The Tolerance Wars - 23
the wisdom of our barricades
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begin at the beginning—Chapter 1
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The Tolerance Wars
23.
the wisdom of our barricades
“Popes come. Popes go. But the People. The people will always drink.”
“What's that?”
“It's a saying in my family. We were in the business.”
“Of?”
“Drinking.”
“Ah.”
“And people.”
“The business of people?”
“Making a better place. That's everybody's business.”
“That's a business?”
“Yeah. But there's more money in drinking.”
“So, your family…”
“…we drink.”
“Ah.”
“Got to pay for it somehow.”
“The drinking.”
“And the people. You gonna convince 'em that working fourteen hours a day is too much, that takes some doing.”
“That's your family business?”
“Part of it, yeah. And the drinking. You've noticed I'm fully capable.”
“I had, yes.” I handed the bottle back to him.
“It's genetic.”
“Ah.”
“Also knowing when to stop.”
“Of course.”
“Which is not now.”
“The drinking?”
“Also.”
Somehow I sensed this was a song of optimism. And that we were writing it. Right now.
“So these are the songs of my people. The ones we sing while we're trying to make things better.” Some people would call that social change. Or political activism. “We just thought about it as making things better.” Of course no matter where they were, “back home, or here in the same old new world, there'd always be people who thought it was a bad idea.”
“What was a bad idea?”
“Whatever we were doing." He took another drink. "Bad.”
He sensed that I wasn't quite getting it, so he sketched it out for me. It felt like a conversation he’d had before. Sitting in with the bullies at their fancy-hat meetings and using that knowledge to make their nasty goals harder to achieve. Passing information to people who would actually do something about it. Figuring out ways to make it harder for bad people to do bad things. Whether it was random solos or organized thuggery. Find the good people and help them do the good work. Help them not get killed for doing it. And if there aren't any good people around. Then you're it. Do the good work.
It was a lot to take in. I couldn't tell whether the drinking was helping. “So, how long you been doing this, your family?”
He shrugged. “A while.”
“Generations?”
“Um hmm.”
I was asking myself how belief gets passed along. Through generations. That's some kind of regular sustained attention to detail. And wondering what kind of family made all that their business. What it took to make them like that. But he was still talking.
“Eventually any decent system learns to keep an eye on us.”
“Isn't that dangerous?”
“Sometimes. Some people don't like change. Sometimes especially positive change. Some people.”
“What, like fascists?”
He shrugged. “The names change. That's one of the ways they keep good people guessing. Change the name. Gives 'em extra time to get on solid ground. By that point it's all normal. And normal's harder to change.”
By now my head had pretty much exploded. I remembered my first-aid training and applied more alcohol to the wound then passed the dispenser over. “So sometimes the system finds you guys useful.”
“Mm, yeah. So. And sometimes we find the system useful.”
I thought about that. “Like Limner?”
“Ah!” He swung the bottle in my direction, celebrating a point finally made. Then he sat back, admiring a moment of pedagogical triumph. “Like. Limner.” He smiled, took another hit, then passed the bottle on to me. I hung on to it for a minute. It's about pace.
“So you're using him.”
“Of course. We all use somebody.”
“We do?”
“Sure. Unless you're the pope. He uses Every-Body.” Which was a two syllable word. With the finger of admonition coming down heavy on both of them. Made it all like Beethoven. Every note both inevitable and somehow completely unexpected.
“does limner know you’re using him?”
“Of course.” Seems Limner’s people, whatever that almost-government thing was, knew that sparechange’s people would likely be on the side of what you’d tend to think of as ‘good’. And of course Limner had a file on some of them. So when I first noticed the blond guy across the street he would’ve already known about both sparechange and uncle Alex. Sparechange because he was on the scene. And uncle Alex at first because he was related to sparechange, and then because he seemed to be involved with the kind of people who, for good or bad, might want to affect Archer’s work. And keeping the scientist out of trouble was why Limner was around.
I took another hit. “So all this time you been watching the scientist lady yourself?”
“Nah. I was between causes, man. Sometimes you just gotta breathe, y’know? Remember what it’s all for.” But when buddy recognized Limner, and who he was working for, “I decided to go along for the ride.” He shrugged, Though I didn’t really have much choice.” Seems there was some unfinished business “from some earlier work.” Outstanding fines from a big demonstration. There’d been some folks who thought random violence was a better way to get things accomplished than peaceful demonstration. The authorities not only caught and jailed the thugs. They rounded up the peaceful organizers and as many simple protestors as they could find. Which included more than a few of buddy’s housemates, who’d been there to try and blunt the thuggery. Made all their lives miserable for months. And Limner could make buddy’s life miserable again. “So maybe it was just as well to run with him for a while. Maybe find out what he was up to.” Buddy’d just started to make all that clear to Limner through his actions when uncle Alex was shot. So now he was straightup working with Limner. Hoping they’d find out who killed him. Get some kind of justice.
The murder of uncle Alex. Thugs in the streets. Violence happening pretty much for its own sake. Thinking about all of that was just making me… angry.
“No, man. Careful there.”
“I don’t understand. It’s only natural.”
“The easy anger, man. You can’t give in to it. Becomes a drug. Y’end up needin’ it. Jus’ to get through your day. Passin’ it on to friends. Turnin’ ‘em on to it. Only reason bein’ so you got someone t’get high with. If that’s your thing do opium. Way classier.” He shook his head, “No man. easy anger. That ain’t no way to run a revolution.”
What? The word stopped me in my tracks. “I didn’t know we were in a revolution.” I put the bottle down. Gravity made the move inevitable. Trying to think made the move sensible.
He kinda snorted. “Aren’t we always?”
I figured he was messing with me. “Nah. That can’t be right.” I should’ve known better.
“Sure man.” Buddy nodded his head in that slow triangular way that people only do when there’s been alcohol involved. For a while. “There’s always somebody trynna storm the barricades. Whether we want ‘em to or not.” He leaned back and spread his arms wide. “Whether we wanna storm ‘em ourselves.” And put down his arms. “Or not.” He paused and looked happy about a thought, “Whether there are barricades.” Yeah, definitely a pleased at the logic kind of smile. “Or not.”
I tried to think about all that. And failed. “You mean…?” Nah, I had nothin’.
He leaned forward and pointed at me. With the finger of admonition. Or absolution. From this distance, in this weather, I couldn’t quite tell which. “Things will always change. Al. Ways.” The word included two stabs of the finger. “No gettin’ around that, man.” He leaned back again. “The wise man said y’can’t step in the same river twice. Clueless dude said ‘Yeah? Watch me.’ And did. Which of course exactly proved the wise guy’s point. Though dude didn’t think so. Mind you for dude thinkin’ was never really an option. Not. Possible.” He waved his hand left, then right, to make his point. Presumably so it would stay made. Which, weirdly, it did.
I nodded agreement. Clueless dude having been a patron saint of many people in my past. Come to think of it my present. Sadly quite possibly my future. Though honestly I was still back at the forever revolution. “So…” I struggled to shape the thought. The struggling having almost nothing to do with the drinking. Almost. “But…” A pause. Then I tried again. “We all have to be fighting? All the time?? that’s… bleak.”
“Naaah, man.” Three slow shakes of the head made it clear I was currently clueless. Situation normal. Weirdly reassuring. “There is always a revolution. But…” Leaning. Forward. “In a revolution….” Finger. Pointing. “Not.” Point. “Everybody.” Point. “Fights.”
I must’ve looked like I understood some small part of what he was saying. Which I didn’t really, but he took it as encouragement and kept talking. “If everybody’s busy fighting. Allatime. We all lose. Every. Body. Done. May as well blow up everything. And if we do that, then, the only body who wins,” leaning. Back. “Is the body who what he really wants is to blow up everything.” And two slow shakes of the head while he concludes, “So that’s not an option.” One more shake. “Not.”
I still wasn’t sure where this was going. So I waited on further enlightenment.
Eventually it came. And it sounded like this. “Not. Every. Body.” Which wasn’t as helpful as I would’ve liked.
I rolled the thought around for a couple of beats. I wondered if I had hold of a tiny edge of what he was getting at. So I tried, “If we don’t all fight… don’t we all lose?”
“Naaah man. Propa-frickin-ganda from your great grandfather’s frickin-revo-frickin-lution. Pfah! If they con you into bein’ convinced you gotta fight like that…” A shake of the head, “You lose. They win.” A sit back in the chair like it’s all over, “May as well not even try.” A small move of one arm to wave away the massive wall of stupid. Falling on me. Right now. “We all gotta be involved.” A breath. Then, as if the idea was first-time and brand-new, he starts, and the words tumble and roll, like tony when the thoughts line up in the perfect take, “But if everybody’s fighting, who carries the stretchers? Eh? If everybody’s fighting, who takes care of the traumatized at home? Eh? If everybody’s fighting, who sings the songs, or comes up with the poems, or writes the plays, or prints the magazines, or makes with the funny jokes, that help us remember why we’re fighting? eh? Who paints the houses? Who drives the bus? Who fixes the phone lines? Who makes the bread? Who teaches the children? Eh? Who?!?!” He looked at me, clearly expecting an answer. “I’ll tell you.” Almost a snort. Then, deliberately, “No. Body.” He reached over for the bottle, I slid it towards him with my boot. “They win.” He picked up the bottle. “Again.” And took a ceremonial small sip. Point having been made.
I heard the sound of a tree falling in the forest. Which meant I was still there. “So if you’re always feeling like you’re being attacked…”
“Ahhh. yes?”
I could feel the concept, but was struggling with words. Finally I tried, “You’re always at war?”
“Okay. And then what?”
I tried, but it wasn’t coming.
My friend decided to help me out. “Angry people,” he leaned in again, “are stupid people.” He leaned back again. “And stupid people, mostly do stupid things. So if you want people to do stupid things,” he opened his hands up, “make them angry.” Then he looked at me. “And keep them there.”
I still wasn’t sure about any of this, but this was my friend, not just some random drunk in a bar at a gig. So I kept trying. “Okay, so let’s say there’s always a thing going on. What makes for a successful revolution? Or whatever it is that’s going on all the time, like you say.”
“Encourage intelligent use of the conditional.”
“Wha…?”
“Make no home for an overdeveloped sense of certainty.”
I really wasn’t sure he was answering the question I’d asked. But he kept at it.
“Cultivate a deep understanding that if there’s a system someone will game it.”
“How is that…?”
“Know when you need a new word for something. Cuz the old one’s worn out.”
“But…”
“And mostly,” he leaned back into his chair, clearly feeling like he’d painted a complete picture for me, “we don’t get to sneer at them from the wisdom of our barricades. Any. More.” He took another pull and handed it back to me. “But not the easy anger, man. Never that.”
I knew I’d been told. But I really wasn’t sure what.
Buddy had the air of a man who’s just now completed a challenging task. And, being on a roll, has decided to take on another. Right now. “And Tony needs a recording. how much?”
Now I was lost. The conversation had clearly changed. “What do you mean?”
“C’mon, I’ve watched you spin this off for strangers, man. Give ‘em a twenty-second primer on exactly how your business works. So now they know. So alright. Do it for me. Right now.”
I think I blinked.
He tried again. In small words. “Tony. A recording. How much?”
I really wasn’t getting it.
“Sister’s got the goods.” He looked at me and smiled. “Take the words and use them in new ways. All the words. All the ways. That’s the sound of the future calling. So,” he handed me the bottle, like it was a prize, “you gonna pickup?” I didn’t move right away. “Or just let it ring?”
A recording. Tony? I was still all kindsa confused. But I’d run it down for my fellow artists, maybe even drunker than this, and had it down cold, so the automatic took over and I set out the basics. Call it ten grand for laying down the tracks mixing ‘em and getting the whole thing through mastering so it stands up to the sound of the big labels, about another five grand for artwork and manufacturing the actual physical cds, would get you about a thousand discs, selling that thousand discs at twenty bucks gets you… well, enough to have made it all worthwhile. Just. And maybe, just maybe, the major labels start paying attention. If one of them decides there’s money to be made, sister’s got a path to making a living. Maybe a good one. Which is the point of the exercise. If no labels come, then you’re into the long haul. Make a recording, hope to be able to sell between twenty and fifty-thousand over a few years. Meanwhile run the gigs—that’d most often be somewhere between a hundred and three or four hundred seats, at a similar twenty bucks a head. Minus the gas to get there and the cost of putting on the show. Not a killing. But maybe a living. Maybe. The long haul ain’t pretty. But it works. Sometimes. “But I still don’t understand…”
“You guys got fans.”
“Yeah, but…”
“In the house.”
I had enough wit to sense that my friend was trying to tell me something. So I shut up and made the space for it to happen.
Buddy’s smile seemed somehow aimed more at himself than me. “So, the prince of thieves is gonna make an ask.”
This was a language I understood. Finally. “You’re gonna…?”
“Mmm.” He nodded.
“You done this before?”
“Nope. First time.”
“So, like, pass the hat?”
He shrugged. “We don’t have a lot of money. But sometimes we have enough between us to make things happen.” He smiled. “I’m gonna ask whether this is somethin’ oughta happen.” One more hit of the bottle. Almost empty now. Then he passed it to me.
My friend the prince was offering me a deal. I wondered whether I was sober enough to accept it. On behalf of my friend the genius. Good people. Good music. I did the math. And figured it was worth it. Took the bottle. And smiled. Felt like the first time in a while. I drank. Just enough left for one last round. And passed. “You guys ever done anything like this before?”
“What, songs? Nah, man. Maybe broadsheets. Back in the day. Or ballads. But not for a long time. Never like this. And never here.” He took back the bottle I offered. Then a smile of remembrance. “But back home? Actually, yeah.” The smile got even wider. “Once upon a time a song even made a revolution happen.” He checked the bottle. Enough for one last hit each. He took his. “Now there’s a story. Remind me to tell it to you sometime.” Then, with a definite ’we doin’ this?’ vibe, he passed me the bottle for mine.
That sounded like a story about the hard side of impossible. Then again so’s music. At the best of times. Part of me was still back at buddy’s not-revolution. That you have to always be good with things changing. But maybe not good with things being ripped apart. And not feeling like you’re always being attacked. Or always attacking.
As I drank I remembered thinking it was all about pace.
And apparently we had a deal.
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