of the first floor’s five televisions. On some is news of the war, impossible to hear over the classic rock; on others is the Bulls game. In search of more breathing room, we head upstairs and find miniature golf and ping-pong instead. War has not dulled anyone’s appetite here. The food–six-foot subs we are told–is gone, and the putting greens are jammed.
We push to the bar and order a couple of Rolling Rocks. The guy beside us offers a shaky toast with his Bud, “To all the many fine babes here.”
Paying our bill, we are surprised by the two-dollar entertainment fee added to our five-dollar tab. “That’s OK,” says the cashier as we pat our pockets for more cash. “You came at the end. Five dollars is fine.”
That’s how we feel too: What’s the point of stuff like work, and parking, and doing dishes? And how can these people snap their fingers in time to scat while our country drops bombs?
Another woman at the counter momentarily stops chewing her bagel to speak. “Does anyone have a car? Can someone give me a ride home?”
We say we will, but drive away thinking we won’t because neither of us feels very useful in mass protests. Rather than feeling empowered, we feel insignificant. Then we think, “But someone has to do it.” We agree it needs to be done and we’ll go tomorrow.
