2017: Ed Owens Watches the 2017 Presidential Inaugeration

Ely, Nevada; January 20th, 2017:  Ed Owens sat with a couple of friends at the long, slick bar in the Jailhouse Lounge ready to watch the inauguration on the flat screen TV mounted on the wall above the rack of wine glasses.  All the festivities were across the street at the Hotel Nevada, but he liked it here better.  Ever since Mildred died he hadn't been much up to socializing.  Not that he was a recluse or anything.  He still was an active member of the Elk's Lodge and everyone in town knew him.  He just didn't like large gatherings anymore. This quiet back corner of the Jailhouse Casino was perfect.  This cozy hideaway had become his home in a way that his house could no longer be.  It didn't feel that much larger than a living room.  It had three sets of round rattan tables each with four round swivel rockers grouped around them--casual seating arrangements, like you'd find out on your back porch--and then there was this long bar with seven leather stools lined up in front of it spaced at a good good distance.  There were also two murals.  One on a white wall painted into a Spanish-styled arch edged with brick.  That was of an old steam locomotive--the Ghost Train.  The other mural was behind the bar and set inside an arch of what looked like a great red brick firebrick hearth--only it was just for decor.  It was of Ely nestled in the canyon below snow-clad peaks.  The room was simple, but warm, like home used to be.

Behind the counter stood Eudora, a thin lady in her late sixties with a creased leather face and deep set bright blue eyes.  Happening upon her face was like happening upon twin natural springs out in the desert.  Follow the rutted alluvial fans of the time-ravaged landscape down from the ridges and there nestled in the gouged chaos were two blue reflecting pools warm as an August midday sky.  With time, Ed had grown to love them, and if truth be told, Eudora was as much a reason to be tucked back into this quiet lounge as any.  He loved sitting on this stool, listening to the mingling of sounds--the television just barely audible, the sound of muffled talk radiating out from the Cell Block Steak House across the hall, and the random sounds of slots in the casino--while he watched her stiff, bony figure move about the bar, as she dusted off what didn't need dusting and polished off what didn't need polishing, making small talk as she went.  Sitting here in the eternal darkness of a casino wasn't much of a life, he guessed, but anymore, it's all he wanted.

Now was different though.  The moment for him was filled with electricity.  Finally, the Obama years were over and sanity would return to the country.  Finally, there'd be someone who understood the economy and heard the common people.  What good is a nation without industry?  Coal, copper and steel built this country.  It was time to get back to basic American values.  He was so sick of city slickers slowly turning the country into a golf club for the rich and a ghetto for the rest.

 "It's on now Dora, crank up that volume.  Let's see what our boy Trump says."

Beside Ed sat Jack Peters and Bill Mitchell.  All three had worked at Kennecott before the mine closed in 1982.  Jack had been gone for over two decades, having relocated in Draper, Utah to work for Kennecott there.  He moved back in 2004 when he retired.  Bill opened a service and fuel delivery station on the north side of town, as you head north towards Wells.  Ed opened a small machine shop in his garage and worked on lawn mowers and chain saws.  It didn't bring in much, but it was enough to cover the difference between the early retirement package he was offered when the mine closed and the cost of living until he was eligible for Social Security in 2012.

Since 2012, he had only kept the shop open a couple of hours each Saturday morning 10:00 to 12:00.  He didn't need the money, but he still liked to tinker, and if he closed down altogether, people would have to drive all the way to Eureka, 77 miles away, just to get a chainsaw fixed--and they'd have to make an appointment because unlike Ed, Butch didn't know how to keep regular hours at his place.  Ed believed in regular hours--for his shop, for his meals, for his naps, his walks, and especially for his drinking.  Eudora always knew exactly when old Ed would pull up to her bar counter.  It was clockwork.

Except today.  Today was different. Today revolved around the inauguration of a great man.

He watched, mesmerized, as the president spoke:

For too long, a small group in our nation's Capital has reaped the rewards of government while the people have borne the cost.

Washington flourished--but the people did not share in its wealth.

The establishment protected itself, but not the citizens of our country.

"Ain't that calling it like it is?" Ed said.

Everyone in that little group of four in the back corner of a small Casino in that ex-mining town in Nevada agreed.  Washington flourished--but the people did not share in its its wealth.  Now all that was going to change.  Groups like this, small and large, all across the nation, watched, riveted with anticipation.  Now was a new beginning.  Here was a spokesperson for the little people.  Someone with the guts to take on the liberal media, the educated establishment, and give voice to the common man.   No more bullshitting.  The tide had turned.

"Together, we'll make America great again," Ed said beaming.  "Dora, why don't you set everyone up with another round?  Then have one yourself."

"Ed, you know I can't drink on the job."

"Oh come on, just this once.  This ain't just any damn occasion.  We're making history here."