An American Spirit
The game is over, not literally but practically. You can’t recover from a 36 point deficit with a minute and 43 seconds left on the play clock. The only reason I didn’t leave is that my glass was at the halfway mark. The sports bar I’m in is typical; faux wood paneling, cheaply framed sports posters, and I have sat alone on a scuffed stool. As if compelled by our mutual loneliness, a mayo fleshed, trucker attired, fellow turned to me unprompted and sloppily spat, “The American spirit is dying.”
Upon hearing this, I did not question the man’s motives. Alcohol was the clear culprit. Instead, I asked myself what even is or was the American spirit? Was the American spirit the war of devastation in Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos, or was the American spirit the drug-fueled hippies opposing the conflict? Is the American spirit the civil rights movement or the Atlantic slave trade? Is the American spirit that of freedom or empire?
But I couldn’t overwhelm him with all of this, so I casually responded, “We’re all dying.” My answer didn’t amuse him, and he returned to his loneliness and the company of rum and coke.
