Five Months Before the Demonstration
An hour and four shots of Jim Beam later, Curt and DJ had left, and Ruth joined Dena at the bar. It was after five, and the place was filling up. A group of four men came in and commandeered a table in the front. The bartender, a woman, served them pitchers of beer and plates of wings, mozzarella sticks, and meatballs.
“That crap will rot your gut.” Dena watched the bartender carry a tray of baby sausages to their table.
“I doubt they care,” Ruth said.
“On the house.” The bartender placed the sausages in the center of the table.
Dena polished off her shot of whiskey. “So how come they get special treatment?”
Ruth shook her head.
“Let’s find out.” She swung the barstool around.
“Dena, you’ve had a few. Give it a rest.”
“See?” Dena grabbed the edge of the bar to steady herself. “That’s exactly what I was talking about. You guys are losing your rage. I’ll give it a rest when those mobsters are out of the White House.”
Her eyes were not entirely focused, Ruth noticed.
“You know I’m right.”
Ruth blew out a breath. “Philosophically, of course you are. But realistically, we can’t add fracking to our list. We don’t have environmental experts. Christ, we don’t even have an energy platform. People won’t take us seriously. They’ll call us a bunch of whiny kids.”
“They don’t say that about the Parkland kids. And they’re standing up to the NRA, for God’s sake.”
“They’re a decade younger than us. And they’re fighting for gun control. More people care about guns than fracking. Most people probably don’t even know what fracking is.” Ruth hesitated. “Just because you hate your father is no reason for political action.”
Dena belched loudly, not even trying to suppress the sound. “Where did you get that idea?”
Ruth sighed. “The night when we were applying for the permits? Remember? You told me the whole story.”
“Nope. Can’t say that I do.”
“You were drinking then, too.” Ruth eyed her.
“You just don’t want to spread your wings, Ruth. You’re all cowards.”
A chortle made Dena twirl her barstool and check out the men at the table. One of the men looked big and solid and wore a handlebar mustache that was perfectly groomed. He wore something on his head that resembled one of those Arab scarves. A keffiyeh, she thought. A second man, leaner and lankier, wore an army fatigue jacket over jeans. The remaining two, jackets off, showed off arms covered with tats. Loud guffaws interspersed with murmurs punctuated their conversation.
“You gotta have guts,” Dena said, her words sloppy. “How much you wanna bet I can convince those guys to rally to our side?”
Ruth looked them over. “Dena, stop playing games. Let’s go home.”
Dena shook her head. “Told you I was gonna convert one or two. Watch.”
“Come on, Dena.” Ruth took Dena’s arm.
Dena shrugged it off. “Fuck off, Ruth.”
The bartender came over. She had a heart-shaped face, prominent chin, brown hair tied back in a ponytail, and a muscular build that said she was strong enough to manage rowdy customers. Now she smiled. “You’ve been going at it pretty good for a while. How ’bout a cup of coffee?”
“No fucking way. I’m on a mission to save our country.”
The bartender stared at her for a long moment, then turned away. “Can’t blame a gal for trying.”
Dena slid off the barstool and stood up.
“Where are you going?”
Dena tottered. Ruth squeezed her eyes shut, thinking, Here we go.
Dena approached the table. “Hey, guys, how y’all doing this evening?”
The men stared at her as if she was an alien who’d just parked her spaceship on the street.
“It’s okay. I won’t bother you.” She giggled. “Too much.” She glanced at the guy in the fatigue jacket. “You in the service?”
“Not anymore.” He gave her the once-over. His expression softened into approval, Ruth noticed. She couldn’t disagree. Dena was pretty. And sexy. At the same time, though, the guy with the Arab headgear shook his head at Fatigue Jacket.
Dena didn’t notice. “Where’d you serve?”
“Iraq. Two tours.”
“Best shot in the platoon,” one of the guys with tattoos said.
She nodded. “You all serve together?”
Arab Scarf shot Dena a cool look. “I don’t want to be impolite, miss, but we’re in the middle of something here.”
“Oh. You want me to get the hell away from you.” Dena swayed.
He plastered on a fake smile. “You said it, not me.”
Dena slipped a hank of hair behind her ear. It was a Veronica Lake move Ruth knew meant she was flirting, trying to seduce, make herself irresistible.
“I’ll go. But I want to tell you something. I’m involved with—um—a political group. We’re gonna kick the president out of office. I mean, he’s fucking destroying our country day by day with his corruption, lies. Yeah, and treason. Playing fast and loose with the facts.” She looked at each man in turn. “He fucking decimated the State Department. And the EPA. And ya know what? If Mattis wasn’t there, we’d all be dead from World War Three. You’re military guys. We need you. The country needs you. Will you join us?”
A disconcerting silence was her answer.
Dena glanced at each man in turn. The only ones who made eye contact were Fatigue Jacket and Arab Scarf.
“You got the wrong crowd here,” Arab Scarf said.
“Are you kidding me?” Dena said. “You voted for him?”
“That ain’t none of your business, lady. Now, get the fuck away from us.”
Ruth suddenly appeared at Dena’s side. She grabbed her arm. “Let’s go, Dena.”
Dena yanked her arm away. “I’m not finished.”
“Hold on, man.” Fatigue Jacket cut in and flashed, of all things, a smile at Dena. He yanked a thumb at Arab Scarf and said in an apologetic tone, “He’s got a short fuse.” He looked eager to hear more.
Dena picked up on it. “Is that right?” She gave him one of her hundred-watt smiles. “And who are you?”
“I—I’m Scott.”
Dena looked him over.
He wasn’t bad-looking, Ruth thought. A heart-shaped face, long shaggy hair, bushy eyebrows, but his brown eyes were soft. Not really Dena’s type. Then again, who was?
“And what do you say, Scott?” Dena purred.
“I don’t give a shit who’s president. They’re all crooks.” He cocked his head. “I just want to get away. I did two tours, saw my buddies get blown up. Didn’t make fuck-all difference. We get what we deserve.” He took a swig of beer. “First a nigger president, now a crook. Me? I just want off the grid.” He glanced over at Arab Scarf, whose arms were now folded across his chest.
Dena gasped. “Scott! Did you just say the N-word?”
Oh crap. Ruth braced for all hell to let loose.
But Scott didn’t cede any territory. “What else you gonna call him?”
Dena drew herself up. Cleared her throat. “How about President Obama, for starters?”
The group broke into laughter.
“You are the worst kind of coward, you know that, Scott?” She pointed her finger at him. “Oh sure, you complain, call people names, but when push comes to shove, you want out. Run the other way. You’re just another garden-variety racist.”
Scott’s face turned crimson.
Arab Scarf cut in. “Okay, lady. It’s really time for you to leave us alone.”
But Dena kept her finger pointed at Scott. “Right-wing zealot . . . what the hell am I saying? You probably don’t know what the word means. Get off the grid. Jesus Christ. You might have fought for our country in Iraq, but the stakes are way higher now. And you’re quitting. He’s a dictator. Do you know what that means? And all you want to do is escape? I don’t know about the rest of your buddies, but you, Mr. Scott, are an asshole.”
Ruth grabbed her again. “We’re leaving now, Dena.” She turned to Arab Scarf. “I want to apologize for my friend. She—”
He waved her off and turned toward the bartender. “Kitty?”
The bartender, who was watching it all, tipped her head to the side.
“Get her out of here.”
“You got it, Jerky.”
“Jerky?” Dena scoffed. “Figures. He’s a fucking jerk.”
The woman came over and grabbed Dena’s arm. Dena finally sagged and let herself be walked out. At the curb, the bartender leaned over to Ruth. “It’s probably better if she never comes back here, you know what I mean? The boys hang out here all the time.”
“I’m really sorry. She’s plastered.”
“You don’t say.” Kitty looked at Ruth. “Get her home and let her sleep it off. The corner’s not bad for cabs. Have a good night.” She headed back to the door.
Dena was muttering. “Soldiers . . . what pussies . . . Get off the grid. Holy crap.”
“Wait,” Ruth called out to Kitty. “We didn’t pay you for the shots.” She fished in her bag.
A pained, weary look came across Kitty’s face, as if she wanted to wipe her hands of the entire matter. “Don’t worry about it.”