Jihadist BBQ by Nicholas Coleman
The first time I laid eyes on him my father and I were at our favorite watering hole. It was past noon when the quiet crowd rolled in, exhausted from gardening their pretty lawns. The small groups talked among themselves, and the only voice that carried across the bar was that of a long-dead rock star. So, when my father turned with an inquisitive gaze and a grin, my interest changed from the fries to the red-brick at my left. I looked at my father for information, and he shook his head.
I waited for the signal from my father to look over my shoulder and behold this masterpiece of the elderly.
My father would describe this man as an Albert Einstein, just without the Einstein part. While I respect my father’s judgment of character, I must disagree for the sake of accuracy. For example, Einstein was five-foot-nine, and this man couldn’t clear five-five.
Albert was ancient. He easily had three times the wrinkles of Einstein and a hunch that brought his head half a foot from his body. Perhaps his hobble was not from the passing of time, but from a wound he sustained in the Civil War, and his spectacles gave him the look of an angry get-off-my-lawn grandfather, without the intimidation. His portrayal of Einstein only existed in his frosted mustache and his caterpillar eyebrows.
The most notable thing about Albert, apart from his long-billed fly-fishing cap and his cargo shorts held up by two striped suspenders and his knee-high socks, was the type of grandfather he was. He was not the grandpa in the log cabin or a senior in the hospital who smiles at you on your way out the door. Albert was the grandfather whose senior care involves his children dropping him off at a bar… after bar… after bar. For when he entered the establishment, it was clear he was beyond toasted. This man could hardly stand before he got deep into his cups, and now it was only the promise of booze that kept him upright.
He carried this mighty display by waddling down to the bar as he gazed before the twelve empty chairs that came before the two men at the end. This toon of a grandfather decided to break a holy commandment. Much like urinals, you do not assume a position next to the individual using it. In a much worse move, Albert decided to invite himself in-between the two urinals in use, of which the individuals’ discussion on soccer and dedication to a game distracted them from the current red-faced mess in pursuit.
The little old man came up to the two men in soccer jerseys, and to their alarm, crawled up to the chair spacing their discussion. Sly Albert then removed his hat, adjusted his flowing hair, and asked the men how their day was going. With quick acknowledgments past, the men resumed their discussion, ignoring the grain-drenched man that had just arrived, and probably prayed the new arrival would stay silent. To no one’s surprise, Albert invited himself into the conversation.
With no delicacy and plenty of breath, Albert hijacked the discussion into American Football, ranting about this team or that, while the two men anxiously pulled at their jerseys. The two strangers glanced occasionally at each other over the hat of Albert but agreed to everything the man said. Albert became overly excited and somehow managed to turn College Football into the one topic all bar-goers so avidly pursue: politics. This wasn’t the Blue v. Red politics. This was the Moon Landing was faked; the government is run by lizard people; the water turns the friggin-frogs-gay, and it all led to the ineptitude of the current Federal Government.
With his glazed look, Albert spoke toward the taps on the wall, allowing the two men to display their discomfort even more. At one point in the well-formulated rant by Albert, the man on the left lowered his head and brushed his hand against his bald scalp as he glanced back at my father and me.
The conspiracy talk did not relent, leaving the two men mumbling agreements and drinking at a faster pace, when, finally, it took to the topic so prevalent with grumpy-old men in which beer has so deeply intoxicated.
It broke out as comments of Middle Easterners and Obama’s middle name, a familiar place for many family reunions. According to Albert, it is the southern suburbs of the Denver metro area that these people are targeting. When the topic of how those of Arabian descent are invading the incredibly strategic position of Littleton, Colorado, the man on the right began scooching to the edge of his seat.
Of course, of all sacred places and important resources that these invaders could take over, the foreigners in question went for a barbecue joint. The acquisition of this restaurant, for Albert, was of grave consequence; so much so he had to inform the two young men of its dangers. After a strange and hardly coherent explanation, Albert repeated what was his final warning to previous bar-goers, “I told them not to go there! I told them not to go!” several times before he reiterated, “It’s a jihadist barbecue man!” followed by a few more quiet iterations of, “I told them not to go there!”
While one might be concerned as to the amount of indigestion that caused Albert to come this far in fear of a restaurant, the two men were not so concerned about the establishment, but of the small man sitting next to them.
Albert did not bring up the jihadists again and instead fell into a silent trance, captivated by the suds of his glass. The two fans waited, daring not to break the silence at the update of the scoreboard. Instead, they sank into their phones until the time came for them to leave, each at their own pace.