The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Rhonda was nursing her glass of red merlot when I rolled into the American Legion with a buddy who’d ‘guested’ me into the inner sanctum of the Stanwoodopolis military speakeasy, a windowless, no frills lounge catering to those in search of cheap booze, generous pours and dollar off beers. We’d just come from the No King protests up north with our fellow left wing terrorists who hate America and want to burn our cities down. La Conner was still intact, not a town that looked like Gaze, buildings just rubble and the river townspeople sheltered in tent encampments along the dikes.

Rhonda was the lead blocker for the South End Slammers, our roller derby squad, not a far cry from her detachment in Iraq 2, but a hamstring pull tangling with the Burlington Bruisers the week before had put her on injured reserve. She was recuperating at the bar where we joined her, taking the last two stools available.

“How you doin?” my pal asked her and she just grunted. “Not great, thanks for asking.” Then told us her play by play that led to her injury. “I’ll be back on the rink in a couple,” she said. And being the joker chucklehead, I asked, “Couple more drinks?”

“Weeks, you asshole.” Which prompted a hasty apology and the offer to buy the next round. “Sorry,” she said, “I’m just grouchy today … but I’ll take another glass, thanks,” and waved to our bartender with her now empty glass.

In the adjoining room a cornhole tournament was underway with beanbags flying, scores tallied, drinks close at hand. Spectators sat at tables in the bar watching half interested. No King protests meant nothing to these folks. Rhonda either when conversation got around to it, Larry mentioning our antifa escapades at some point.

“So what’s the idea?” she asked. “The guy’s a jerk but he’s no king. Maybe we need a jerk instead of the usual mealy-mouths.”

Since I’d already proven myself a jerk, I decided to sip my beer and shut up. Larry, a regular here, maybe he’d take a shot at explaining what we were doing at the protests, what the point was. Instead he said, “Maybe you’re right. I sure hope so. Next round’s on me.”

They say the country is polarized. And probably it is. Okay, definitely it is. But for a couple of hours we watched cornhole and talked roller derby and the Iraq War and crazy politics. Nobody got mad and none of us got hurt. No bean bags were thrown in our direction. The last round was on Rhonda.