“Who you going for in the race?” A jibs short story

Jibs took a seat at the bar. “Give me an Orion,” he said to the bartender, who acknowledged him without a word. It was early enough to beat the crowd, just like he wanted. In a few hours the place would be jammed up with all the regulars and it’d be business as usual. Jibs was tired of being in his apartment. It was a few weeks before the presidential election and his head was boiling over with politics. Part him cared, the part that wanted something significant to happen. But he was convinced regardless of what candidate won, nothing would really change. Elections had too much flare and that’s what made him suspicious. The bartender returned with a can of beer and bowl of peanuts. ‘Not bad. Most places charge you by the peanut,’ Jibs thought.

“Who you going for in the race?” The bartender asked. He was a big man with large hairy arms and a smile like a liver. Jibs pulled the tab on his beer. “I don’t know yet,” said Jibs before taking a cold drink. The beer was good.

“You mean you haven’t made up your mind? The election is just a few days away.” The bartender stared hard at Jibs as if he was trying to remember him from someplace. “I’d say you’re a Democrat!” He proclaimed. “Yup, I can spot one from a mile away. Tell me, am I right?” The bartender stared at him. His eyebrows looked like mustaches above each eye. Jibs looked at the man, caught in a moment of indecision.

“Ain’t no shame in it. I’m a Republican myself and naturally I wouldn’t agree with everything your party stands for. But that doesn’t mean I hold anything against you. Party lines make us stronger, ya know?”

‘Party lines make us stronger’ was the official slogan of this election. It was the government’s way of encouraging active debate amongst citizens. Whether it was within your own party or between another, every news channel, radio station, newspaper, and website proclaimed “Party lines make us stronger.” Everywhere Jibs went he was sure to hear some political pickup line. He looked like a Democrat and so people seized on that to open a discussion. The conversations were nothing more than a battle of rhetorical platitudes. Somebody would remark on the manner of how a candidate answered a question, rather than what he actually said. And the other would counter with an insight into how their party values job creation and tax revenue only second to a strong country. Jibs was tired of it.

“So am I right?” the bartender prodded Jibs again. This time he slightly leaned in with his mustache eyebrows twisting in.

“I’m undecided,” replied Jibs with a lack of enthusiasm. The beer cooled the tips of his fingers.

The bartender leaned his big head a bit to the side and curled his lip skeptically. “You’re telling me you’re not a blue blooded Dem?” he asked in a skeptical tone.

Jibs could already feel where this conversation was going. In fact, it was already in full swing. Jibs wished he would have just played along in the first place. Instead he opened himself up for a complete dismantling. Jibs reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cigarette. The bartender became stiff.

“I’m sorry sir but there’s no smoking here.”

Jibs held the cigarette for a moment. The bartender waited for him to put it back into the pack. He rolled it around his fingers once then pressed it between his thumb and forefinger. The tobacco condensed under the pressure and the bartender continued to stare. Jibs didn’t know what he was doing. Part of him wanted to snap the cigarette. What would the gesture even symbolize? The bartender waited for Jibs to put away the cigarette. The president of the United States and the opposing candidate appeared on the television above the bar. An ocean of spectators mashed together at the national debate.  There was a tension growing tighter between the two of them. The bartender wanted to speak but kept his mouth shut as if the air itself would rip at a noise. Neither of them spoke.

Jibs wondered how everyone could talk but nothing ever be said. How did everything get so boring? So mind numbingly dull. Everyone was like the pad of a thumb, ordinary and virtually indistinguishable from all the others. It didn’t matter what words were being used because it was the same thing being said. An open debate of birds making sounds in a park. Sometimes they’d peck each other and then an great hand threw fistful of breadcrumbs. Wings beat and beaks slammed downward for the scraps.

The cigarette broke in his hand. Tobacco spilled between his fingers onto the bar. “Excuse me,” Jibs said and used a napkin to clean up the mess. “I’ll take a beer,” Jibs ordered.

“But you haven’t finished that one yet.”

Jibs pulled out a gun and shot the bartender between the mustaches. It had been three years since the flag of the United Sates had been changed.