The Art of War (and Love)

with apologies to Sun Tzu

“The art of war is a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or ruin. Hence it is a subject of inquiry which on no account can be neglected.” — Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Once more it has come around: the second Thursday of the month, 9 a.m. That’s the designated day and time a certain group of men meet for coffee. They live in and around a small town which most have for most of their lives. It was once a farming community, but after decades of urban sprawl, now a suburb of a larger city. Some call these fellas elderly: those backpacking across campus or zooming their way through careers and young parenthood. These guys have already done all that, now placed in a box society calls “retired.” Their paychecks come from retirement accounts and pensions and Social Security. They traded in office meetings for these coffee gatherings, and their parenting evolved from scolding, exasperated disciplinarians to indulgent grands. They’re not as stylish and trendy as the youngsters who tolerate them, but still hip in their own archival sort of way. They do have cell phones but only because texting is less difficult than listening. Their collective wisdom doesn’t result so much from a level of IQ as it does from life experience.

The venue is a converted garage. A stand-alone structure, called a workshop buy its owner, although little, if any, work takes place inside it. It’s a place offset from the member’s house where he lives with a woman with whom he has shared over half a century of his life. The other men appreciate the hideaway and the implied but un-posted rule: “No wimmin allowed,” a la the Little Rascals’ Clubhouse. It’s not so much a misogynistic thing as it is their lifetimes of confoundation with the female of the species. The all-male coffee meets give them a forum to discuss this issue, as well as others, without fear of female reprisal.

But it’s a two-way decree. Truth is, no self-respecting woman would have the slightest inclination to set foot in the place. Besides, old women have their own enclaves.

Around the table there’s Hayward Yost, a once dairyman turned flower grower. Punch (Gale) Roundstep, an ex- mechanic, ex-carpenter, ex-trucker who spends a lot of time and money at Bass Pro. Socrates “Soc” Ninekiller, a Cherokee elder, miser of the spoken word and Hayward’s golfing nemesis. Abel Kraft, an ex-banker now tomato grower and birdhouse builder. White Oxley, a callous-handed farmer/rancher and unsolicited philosopher. There are others who come and go at the monthly meetings, but these five are the “regulars.” Some fish, some golf, some putter. All attempt to avoid their wives as much as possible. These coffee meets are one such escape.

After the opening formalities of handshakes and good-natured jibing small talk, one member said off-hand after the usual How are ya’s, “Aw, m’wife is pissed at me about somethin’, so about the same.”

That got knowing chuckles and nods. Hayward Yost said, “A man once told me, if it weren’t for sex, men and women would’ve killed each other off a long time ago.”

That gave White Oxley impetus, and he stated his opening argument.

“You know, women is a lot like bass.”

He stirred the lukewarm tan liquid in his mug, as he waited for someone to request elaboration. The cup once held coffee, but had become so diluted with creamer and sweetener, it now resembled and tasted like the tan icing atop that last remaining maple bar in the Donut Shoppe box on the table. When no one responded, White continued on his own. “You can spend a lot of time trying different lures to attract them, but they can always find a way to jump off your hook.”

“Had this crankbait onest called Plum Crazy,” Punch Roundstep cut in. “Pretty thing; expensive, too. Ole boy at Bass Pro told me when bass saw it, they would wet themselves. Then he laughed, sort of creepy-like I thought. Never caught nothing with it, though.”

White was adroit enough to use Punch’s non-sequitur to support his premise. “Now see, that’s what I mean,” he said. “Your women just don’t often appreciate what a man has to offer.”

Soc Ninekiller grunted and sipped some coffee. “In fishing,” he said. “You need to lower your expectations and raise your commitment. ‘Spect that’s true between women and men, too… and golf.” That last for Hayward’s benefit.

The table got thoughtfully quiet as the others pondered Soc’s pronouncement. One or two nodded as if they might agree. White was pleased his case had been given credence by his old friend’s venerable Cherokee wisdom.

Punch grabbed the forlorn maple bar from the Donut Shoppe box and bit off one end of it.

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