—Wisdom and peace can suffer as each generation is inclined to view morality, ideals, and the au courant through its myopic group lens.

                                                             

The two friends, both in their seventies, stood in the parking lot, dazed, ears ringing, and wondering what had just happened. John and Ed had just been run out of the premises once known as Charlie’s Bar. John sighed and recalled how his wife, Helen, had discouraged him from returning to this place.
                                               

Earlier that evening

 “I’m heading to Charlie’s to knock down a couple of cold ones,” John called out to Helen.

“Oh, no you’re not,” Helen yelled back from their bedroom. She joined him at the front door, disguised in a hairnet and white moisturizer mask.

“I’m not, am I?” he asked, bemused, smiling through his gray beard.

For years John and a group of guys he’d known since high school had gotten together the first Friday of every month at Charlie’s Bar. One of them, Jake Spelling, had fallen ill and for the past four months the friends had spent most Fridays at his house or the hospital for Jake’s last days.                  

“No,” she answered, with a soft smile., reaching out to touch his cheek. “Don’t you remember? I mentioned to you that Charlie’s is gone.  It’s called Fusion Wave now.”

“With Jake being sick and all, I guess I forgot.”

“They remodeled. I heard it’s a pretty trendy bar, probably designed to cater to a younger crowd.”

“Maybe,” John said, as he rubbed his balding head, “I’ll check it out.”

“I don’t think you’ll like it.”

John considered that. “I’ve got to go anyway. Meeting Ed there at eight. I mean he’s likely already on his way there. The rest of the guys aren’t making it until next week, our usual first Friday.”

Helen picked a piece of lint off his shirt. “You can meet Ed, but you won’t be going in. I believe it opens at ten.”

“Ten? I’m about ready to hit the hay by then.”

“I doubt it’s your kind of place anymore, anyhow.”

John and Ed arrived at Fusion Wave at the same time.  “Something’s not right. It doesn’t look the same” Ed said. Ed is a tall guy, thin, with a full head of white hair,

“Our beloved Charlie’s has been transformed into Fusion Wave, whatever that means. And the doors open at ten.”

“Well, that’s the end of that,” Ed said, resigned.

“Baloney! We need to see what sidelined Charlie’s. I say we go in at ten fifteen.”

Ed frowned, doubting his best friend, but agreed, and they went for a leisurely dinner and returned at ten fifteen. The windows were tinted like a celebrity’s limo, giving the place an unwelcome appearance. John pulled the door open. Inside it was a lot darker than Charlie’s was, and there was a hazy lavender glow coming from the ceiling. The old mahogany bar was gone, replaced by one that looked like marble or granite. The guys exchanged shoulder shrugs and walked on in. John heard several shouts over the unfamiliar music.

The square cafe-style tables had been refinished and now had tiny amber lights on them. The smell was antiseptic and floral, not the aroma of stale beer that made Charlie’s approachable and, for John, welcoming. They groped the edges of tables until they found an empty one. As they sat, the volume of the music increased. It bored into John’s ears and the bass punched his body like an angry boxer. His instincts screamed: flee this joint and live to hear another day. Ed had his hands covering his ears. John shot him a consoling look. 

Ed leaned across the table and shouted, “Is it time to go yet?”

“Hey, as long as we’re here, let’s have a beer,” John yelled through cupped hands. His friend nodded okay with a forced smile.      

A petite blond server, wearing a tight, neon-blue dress, stopped at their table. “So, are you boys plannin’ to order?” she asked with a sassy smirk.

“Planning’s over. We’re ordering,” John responded. “Please make it a couple of draught beers.”

“Sorry, honey,” she said, with a bit more warmth. “Bottled beer only.”

“Okay. You got Sam Adams?”

She held up two fingers and said, “Two Sam Adams coming up,” giving John a wink as she left.

When the beers arrived, John handed the server ten dollars and waved her away. “Keep the change.”

She hesitated, then broke the bad news that the tab was twelve dollars. He gave her another five. “Now keep the change.”

“Wow,” Ed said. “You can get a six-pack for twelve bucks at the grocery.”

“I guess they need to pay for all the wonderful changes,” John said, with sarcasm coloring the last two words.

“And the decimating decibels,” Ed added with a chuckle.

While it seemed impossible, the music grew louder. John expected the bottles to explode. Or worse, their eardrums. They nodded at each other, got up, and scurried out, two half full bottles of Sam Adams abandoned. As the door closed behind them, John noticed the music level dropped significantly. And was that…cheering?

“As usual, Helen was right. She said we wouldn’t like this place,” John lamented.

                                                          ***

John said goodbye to Ed, but didn’t leave. He sat in his car thinking about the cheers. He sensed there was some monkey business going on and was determined to find out what it was. 

When a twenty-something guy came out, John walked toward him. “Hey, young man, want to make twenty bucks?”

When he got closer, the young guy said, “Dude. I know you. You were one of the old guys who came into the bar a while ago, right?”

“Right you are. But the question stands, are you interested in a quick buck?”

The kid scratched a patch of hair below his lower lip and said, “Sure. What do you need? A ride?”

“No, no. Just information. I think something strange went on while I was in there and I think you probably know what was up.” John folded a twenty lengthwise and held it so it stood up. “Tell me and I’ll give you this crisp twenty-dollar bill.”

“Okay,” the guy replied as he scanned the area. “But you can’t let anyone know I told you, okay?”

“Deal,” John said.

“Well, the manager said that whenever someone with gray hair comes in, we’re supposed to yell, ‘OCA’.”

“What’s OCA?” John asked.

“Oh, yeah. It stands for ‘Old Coots Alert.’ Uh, no offense. That’s the signal for the bar to blast the music. The manager figures old people will then leave. If they do, everyone gets a discount drink, and so everyone cheers. It’s kinda a game.”

“Rather inhospitable,” John groused, under his breath.

“It’s what?”

“Why would they do that?” John asked.

“The manager wants a young crowd and oldsters had gotten in the habit of coming here, because it used to be an old coot’s bar. Uh, again, no offense. So he invented the OCA game.”

“None taken. And was the volume lowered after my friend and I left?”

“Yeah!  Man, you guys hung in there. You bros are McQueen. Most people don’t last more than a minute or so. We could hardly stand it. I thought the speakers might blow any second.”

“Thanks, young man. Here’s your twenty,” John said. “And one more thing. Shave that hair from below your lip. It makes you look silly. Uh, no offense.”

The kid raised a hand to touch the soul patch, as if he’d forgotten it was there, and headed off, tucking the twenty in his pocket.

When John relayed this information to Ed, his old friend listened, mouth agape.

“Well, who wants to pay six dollars a beer anyway,” Ed said. “Good riddance to ’em.”

“Not so fast…” John drawled, rubbing his palms.

“Oh no, Johnny,” Ed complained. “That sly grin never ends well.”

“Thinking of a little plan,” John replied. “You in?”

“Aren’t I always?”

                                                                     ***

John outlined his plan to Ed and then the other six friends in their group. They were all in. So in. Ages ago they’d worked together on a high school team and they were about to do it again. They had a mission. They called themselves commandos.

The Commando Coots assembled outside Fusion Wave twenty-one hundred hours. Those with hearing aids turned them off. Those without them put cotton in their ears. At precisely twenty-two thirty hours, they marched in. Just past the door, there were hollers from the opposing forces, followed by an assault of music. The team had  been briefed with this intel, no one broke ranks. 

They maneuvered to a large table and established a base camp. A barrage of even louder music sprayed across them like shrapnel, and they hunkered down and readied themselves for more. It was their OCA. The ‘Old Coots Attack!’ was underway.

Intelligence reports had revealed that beer bought by the bucket was cheaper. When his eyes adjusted to the low light, John saw the blond server. He ordered provisions, two buckets, and gave her the wink. As expected, the enemy fire escalated, shaking drink glasses. Communications were maintained with hand signals. As the onslaught continued, all eight grinned and tapped feet to the beat as they had done during practice exercises. The siege was on, and they were prepared to weather rising decibels until bottles, mirrors, and designer cocktails shattered.

Several guys in their twenties were sitting at a nearby table. A tall, muscular one waved and yelled, “How you like the music?”

“Love it!” the eight Coots yelled back in a rehearsed chorus. “Woot! Woot!”

“No need to use the old hearing aid,” Ed shouted, as he smiled and pointed at his right ear. 

A few patrons seemed annoyed by the deafening music and left. The opposition was losing heart! The Coots kept smiling and tapping. A guy who looked like the manager came out of a door behind the bar. He surveyed the crowd and when he spotted the Coots, he glared.

John leaned over and spoke into Coot Magursky’s ear. “He’s trying an intimidation tactic. Let’s return fire.”

Magursky grinned, reached under the table, and pulled out a large piece of white cardboard folded in the middle. He opened it and lifted it above his head, facing the manager. It read: “LOUDER PLEASE.”

The manager shook his head and disappeared into the office. And it got louder, but it sounded less like music and more like a loud kazoo band on speed. That didn’t last long. Two speakers blew, and the kazoo band was replaced by two barking dogs on megaphones. Customers began screaming. Most ran for the door. But not the Coots. Suddenly it was silent. Victory!

Ed looked at John, eyebrows raised, eyes saying, “You did it again ‘ol buddy.”

With the mission completed, John proposed a toast. “You know Jake Spelling would’ve loved to be a part of this.” John raised a bottle in the air. “Here’s to Jake!”

The Coots shouted, “Here, here,” and clicked bottles together. They began swapping stories, as they always did.

A stocky fellow, with a crewcut, at the young fellows’ table yelled over to them, “We sure miss the music. How ‘bout you guys?”

“Us too,” Ed replied, glancing at John. “We mainly come here for the music.”

“We didn’t see you guys dancing,” a skinny young guy chirped.

“Thanks for the invitation, but not right now,” Magursky shot back.

The young guys laughed at their skinny friend and poked his ribs. Red-faced, Skinny attempted to recover. “Don’t disrespect us, dude, we’re here with this town’s greatest high school quarterback ever.”

Magursky smiled and leaned toward Skinny. “Cool, cool. Don’t get all flustered. We always respect what should be respected. So who is this stud player? We all played a little football in our day.”

Skinny placed a hand on the shoulder of the tall muscular guy. “I’ll have you know that this here is Greer Stanton, the best damn quarterback in the history of Worthington High.”

Greer stood up and took an exaggerated bow. The boys gave him wild cheers, like a Karaoke crowd gone wild.

When the cheering stopped, Ed muttered, “That’s not true.”

A loud indignant “What?” came from a young guy with a ponytail.

“I’ll say it again,” Ed said louder. “Your friend isn’t the greatest quarterback who ever played at Worthington.”

“You want to put your money where your mouth is,” Ponytail challenged. “Old man?” 

“The heck with money. When it comes to my mouth, I’d rather put some of your beer in it,” Ed answered, standing. “Our table will bet yours three buckets that your claim that Greer is the best quarterback to play for Worthington is wrong.”

The younger group was taken aback and huddled to discuss the proposition.

“You. Are. So. ON!” screeched Skinny. Another youth-group cheer.

“Are you youngsters ready for a field trip?” Magursky said to the other table.

“Like what kinda field trip? Boy Scouts or Mars?” Greer asked. “Where’re we going?” 

“Just follow us. It’s not far,” Ed replied.

En masse, they left the bar and the old walked with the young on a street lined with weathered brownstones. Falling moonlight spread across the group, creating a shadow army on the gray pavement. A young couple with a baby sat on front steps eyeing this strange band passing through their neighborhood. “What are they up to?” they must have wondered. “Can gang members be that old?”

They reached the old high school, now vacant since a new school had been built two years before. Ed shined a flashlight through a gymnasium window. Everyone crowded forward putting hands and foreheads on the glass to stare at the light focused on a wall. It revealed a chart on the wall titled ‘Football Hall of Fame,’ which hadn’t yet been moved to the new school.

The chart listed every position, and the best three players of all-time. And Skinny was right about Greer being an outstanding quarterback. There he was, on the quarterback list. When the boys spotted his name, they shouted and slapped Greer’s back. But Ed pointed out that Greer was second on the list. 

“Who’s that guy listed first—Johnny Ballentine? Never heard of him,” Ponytail said, a scowl twisting his face.

“You’re standing right next to him,” Ed said, as he gestured toward John. “Meet Johnny Ballentine, greatest quarterback in Worthington High history.”

“See the tight end rankings,” John said. “At the top of the list is Jake Spelling, a buddy we lost last week.”

“Sorry to hear about your friend,” Greer said.

“You guys have been friends forever,” Ponytail added.

“You can count on old friends,” Ed replied.

Walking back to Fusion Wave, they learned that each group’s team had won the county championship. They traded football stories, enhanced by time, but readily appreciated by gridiron comrades.      

When they walked into the bar, there was the yell. The music system had been repaired and it ramped up. When Greer entered, he trotted over to the manager, looked him in the eye and said, “Turn that mess down now, bro!” The manager nodded in agreement. “And bring three buckets to my dudes.”