Speak

“DESPICABLE!” “RIDICULOUS!” “That, right there is what a Wildman looks like, unjust and sick in the goddamn mind!” Their yelling, and bashes roared as more men joined in to express their hatred towards the president’s decision.  Beer bottles clanked louder than usual on the counter, disapproval shed down all across the bar wooden bar (I was surprised it hadn’t imploded) and approving comments moved alongside it. I sat by the counter, a couple of seats away from the TV hung above the heads of the angry men sitting across me, and the bartender stayed silent, as he wiped the drippings of beer from the bottles of the angry men.

We were all angry, even the men gathered by the pool table, and the men sitting by the tables behind the counters came closer to join our name-calling, and our bashing, except for the bartender. He only stood there, cleaning the drips of beer that shot out of the bottles of angry men, served more beer, he served everything from Budweiser to Carlsberg Vintage, yet the only thing he didn’t serve was opinion. He didn’t say a thing; he wasn’t like us, the men who yelled louder than the music. So I asked him “Afraid to speak up?” He looked at me, with an expression that shifted from total serenity, to sudden humor. He laughed, and said “Son, you’re telling me I’m afraid to speak up, when you’re sitting your lazy ass, drinking cheap beer, and doing nothing but complaining. If YOU weren’t afraid to speak, you’d go up and tell him.”  He said, pulling his towel out from the beer mug, and using it to point at the president in the screen.  And just like that, silence swept the room, as all eyes targeted the bartender and I. Then, just when you think the yelling was finally over, heads shot back and laughter raised the roof, all over again. All heads did, except for the bartender’s; he only raised his brows, exposing the ripples on his forehead. As the silence ended, “Yeah, yeah. Someone ‘ought to tell him, and kick that damn president outta his chair.” Said a man sitting a few seats away from me. “You’re telling other people to take action, when you’re sitting here, getting beer all over my damn counter. Don’t you dare tell other people to do something, when you’re not doing anything at all.” Said the tender, with a hand on his hip and another one quickly cleaning the counter. “You don’t know shit, geezer!” “Yeah! Shut that mouth, and do your damn job.” The bartender did nothing but laugh “Aren’t you all a big sack of flaws? You’re all sheep, lead by a sheep for a leader.”

As their arguments grew louder, and as my anger grew bigger, I gathered myself, walked out of that bar, climbed in my car and drove away.  I drove down the dark road, illuminated by yellow street lights that stood a few feet away from each other, causing parts of the road to quickly switch from complete darkness that made my car’s lights prominent, to faint light that made them look inconspicuous. He was right, that tender. We speak, and we yell, and we comment, and we get angry, and we call for people to stand up, when we clearly aren’t doing anything. I don’t even understand why we speak any more. What’s the point of having a voice with no hands?

Dearest reader,

My point’s quiet clear.  If you were to speak up, speak up with action. If you disagree with the unjust, don’t just say it, do something about it.  And another point I didn’t make potent, was how robotic we’ve become. It’s like we took originality, creativity, and innovation, then shot them out the window, and planted our focus on what the majority was doing, what the majority was wearing, even what the majority’s media was portraying, to the extent that every unpopular opinion is now perceived lowly by those who just can’t appreciate what the minority has in store.

And thank you,

Sincerely,

The mindless.