the scar

The wrinkled scar on the old man's face annoyed me somehow. He twitched-it twitched. In a certain light, the scar looked much deeper and more menacing to me but the old man was not as menacing. He was slow in his ways and had a kind, loving eye which twinkled in the neon light of the Budweiser sign. It was the look of a man who'd been there-done that and had loved every minute of it! But still the scar annoyed me. Right now, anything is bound to annoy me since I dumped those little white pills doc had prescribed for my depression. Across from the old man stood the bartender. He gave a half-hearted chuckle as the old man hit the punchline of a joke, the punchline being "nope, but it's twitching a mite".
I ordered another beer and looked away from the scar, hoping that some pleasant thought might enter my head. It didn't. Across from the bar at a rickety table sat a beautiful brunette and her date. She had a look of exasperation as the guy kept talking, on and on, which he had been doing since I first noticed them an hour before. Non stop, incessant blabbing, which at the moment bothered me more than the old man's scar.
Poor girl couldn't get a word in - he dominating the conversation like he was the only one present. Condom. That's what we call someone who doesn't let the other person take part in a two way conversation. A conversation dominator - condom for short. She had a glass-eyed look that spoke volumes. "Get me the hell away from this guy", said the look. She excused herself to go to the john. He picked up his phone and made a call, like he couldn't go for two minutes without talking. I swigged down the rest of my beer and turned to order another. The bartender was ready and sat another cold one in front of me. I caught sight of the scar again. It seemed to wink at me as the old man related another punchline to the bartender from another stale joke. "Yeah, and it's deep too". The old man laughed so hard at his delivery of the punchline that the scar seemed to laugh along with him. I looked away just in time to catch the brunette returning from the john. As she sat down, condom made like the call was really important, waving his finger at her for patience and raising his voice another decibel. She glanced over in my direction and noticed that I was watching her. Shifting in her seat, she adjusted her skirt just enough so that it revealed a tiny bit of her thigh, which were encased in sheer, black stockings. She then looked in my direction again, as if to make sure that I noticed the adjustment. Condom was still on the phone, waving his left hand in the air as if making a point to an unseen, unseeing audience on the other end of the line. She lit a cigarette and looked over at me again. I nodded acknowledgement and began thinking of ways to rescue the poor damsel from condom. Taking a long drink from my cold one, I weighed my options for the rescue. I could be a long lost relative, finally realizing who she was and not wanting to miss the opportunity to say hello. Maybe we could catch up on the family. Or I could be an old high school buddy. Or maybe just step over to her table and knock hell out of condom, grab her hand and lead her out into the night. God knows, condom annoyed me that much! But what if she didn't want to be rescued? Then I'd be fucked, or not, depending on your point of view. Another voice beside me slowly replaced the voice of condom. It was the old man. He was talking in a lower, slower tone. Somehow, thoughts of the brunette started fading like the voice of her date.
I overheard the old man beside me mention that he'd been in a war. I heard Korea mentioned. I also overheard him recount a war story about some friends who never made it back. About how he somehow felt guilty that he was still here. He called their names, slowly reciting each name in a pattern which sounded almost like a bugle playing 'Taps'. "Benson Brown, Tommy James, Eric Smith, Jimmy Cole, Buddy Hill ".  Then he went quiet.
Looking away from the brunette, I caught the scar again. This time the scar looked placid, reflecting the old man's lack of facial expression. He seemed to be staring into his drink like there was another face staring back at him. And maybe that face was his. And maybe that face was younger, and had no scar. And maybe that face hadn't seen all the horrors that the old man's face had experienced. "Barkeep, another whiskey", he said, not taking his eyes off the almost empty glass in front of him. I looked at his expressionless face and suddenly the scar seemed to take on a less menacing appearance. I forgot all about condom and the brunette, instead directing my attention toward the old man. The bartender sat the fresh whiskey down, taking the empty glass from his wrinkled hands. I looked at the old man with a new understanding. "Hey man, heard any new jokes?" I asked. The old man glanced up at me, his face lighted up like the sun had just risen and illuminated the scar, which now stood as a testament to his heroism. "Matter of fact, I have" Heard the one about the traveling salesman?"