In
Eddy’s place, the dwarf reappears, this time wearing a black Calvary hat upon
his head.
“Very cute,” I say. “Did you f--- up
again?”
The dwarf picks something from his
teeth, inspects it, flicks it away. “Nope. Spot on.”
“Where are you going with this?”
The dwarf shrugs. “Why, your next
drinking companion, of course.”
“Another drunk?”
“Last time I checked, this was still
a bar, no?”
“What if I don’t want another
drinking companion?”
The dwarf shrugs, then mimics me in
a munchkin voice, higher pitched than his own. “What if I don’t want another drinking companion.” He looks at me
with sternness. “This isn’t about what you want or don’t want. I’m in charge,
not you. And like I said before—you got no choice. Geddit?”
I scoff. “How about if I just walk
on out of here.” I slide off my bar stool—and tumble to the floor. “What the…?”
The dwarf laughs—a high-pitched
giggle. “You’ve drunk yourself leg-less.”
I begin to crawl toward the door. “I
can still leave.”
The dwarf’s giggle morphs to all-out
laughter as I arrive at the door and raise an arm to the knob—only to discover
it is beyond my reach.
“Damn,” I say, trying, in vain, to
propel myself higher.
“Now you know how I feel,” says the dwarf. “This ain’t no
fair a world for a little person.”
“So, I’m really stuck in this bar?
With you?”
The dwarf jumps down from the bar
and comes face-to-face with me. “Guess so,” he says, googly eyed.
I crawl back to the stool, hoist
myself up.
The dwarf pulls out a bugle, from
where I do not know, and blows a series of notes.
As the final note vibrates and
fades, so does the dwarf.
And in his place…
I turn and see a soldier outfitted
in Yankee blue with matching wide-brimmed hat and a long coat brocaded with
four stars on each shoulder and four sets of four brass buttons at the front.
He is bearded with a serious countenance.
I realize I am sitting two stools
away from Ulysses S. Grant.
He seems pleasantly bewildered, not
by his presence in this bar, but by his uniform, whose cuffs he studies with
glee.
“It’s been years since I was able to
fit into this—my favorite coat,” he says.
“You prefer a uniform to civilian
garb?” I say.
“I prefer being a general to being a president,” he replies. “As a general, my subordinates are obliged to listen,
and if I give a command, by God, they are obliged to abide. If they do not, the
consequences are deadly. But as president? Pishaw! Your subordinates pay lip
service and then set about selling their services to the highest bidder.” Grant
looks around in awe. “Say, do they serve champagne in this saloon?”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
“So be it. But may I assume they
have whiskey?”
“You may.”
“Would you kindly pour me one?”
I shrug and ease off the bar, and
don’t realize I’m legless till I’m about to fall, except, miraculously, I’ve
got my legs back.
I can leave if I want!
But walk out on General Grant?
I think not.
Instead, I work my way around the
bar and consult a shelf of whiskies.
“Do you have a preference?” I ask,
turning to face General Grant.
“I do, indeed. Old Crow.”
I find a bottle, grab a shot glass, and
set both in front of General Grant, fill the shot glass to the brim.
He picks it up, studies amber liquid
in the light, and dispatches this libation all at once down his gullet. “Gee-willikers!
That is damn fine whiskey!” Grant plunks the shot glass down. “Fill ‘er up.”
“Yes, sir.” I oblige him. “Shall I
address you as General Grant or Mister President?”
“Neither,” He drains the second shot.
“Call me Sam.”
“Okay, Sam.”
“Ya know,” says Sam, “it might
better if you just put that bottle on the bar, I’ll do the rest.”
“Sure, Sam.”
I watch as he pours himself a third
and then a fourth.
“In high school U.S. History,” I
say, “I learned that you drank your way through the Civil War with Lincoln’s
blessing. How were you able to manage that—and win?”
“Simple.” Sam winks. “I understand
Quarter-mastering.”
I wait for more.
But he doesn’t fill the void.
“Might you elaborate?” I ask.
Grant looks at me lugubriously, like,
he’s a man of few words and if I don’t get what he means, it’s my problem not
his.
But another whiskey lubricates his
mouth sufficiently to expound.
“Troops need to eat,” he says.
“Troops especially need to drink.” He raises his glass. “They need ammo and
gunpowder to shoot. That’s what a Quartermaster does. He makes certain the
troops at the front have what they need to advance. If you don’t understand the
importance of Quarter-mastering, you’re doomed to defeat. But if you got what
you need, because of good Quarter-mastering, you just keep charging onward
until the enemy surrenders unconditionally.
“And this…” he pours himself another
whiskey and holds it up… “this is charging
potion.” He pauses to reflect. “Quarter-mastering is what I call learning from
the ass up—and we had a lot of asses to teach and tame.”
“You mean mules for carrying
everything?”
Sam shakes his head. “I was thinking of the generals that
came before me, and around me.”
“Is that the lesson I’m supposed to
learn,” I demand, hoping to catch Sam off guard after a few shots. “That one
must always press their foes for unconditional surrender?”
“As opposed to just being an ass?” Sam
studies me, a bemused expression on his face. “I’m not here to teach a lesson,
to you or anyone else. I’m a soldier,
not a teacher. It worked for me. But that was only the first half of what I
did.”
“What was the other half?” I ask
hopefully, believing if I learn the lessons this absurd predicament is supposed
to teach me I can drink up and go home.
“Once the Confederates surrendered
unconditionally,” says Sam, “I prevented everyone on the Union side from taking
punitive measures against the South.”
“No spoils of war?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because, in my estimation, our foes
were us.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
Sam chuckles sourly.“Nor did a lot of others on my side
of the Mason-Dixon. But it’s actually quite simple: we were all Americans. Which was what our side
was fighting for—to keep the Union together. If we had tried to punish the
South, we’d be differentiating between them and us, which would have defeated
the whole purpose of what we in the North were fighting for. Instead, I instituted a policy of reconciliation,
on the basis that North and South needed to reconcile in order to reunite.”
“So, that’s the
lesson—reconciliation?”
Sam shrugs me off. “I’m just here for the whiskey—and it tastes
damn fine.”
“Is it true that lobbyism was born
under your watch at the White House?”
Sam shakes his head in disgust. “Wasn’t my idea
for people with special interests to wait in the lobby of the Willard and
pounce on me whenever I tried to make my way clear to the restaurant for
lunch.” He pauses. “They’d ask for my support on something or other and I’d
suggest the appropriate Secretary.” He shakes his head. “I had hoped my
assorted Secretaries would have the good sense to look at their requests
objectively and not require gifts in return. I did not have time to police
them. I had my work cut out for me, pulling the country back together from the
turmoil of war—and there wasn’t a lot of glory in that, just hard slogging.”
“So, if it wasn’t your doing, how
did you get maligned as a corrupt president?”
“It happened under my command.” He
looks at me with a gripping eye-gaze. “Don’t explain, don’t complain.”
“Is that the lesson?”
Sam rolls his eyes.
“Then why am I here?” I press.
He turns to eyeball me. “You’re asking me? I don’t even know why I’m here.”
With that he gets off his stool,
nods, and says, “Old soldiers don’t die…”
And then he just fades away.
