Louder Than Words
Paul D Blumer
A long day—as usual. The sun: tired, emotionally empty, to bed at last! Time for nightcrawlers, denizens of the dim, distant cousins to the vampire. Glowing windows, and a movement of shadows from within.
Drinks all around, merry cries from bright taverns, sawdust still dry on the floor. Voices calm and quiet. A hint, perhaps, of eventual bawdiness—but conversations still cogent, and words still clear. Scattered groups of various sizes; work buddies, regulars, couples. An auspicious diversity, with beers and mixed drinks and the occasional glass of wine, heedful of suggestions for refills by a smiling pair of college-girl waitresses.
Our hero: “Brandy, please, warm.”
An amber-filled snifter, a pleasant fiery aroma. Splash of gold a welcome respite and warm accompaniment to the symphony of the crowd, among them celebrants at the bar, source of the merry cries and dancing shadows, with drinks in the air and grins on their faces. Among them despondents in the corners, intent on bottoms of bracers—in the midst of maybe not benders, but rather slow burns toward a grim realization: out of time. Among them—and somewhere in between—the majority in chairs, at tables; a community by way of shared sips and smiles and quiet conversations.
Knuckles on the bartop. A round for all from our hero. A skeptical look from the dubious bartender. A cash payment, a shrug, a whistle, and then the sound of beer in glasses. Loud gust from the yanked-open door. A man in a cloak.
“Him too?”
A smile of recognition and an amused nod. “Him too.”
The cloak: “Hello.”
Excited babble at the news of free drinks. A splintering of groups, a mingling and redistribution, confused customers eager for a jostling advantage. But still, good cheer all around. Everyone now slightly more familiar with faces in the room, everyone now a bit more aware of each other’s existence. Almost a feeling of brotherhood.
Our hero in conversation; small-talk and catch-up with the cloak. Then on to more serious matters, words almost a whisper. Murmurs and observations as if under surveillance, as if under the threat of violence. The mood of the crowd...almost there.
Discussion of the next phase. The movement of the plan. The word Revolution. A hasty Shh! A sheepish apology; a slipup of excitement.
An equation for failure. A delicate plan.
“Tonight”—the cloak with glass raised—“the beginning.”
“Tonight”—our hero — “the end. For some.”
“True, but worthwhile.”—the cloak— “Sacrifices for the greater good.”
A silent nod.
Time for a second round. Enjoyment and delight, no explanation necessary. No inspection of a gift-horse’s mouth.
“Everything in place?”—our hero.
“Oh yes.”
The second round a success. Spirits, color, voices, mugs all raised. A bond between strangers. Unity and brotherhood—all in it together, whatever this nebulous “it.” Solidarity against the primordial fear of the unknown. Brightness and noise against the dark quiet of the night. The night with death in its pockets. The night with coup d’etat in its beard.
Already in the streets, plans in motion. Already in the squares, fuses in place. Already in the pockets, pamphlets at ready. Already in the hearts, valor and fate.
“Quiet!”—the cloak— “There, in the corner. A spy?”
“What?”—our hero— “Who? Paranoid.”
“Maybe. Suspicions and unrest—constant companions in this goddamn thing. Interminable waiting.”
“Until now.”
“Until soon.”
Foundations strong, plans simple as possible, players dedicated. Anticipation a drug; an upper, a downer, an hallucinogen, a placebo.
Another round, and louder and louder. The buzz, the murmur, the clink, the splash. Sawdust now wet and tramped down under windows and fog and snatches of song. The cloak and our hero apart from the rest; watchers, players. Privy to knowledge known to but a few, on the brink of a turning point. But to what end?
A philosophy of rebellion. The history of Western Democracy—awash in blood, the story of hundreds of years—contrary to the understanding of many. The struggle incomplete, under the shadow of corporate power. Lip service—and barely that—to the huddled masses; promises and platforms just foundations for deception.
Life, society, culture, all in slow-plodding heads-down unquestioning ruts of habit, happy for leadership, happy for security at the cost of freedom, happy for laid-out paths and illusions of choice. Happy with food on the table and stories on the TV, happy with brand names and marketplace competition, happy with the semblance of progress.
Until the arrival of a tipping point.
Until a disaster and a half-assed relief effort. Until an invasion from Outside. Until stolen freedoms, and a realization of tied hands and woolen eyelids. Until the unjust execution of one of our own; a clear calculated deterrent attempt with the opposite effect upon recognition of its intent. The creation of a martyr. A rally point. A magnetic polarity of critical masses.
A tipping point.
Revolution.
To what end? A question of perspective.
“Simone?”—our hero.
“All set”—the cloak— “as ever. A true patriot.”
“And friend.”
“A bit more than friend”—the cloak— “eh?”
“Hush.”—our hero— “My business.”
“You rogue.”
“All of us rogues. All of us patriots.”
“True.”—the cloak— “But some more than others.”
A smile.
A burst of noise near the bar. A fight. The clock! Almost time. Too soon for the rabble. Another round for calm hearts. Stout friends, all in this together. Soothing language, words of camaraderie. What need for violence between us? Murmurs, suggestions, delicate crowd maneuvers—mass psychology. Frustration with the government. Whispered identification of common enemies.
For who, half your paycheck?
For who, your sons and daughters in bloody uniforms with guns?
For who, your parking tickets?
For who, the treasury?
For who, foreign interests?
Across the city, more of the same. A dozen smooth talkers in a dozen drink-plied taverns.
Revolution and the masses—hand in hand like old lovers throughout history.
Cycles and cycles. Our hero’s lament—and warning—the night before, and every meeting night since the first whispered collusions. The cycles of history, and bloody repetition if ignored. Revolution still subject to the habits of the people, still dependent upon the human condition. An addiction to dominion—an easy downslide after the refreshing change, after the honeymoon period. Especially vicious with the taint of revenge and hatred, a new administration easily more oppressive than the last, with more paranoid control than before.
Education and reading! Our hero, imploringly optimistic. Sharing and instruction and long-term memory for long-term foresight. Or else…
Pigs and people, slaves and masters...and what difference? Only a name, a color, a side, a history. Consciousness, awareness—or else ignorance and repetition. Doom. A silly word, until true. And then what? The same: tyranny. Paranoia. Censorship. Control. Freedom from choice. Whatever the name, always the same. Simple reminders: the rise of Stalin, the power of Hitler, the rule of Julius Caesar, the insanity of Solomon.
Disagreement, dissent from his companions. Arguments about the new! the fresh! the youth! the untried! the right! the pure!
Pure?—our hero— Pure like Aryans? Pure like Chinese? Pure like gods? Baseball? Communism? Capitalism? Pure like Christians? Pure like what?
No answer.
Purity, the idea, like so many human values; indefinable, a matter of interpretation, a very personal thing. Non-transferrable. Non-refundable. Non-denominational. All-important.
Our hero, in bed each night, long awake with a hopeful longing for something different this time around, something unique. An actual turning point, not merely a full turn on a spinning wheel.
The mood of the bar crowd almost there, almost at the critical point. Growls and oaths, dissent and indignation, a surge of unified energy toward the approach of a fine-line moment between riot and revolution—suddenly wavering, suddenly unclear.
“Time now”—our hero, abruptly— “To tomorrow!” His glass in the air, the noise of his chair, the shuffle of his boots. One long swallow. And then his voice, calm, clear, and warm like the cognac in his belly.
“Friends.”
(Louder.) “Friends!”
(Atop the table.) “Friends!”
A movement. Awareness from face to face, like a yawn; infectious and undeniable. This crowd of malcontents, newly united against...something.
Moments later, the crowd now quiet, now interested, now his. Ready for his words.
A dozen bars across the city, a dozen parallel plans, a dozen pairs of brazen youths—rebels, freedom fighters, terrorists, revolutionaries, traitors, intellectuals, students, lovers, hopefuls—on a mission of unity, a gathering of the People, an escalation for the cause.
Attention on our hero, chest filled, arms spread, words on his lips.
***
A long time ago—maybe ten years or more—lessons in debate. Competitions in school. Practice. Letdowns. Victories. Reams of information. Flow of words.
A weekly Backgammon game against this man with the name Dad. This man with the name Germaine. An eternity between each move—the old man’s style. Impatience then endurance then meditation and inner calm. An evolution of the boy’s character. As well as his cunning.
Precision, strategy. Three moves ahead. Then four. Plenty of time to imagine every move available before the old man’s eventual choice. Victor and vanquished; a changing of the guard. Then excuses.
Too tired.
Errands for Mom. Errands for wife. Errands for Simone.
Arthritis.
Paperwork.
All thin disguises for avoidance of the jealousy of the waning generation at the rise of the next.
Then at 54, a stroke. Paralysis. Dropped insurance coverage and severed pension. A lurking rage, resentment. The boy, with his sense of injustice, nose in a book, nose in a library, entrance exams to lawschool. Top of his class, teacher’s pet. A search for loopholes, a strategy of ingratiation as prelude for revelation of secrets. Of ways around the system. Of ways through the system.
***
The can lady, on her daily rounds of the city. How many trash bins, how many dips into the detritus of society, how much fear of possible discovery? Her system—garden gloves, reach-n-grab, a plastic-lined luggage cart—a professional with the habit of long practice. To what end? A few cents at a time? How much her annual wage? How big her tax refund? How many sick days per year? How important her role in the world? What little lies of assurance while alone at night? The Can Lady. An indelible piece of the overall puzzle— whose components’ meaninglessness...well. What importance of any of us?
Reflections from the balcony overlooking a busy intersection. The smallest microbe as important as the strongest god of myth. Destruction and decomposition as necessary as building and creation. And a tiny solution for the sins of the careless—a bridge over the recycling gap.
The growth of an idea, far below the surface, premature and yet wordless.
To what end?
To what beginning?
The Can Lady—a heroine. The goddess of disposal—or at least reassortment. A representative of her class, her cadre of society. The invisible. Progress in the form of quiet acceptance of role; glory in the humble recognition of place.
***
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