Public execution

The execution of a world leader, brought to you by…

I planned to get one drink and leave. Actually, I didn’t plan to get any drinks but after handing over a pack of cigarettes and hugging the bartender, he asked, “Can I buy you a drink to thank you?”

“I can buy my own but I’ll take a beer.” He smiled over his shoulder and pulled a Stella. I wondered briefly what I was doing and looked longingly at the stool next to me, aching to put down my bag, to peel off a layer or three.

“How was your Christmas? Did you get anything good?”

We chatted a while. A few of his friends milled between the bar and the pool tables. One, a girl, perched on a stool next to me, not playing. Jealousy flared briefly. They were friends. I didn’t know if they were anything more. She didn’t seem to know how to read me, either, as he told a strangely familiar story of a black tank top and my cleavage. I’d heard it before.

He disappeared for a while, so did the girl. A game of pool. I snagged a stool, ignoring the coat on the back, and smiled at the man at the end of the bar. I pulled my book out of the bag and started to read.

“Saddam Hussein to be executed within the hour.” I looked up as he came back to pour drinks, to pull another beer. He nodded at the television, at MSNBC. Scenes from the man’s life played on the screen while information streamed along the bottom.

“I’m not sure this is in the best interest of our country.”

“I’m fairly certain that it is not in the best interest of our country.”

Bets were placed. Twenties secured by a shaker of salt.

“I’ve got $20 that he goes before 6. What do you say?”

“I think they’ll push it as close to 6:30 as possible and the first call to prayer.”

“The man is dead; let’s go pray!”

The bar filled up around us. Few noticed the television, the news. I flipped back and forth between my book, my beer and the screen, somewhat appalled.

As the hour drew near, I found myself talking to the man next to me. I think he asked about the book but we soon discovered myriad connections. He knew a friend of mine from undergrad days in a small college in Minnesota, more than a decade ago. We had friends in common and places in common and interests in common but as the hour drew close, I found myself pulled to the television.

And then it was done. Somewhere between tech writing and democracy, between Colorado and New Orleans, sometime during our conversation, Saddam Hussein died. Was executed. Around us, people finally noticed the screen, the news.

“Cheers to the democratic party.” A glass hung unmet in the air. “Oh, all right. Cheers because he’s dead.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Around me glasses clinked. My new friend left, handing me his business card and asking me to email.

“The S.O.B. is dead,” came another toast, another raised glass.

My stomach turned a little at the celebrating, the coverage. It seemed so Margaret Atwood, so Oryx and Crake. An execution broadcast live to the masses. Granted, we didn’t see footage of the death itself but we all expected to see it posted to the internet by morning. Amid the shouts for kamikazes and Stella, Bud Light bottles and checks, Pearl Jam slurred from drunken mouths. Bon Jovi.

“We’ve got to hold on to what we’ve got! It doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not! We’ve got each other and that’s a lot for love… Let’s give it a shot!”

The bartender lowered the volume on the execution coverage.

Later, much later, “Do you want another beer?”

“Yeah… I was going to go home but I need to sit and think for a minute.”

By this morning, NBC was broadcasting pictures, footage leading up to the execution ending with a noose around his neck. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him swinging from the gallows by the end of the day.

According to press, the pres was in bed sleeping through the execution, at his Crawford ranch. It was 10 p.m. in Washington DC. 9 p.m. in Texas.


Texas timezone corrected.

Tag: Saddam Hussein Execution Bar