After five years, three months and four days, Dusty finally saw his monster. There was no mistaking him - he was the devil's son. The man who had been a stranger to his wife was no longer a stranger to him. He had known the animal for five long years. Hate for this creature rang through his veins, ever since the day he arrived home to find his mutilated wife lying naked on the kitchen floor. Now there he sat, at the bar in the Horse Shoe Saloon.
He wondered if the monster would recognize him. Feeling that it wouldn't really matter, Dusty walked over and sat beside his enemy, holding back the urge to reach over and strangle the bastard, and ordered a beer.
"You from around here?" Dusty asked.
"Nope, just passing through."
"Sounds like me."
It was silent for a minute. As far as Dusty could tell, the monster didn't have the slightest idea who he was.
"You ever travel through Miles Creek? That's where I'm from."
"Can't say that I recollect. O'course I been all over. I can't even start to recall everywhere I been. What state or territory's it in?"
"Arizona." Dusty thought that the monster sure was friendly.
"Yeah, I've been through Arizona, beautiful territory. Lots o' desert. Killed one horse and almost another going through there. You look like you've spent a lot of time in the desert."
Dusty was sizing up the man as he spoke. He took particular notice of the boots the man had on. The shape of the soles matched the footprints left in Charles' yard a thousand years earlier. He had all the proof he needed. Dusty started to pull his gun right there and blow a hole in the monster's head. But he had waited too long for this meeting. He wanted something more.
To anyone sitting in that saloon looking at the two men, Dusty would have appeared to be the monster. For the other man was neatly dressed in a long coat and tie, looking as if he might have bathed that day. His brown hair was neatly trimmed and combed. He looked like he would have been an ideal suitor for any single lady. Dusty knew that no jury would ever find the fiend guilty of the rape and murder of his wife. But Smith & Wesson was the only jury Dusty needed.
"Yeah, I've spent the last five years in the desert." Had Dusty looked in a mirror, he would not have recognized his own reflection. The young, vibrant man of five years earlier was gone. His face was leathery, and his eyes had a distant look about them. His clothes were faded, filthy, and tattered. He looked like he should be begging in the streets. Yet here was this well-groomed monster sitting beside him, talking to him like a long lost brother. Dusty thought that in a way, they were brothers. The monster had not chosen his wife by accident. That choice was in some way influenced by the devil.
Everything was now clear to Dusty - both men was part of some sick, perverted game. The monster couldn't be blamed for his actions no more than the sun could be blamed for rising. Dusty knew that killing the monster would be exactly what the devil would want him to do. To kill the monster would play right into the devils' game - but what choice did he have? Walk away? After five years of hell, Dusty knew he couldn't just walk away. Maybe the devil was going to win after all.
"You really look like you could use a bath, and a shave. I got some money if you need it. I could get you a room here and you could get some rest." Why was this monster saying that? The same man who could do so much damage to his lovely wife. How could he be so kind? Maybe this wasn't the monster. Dusty was confused - the whole devil-game business had mixed up his mind. He began to think that maybe he shouldn't kill this guy until he was positive that he was the monster. He could have been mistaken at first - five years in the desert could have made him crazy. He needed more proof.
"Why would you give me money?"
"I know you. I've been there. It's not easy being a traveling man. The desert's cruel. It makes people do foolish things. Look, if you feel funny about taking my money, you could groom my horse or something. You seem strong on pride."
"I've just been out there so long, things start to get fuzzy. You know what I mean." Dusty was starting to believe that he was dead wrong about this man.
"Yeah, I know what you mean."
Dusty wasn't sure what was happening. This guy had to be the same animal that plagued his dreams over the last five years. He hated this person, yet he was beginning to feel some compassion toward him. He wasn't sure if he would be able to kill him or not.
"Finish your beer, I'll pay for it. Then come with me," the monster said pleasantly.
"Okay. But first, what's your name?"
"Stuart. Stuart Andrews. What's yours?"
He almost said Charles, but replied, "They call me Dusty." He pressed the cool mug against his lips and poured the remaining beer into his mouth. After the last swallow, he let out a loud belch. The monster smiled.
"Well, then, we're off." As Stuart rose from his stool and started for the door, he accidentally kicked Dusty's right foot. Pain exploded through Dusty's body, but he kept it hidden; he just took a deep breath and clenched his fists.
Dusty followed Stuart three buildings down to the stables, stopping at the third stall. "This is my horse," Stuart said as he opened the gate.
Even after five years, Dusty recognized his own horse. No mistaking the gray stallion with the patch of black directly under its left ear. The horse must have remembered him, because it quickly approached him, rubbing its jaw against Dusty's chin.
"Looks like he likes you," the monster said.
"Where did you get this horse?" Dusty gave Stuart the benefit of the doubt.
"Had him since birth."
Dusty knew that was a lie. He was indeed the monster and always had been. No more would Dusty let his mind get clouded with the fiend's kindness, or the devil's games. He had only one purpose in life - to see the monster that killed Clara die.
"Now, you can groom the horse, and I'll go back to the saloon." Stuart turned to walk away, then stopped. "Oh, yeah - you can come and collect your money when you're finished."
Dusty couldn't believe that this rapist, this murderer was ordering him around. He wanted to blow a hole through his back right there, but something stopped him - the stupid thought about the devil's game. By the time Dusty could wipe it out of his mind, the monster had left.
He followed Stuart out the door and saw him walking twenty yards ahead. The monster's steps were in the same pattern as the footprints in Charles' yard an eternity ago.
Dusty no longer cared if it was the devil's game or not. He earned his revenge and nothing would stop him.
"You! BASTARD!" Dusty yelled. Everyone in the street turned to stare, as if all of their names were bastard. Suddenly, they realized what was going on and the street quickly emptied - except for Dusty and the monster.
"Dusty? Are you talking to me?"
"Yeah, you know I'm talking to you."
"But why are you so rude?" The monster tried to play innocent, but Dusty was no longer fooled. This was it, and nothing was going to stop it.
Dusty took on a stance of readiness as he prepared to meet his destiny. He scratched his hair and gripped his pistol as he asked, "Have you ever raped a woman?"
"I suppose so. Why?"
"Did you rape my Clara?"
The monster grinned. "Was that her name? Yeah, she really knew how to put out, didn't she?"
Filled with red-hot anger, Dusty didn't notice the monster draw and fire. The bullet hit his right shoulder, which exploded with pain as warm blood sprayed his face.
"I am HE!" the monster screamed, but Dusty didn't hear. Trying desperately to ignore the pain, he pulled his gun, but the bullet-torn muscle didn't want to cooperate. Determined not to let anything stop the moment, Dusty forced his shoulder to obey his brain. He raised the pistol and smoothly squeezed the trigger. The recoil threw his injured arm back.
With pleasure he saw the midsection of the fiend explode. The animal's body jerked back as the bullet ripped a hole in his stomach. His arms flew forward, and he dropped his gun. He then fell backward onto his side and his knees drew toward his chest.
Dusty willed his aching body toward the shaking monster that lay bleeding and twitching in the middle of the street. People were starting to stare out windows and doors.
As the monster saw Dusty standing next to him, he stared upward and laughed a sickening, repulsive laugh. Then he took in one more breath to shout "I AM HE!"
Dusty lowered his Smith & Wesson 44-40 Old Frontier and placed its muzzle on the monster's temple.
"You are shit."
He pulled the trigger. Dusty wasn't sure what he was supposed to feel at that moment, but he certainly didn't feel satisfied. What he felt as he walked away from the corpse of the fiend was more akin to emptiness, a lack of purpose. His mission was over and now he had to begin again.
The devil had won, but to Dusty it didn't matter. The monster was dead. It wouldn't bring Clara back, but it ended five years of miserable searching. However, as Dusty looked at the orange sunset on his way out of town, he knew that he would never be normal again.
He would always be Dusty.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Dusty's Monster, Part 3
A sand storm on the third day of Dusty's pursuit had erased the tracks that were left by his horse. Only when he would stumble onto the remains of a fire or some other sign of life did he have proof that he was headed in the right direction, He was never positive that he would ever find his wife's murderer - sometimes he wasn't sure he ever had a wife - maybe his life just started somewhere in the desert - maybe he was in hell. All he did know was that he would never be able to do anything but search - search for the monster.
Small town were scattered throughout the desert, like islands in the ocean. Most centered around a creek or small lake. Sometimes Dusty would go months without seeing one. Most of the times when he did pass through a town, he would do odd jobs in return for bullets or food - clean a stable, butcher an animal - jobs most people would rather not do.
He never would stay in a town more than two days. After so much time in the desert, towns gave him a claustrophobic feeling. Dusty could not feel the force when he was in a town. It was that force that led him down the right path, like a sixth sense, that homed in on the monster.
Once a man gave him a horse for a job well done. Dusty rode the beautiful animal for three days. Although he made better time, he felt the force leave him, as if the devil himself must be toying with him, wanting to see just how far a man would push himself to avenge his wife. The devil wanted him to give up. But Dusty was not even going to let the devil stop him.
Dusty woke to see the sun rising over a small dune. He glanced down and saw his legs protruding from the coyote's corpse. Even for him this was not a sight to awaken to. His stomach turned, and he noticed how stiff his legs had become. The animal was even stiffer, and Dusty heard dull ripping noises as he pulled out his intestine-covered feet.
He screamed in pain as he rubbed his feet in the sand to remove the blood and guts. With his blanket, he wiped away the dirt. The big toe on his right foot had turned a blackish-green. Dusty knew it would have to go. He crawled back about a hundred yards to where he had camped the night before. He removed the whiskey bottle from the leather bag that contained his life. He found the cleanest area of the blanket and cut a strip of it with his knife, then saturated it with whiskey. He poured half of the remaining alcohol over his toe, rinsing off the remaining sand and blood.
In a little ritual he stretched his arms over his head, then down to his sides, tendons popping as he did so. He closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on thoughts of Clara, and her beautiful face he knew and loved before the monster destroyed it.
Dusty placed the sharp knife on the base of his toe with the handle pointing away from his foot. He clenched his right fist tightly and raised it two feet above the knife. With all the strength he could muster, he brought it down on the top of the blade. The knife passed through the bone, but the toe then gave in the sand. The sharp steel fell short of completing the job, and when his foot jerked up from the intense pain, the dark green toe hung beneath it like a rain-drenched flag. Out of his mind with pain, Dusty reached down and quickly ripped the toe completely off his foot. Green sludge spewed from the severed toe as it hit the ground, and Dusty tightened his grip in agony.
He poured the remaining whiskey onto the nub where his toe had been, sending a fiery feeling throughout his body. He had just enough time to wrap the whiskey-soaked strip of cloth around his foot before passing out from the pain.
He was brought back to the world of the living by a drop of rain. It had been over a week since he had seen any water at all, and more than two months since it had rained. Dusty opened his eyes to a dark gray sky. The clouds were big and heavy, ready to soak the thirsty ground. His toe was aching, but the force was eating away at him to get going. It was stronger than it had ever been. He could feel the monster's presence all around. He had to move fast.
Dusty ignored any signal of pain that his foot was trying to send to his brain. He gathered his belongings, pulled on his left boot and started to pack his right. Then he thought, No, if I'm going to meet that monster it'll be with both boots on, and I'll be damned if I'm going to limp.
He drew his right boot over his foot. The pain was exploding like dynamite, but he refused to acknowledge it. Then without a trace of a limp he began to follow the path that seemed to glow in front of him.
After walking for almost an hour, the rain stopped. Not gradually, but all at once; one second it was pouring, the next, nothing. The clouds parted and the sun shone through the gap, like a giant spotlight, on a large river surrounded by trees. Dusty could see a deer drinking from it. His first thought was that he had died; everything looked so peaceful. He wanted to run and jump into the clear water, knowing how good it would feel. But something inside also knew that if he did, he would never get his revenge.
To his right, Dusty saw a narrow bridge made of stone. He knew if he chose to cross it, the jagged rocks would create unthinkable pain to his feet, even through his boots. On the other side of the river, where the bridge stood, was nothing but hot, dry sand. The trees ended before reaching the bridge.
Dusty knew he had a choice - stay there and bathe in the cool river, or refuse the relief and continue along the horrid, punishing path of revenge. He took two more steps toward the water, turned aside, then ran as fast as he could to the bridge.
The choice had been made five years earlier. The game was over. The devil lost.
(To be continued)
Small town were scattered throughout the desert, like islands in the ocean. Most centered around a creek or small lake. Sometimes Dusty would go months without seeing one. Most of the times when he did pass through a town, he would do odd jobs in return for bullets or food - clean a stable, butcher an animal - jobs most people would rather not do.
He never would stay in a town more than two days. After so much time in the desert, towns gave him a claustrophobic feeling. Dusty could not feel the force when he was in a town. It was that force that led him down the right path, like a sixth sense, that homed in on the monster.
Once a man gave him a horse for a job well done. Dusty rode the beautiful animal for three days. Although he made better time, he felt the force leave him, as if the devil himself must be toying with him, wanting to see just how far a man would push himself to avenge his wife. The devil wanted him to give up. But Dusty was not even going to let the devil stop him.
Dusty woke to see the sun rising over a small dune. He glanced down and saw his legs protruding from the coyote's corpse. Even for him this was not a sight to awaken to. His stomach turned, and he noticed how stiff his legs had become. The animal was even stiffer, and Dusty heard dull ripping noises as he pulled out his intestine-covered feet.
He screamed in pain as he rubbed his feet in the sand to remove the blood and guts. With his blanket, he wiped away the dirt. The big toe on his right foot had turned a blackish-green. Dusty knew it would have to go. He crawled back about a hundred yards to where he had camped the night before. He removed the whiskey bottle from the leather bag that contained his life. He found the cleanest area of the blanket and cut a strip of it with his knife, then saturated it with whiskey. He poured half of the remaining alcohol over his toe, rinsing off the remaining sand and blood.
In a little ritual he stretched his arms over his head, then down to his sides, tendons popping as he did so. He closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on thoughts of Clara, and her beautiful face he knew and loved before the monster destroyed it.
Dusty placed the sharp knife on the base of his toe with the handle pointing away from his foot. He clenched his right fist tightly and raised it two feet above the knife. With all the strength he could muster, he brought it down on the top of the blade. The knife passed through the bone, but the toe then gave in the sand. The sharp steel fell short of completing the job, and when his foot jerked up from the intense pain, the dark green toe hung beneath it like a rain-drenched flag. Out of his mind with pain, Dusty reached down and quickly ripped the toe completely off his foot. Green sludge spewed from the severed toe as it hit the ground, and Dusty tightened his grip in agony.
He poured the remaining whiskey onto the nub where his toe had been, sending a fiery feeling throughout his body. He had just enough time to wrap the whiskey-soaked strip of cloth around his foot before passing out from the pain.
He was brought back to the world of the living by a drop of rain. It had been over a week since he had seen any water at all, and more than two months since it had rained. Dusty opened his eyes to a dark gray sky. The clouds were big and heavy, ready to soak the thirsty ground. His toe was aching, but the force was eating away at him to get going. It was stronger than it had ever been. He could feel the monster's presence all around. He had to move fast.
Dusty ignored any signal of pain that his foot was trying to send to his brain. He gathered his belongings, pulled on his left boot and started to pack his right. Then he thought, No, if I'm going to meet that monster it'll be with both boots on, and I'll be damned if I'm going to limp.
He drew his right boot over his foot. The pain was exploding like dynamite, but he refused to acknowledge it. Then without a trace of a limp he began to follow the path that seemed to glow in front of him.
After walking for almost an hour, the rain stopped. Not gradually, but all at once; one second it was pouring, the next, nothing. The clouds parted and the sun shone through the gap, like a giant spotlight, on a large river surrounded by trees. Dusty could see a deer drinking from it. His first thought was that he had died; everything looked so peaceful. He wanted to run and jump into the clear water, knowing how good it would feel. But something inside also knew that if he did, he would never get his revenge.
To his right, Dusty saw a narrow bridge made of stone. He knew if he chose to cross it, the jagged rocks would create unthinkable pain to his feet, even through his boots. On the other side of the river, where the bridge stood, was nothing but hot, dry sand. The trees ended before reaching the bridge.
Dusty knew he had a choice - stay there and bathe in the cool river, or refuse the relief and continue along the horrid, punishing path of revenge. He took two more steps toward the water, turned aside, then ran as fast as he could to the bridge.
The choice had been made five years earlier. The game was over. The devil lost.
(To be continued)
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Dusty's Monster (part 2)
The desert can be a horrible prison for a man alone. Solitude can give someone too much time to think. The night falls hard, fast and lasts an eternity. The cries of the coyotes came to be a comfort to Dusty. He felt at home in their sorrow.
Wrapped only in his woolen blanket, he stared at the stars in the black sky that seemed close enough to touch. Unable to sleep - afraid to sleep - but desperately in need of it. He wished the heavens would fall on top of him. He wanted to be put out of his misery. But most of all he wanted to see the cowshit that killed his wife, dead. That's what got him up in the morning. It was his inspiration, his security. In his anger, he drifted off into the distant unfamiliar land of sleep.
"Charles!"
Dusty could see the pale face of Clara. "Please, Charles - help me! He's hurting me!"
The sickly distorted face of the monster sneered out from the darkness as he raped Clara. Dusty tried to move towards them, but there was a leash around his neck, choking him as he tried to reach out to her. Blood was pouring from Clara's mouth. As it rolled down her cheek, the animal would catch it with his long black tongue. He raised his head and smiled, blood oozing through his teeth and over his lips. He spoke as if from the pit of hell: "She really knows how to do it. And I know how to excite her. She loves it!"
Clara lifted her bloody head and groaned though her red teeth. "He's sooooo good! Ooh, you were never this good." Her voice shook with each thrust of his pelvis. Then her face turned from pleasure back to pain. "Charles, why are you letting him do this to me? Pleeeease..." She moaned and breathed rapidly, then - nothing. But the monster continued to pump.
"I AM HE! And you'll never get me!" A dark laugh burst from his bloody mouth. "Never!" He plunged his hand into Clara's chest and tore out her heart. It twitched wildly in his hand. "Sweet dreams, Dusty... ha ha ha..."
He sunk his teeth into the convulsing heart.
Dusty jolted forward as he woke and the leash that held him let him go. His hands were in front of him reaching for the stars, where Clara had been just seconds before. Cold sweat covered his body. He was exhausted, but never wanted to sleep again.
He sat up and with his boot kicked at the dying embers that once were a fire. He was freezing, and the night still had about four more hours before it would release its grip. The fire would soon die completely and there was no way Dusty could save it.
Each day, as he made his way through the desert wastelands, Dusty would collect every stray piece of wood he could find. That day's supply had been skimpy, and it was now gone. The cold was closing in. The dull aching in his toes was beginning to turn into a hard pounding. The desert was cruel and merciless.
Dusty stood, still wrapped in his blanket, and began to walk around. He was hoping the circulation would warm his feet. It didn't work. He began to worry about losing his toes to frostbite. A coyote howled, and Dusty jumped; it sounded like it was sitting right beside him.
He bent down and picked up his Smith & Wesson Old Frontier pistol, and walked in the direction of the howl. He could barely make out the silhouette of the coyote. It was a hundred yards in front of him, standing upright on a small dune.
As Dusty brought the cold gun out form under his blanket, he imagined that the coyote was the monster. Carefully he laid the sights on his target and squeezed the trigger. The night exploded, as fire shot out of the long barrel and the small cannon shook the desert. Dusty's nostrils came alive with the aroma of the gunpowder.
He began to run toward the still-breathing animal, ignoring the sharp, throbbing pain calling to him from the cold raw meat in his boots. Steaming vapors poured out of the coyote's mouth as its body twisted in pain. Shortening the distance between himself and the dying beast, Dusty noticed that he had accomplished exactly what he set out to do - blow the front legs, and nothing but the front legs, right off its frame. Otherwise, the animal was in one piece. It just lay there whimpering, unable to escape.
Dusty approached the coyote with little caution. He was a desperate man, no longer fearing pain, or death - he welcomed it. The animal did not respond when he reached out for it. One hot piece of lead ripped all the spirit out of it. If it can be said that an animal can pray, that coyote prayed for death. Lying on the cold desert sand, it wanted only quick relief from the misery.
Dusty held the hind legs of the coyote with one hand while drawing his razor-sharp knife with the other. With a quick downward slice, he opened the belly of the beast, exposing its warm insides. He quickly removed his boots and inserted his numb feet into the opening. His toes began to regain their feeling, and they felt the faint, dying heartbeat of the desert scavenger that unwillingly sacrificed its life, so that his feet might live.
Dusty waited for day.
(to be continued)
Wrapped only in his woolen blanket, he stared at the stars in the black sky that seemed close enough to touch. Unable to sleep - afraid to sleep - but desperately in need of it. He wished the heavens would fall on top of him. He wanted to be put out of his misery. But most of all he wanted to see the cowshit that killed his wife, dead. That's what got him up in the morning. It was his inspiration, his security. In his anger, he drifted off into the distant unfamiliar land of sleep.
"Charles!"
Dusty could see the pale face of Clara. "Please, Charles - help me! He's hurting me!"
The sickly distorted face of the monster sneered out from the darkness as he raped Clara. Dusty tried to move towards them, but there was a leash around his neck, choking him as he tried to reach out to her. Blood was pouring from Clara's mouth. As it rolled down her cheek, the animal would catch it with his long black tongue. He raised his head and smiled, blood oozing through his teeth and over his lips. He spoke as if from the pit of hell: "She really knows how to do it. And I know how to excite her. She loves it!"
Clara lifted her bloody head and groaned though her red teeth. "He's sooooo good! Ooh, you were never this good." Her voice shook with each thrust of his pelvis. Then her face turned from pleasure back to pain. "Charles, why are you letting him do this to me? Pleeeease..." She moaned and breathed rapidly, then - nothing. But the monster continued to pump.
"I AM HE! And you'll never get me!" A dark laugh burst from his bloody mouth. "Never!" He plunged his hand into Clara's chest and tore out her heart. It twitched wildly in his hand. "Sweet dreams, Dusty... ha ha ha..."
He sunk his teeth into the convulsing heart.
Dusty jolted forward as he woke and the leash that held him let him go. His hands were in front of him reaching for the stars, where Clara had been just seconds before. Cold sweat covered his body. He was exhausted, but never wanted to sleep again.
He sat up and with his boot kicked at the dying embers that once were a fire. He was freezing, and the night still had about four more hours before it would release its grip. The fire would soon die completely and there was no way Dusty could save it.
Each day, as he made his way through the desert wastelands, Dusty would collect every stray piece of wood he could find. That day's supply had been skimpy, and it was now gone. The cold was closing in. The dull aching in his toes was beginning to turn into a hard pounding. The desert was cruel and merciless.
Dusty stood, still wrapped in his blanket, and began to walk around. He was hoping the circulation would warm his feet. It didn't work. He began to worry about losing his toes to frostbite. A coyote howled, and Dusty jumped; it sounded like it was sitting right beside him.
He bent down and picked up his Smith & Wesson Old Frontier pistol, and walked in the direction of the howl. He could barely make out the silhouette of the coyote. It was a hundred yards in front of him, standing upright on a small dune.
As Dusty brought the cold gun out form under his blanket, he imagined that the coyote was the monster. Carefully he laid the sights on his target and squeezed the trigger. The night exploded, as fire shot out of the long barrel and the small cannon shook the desert. Dusty's nostrils came alive with the aroma of the gunpowder.
He began to run toward the still-breathing animal, ignoring the sharp, throbbing pain calling to him from the cold raw meat in his boots. Steaming vapors poured out of the coyote's mouth as its body twisted in pain. Shortening the distance between himself and the dying beast, Dusty noticed that he had accomplished exactly what he set out to do - blow the front legs, and nothing but the front legs, right off its frame. Otherwise, the animal was in one piece. It just lay there whimpering, unable to escape.
Dusty approached the coyote with little caution. He was a desperate man, no longer fearing pain, or death - he welcomed it. The animal did not respond when he reached out for it. One hot piece of lead ripped all the spirit out of it. If it can be said that an animal can pray, that coyote prayed for death. Lying on the cold desert sand, it wanted only quick relief from the misery.
Dusty held the hind legs of the coyote with one hand while drawing his razor-sharp knife with the other. With a quick downward slice, he opened the belly of the beast, exposing its warm insides. He quickly removed his boots and inserted his numb feet into the opening. His toes began to regain their feeling, and they felt the faint, dying heartbeat of the desert scavenger that unwillingly sacrificed its life, so that his feet might live.
Dusty waited for day.
(to be continued)
Monday, February 24, 2014
Dusty's Monster (part 1)
(The author was reading Stephen King at this time he wrote this Western story.)
He took on a stance of readiness as he prepared to meet his destiny. The streets of the little cow-town were deserted; everyone could sense that lead was about to fly - the hostile aroma hung in the air. He lifted his Stetson and scratched his filthy, matted hair. He hadn't bathed in over a month, and he smelled like the stagnant animal he had become.
Ruthless steel hands gripped the pearl handle of his Smith & Wesson 44-40 Old Frontier. A lone, round drop of sweat carelessly rolled down his ragged brow into his right eye. He ignored the slight stinging, burning sensation of the sweat bead. He had waited what seemed like his whole life for this moment, and nothing would deter him.
He was born Charles P. Fredrickson, but to the few people he came in contact with the last five years, he was Dusty. Partly because he rarely bathed, but mainly because he drifted in and out of their lives like a speck of dust.
It was because of circumstance that Dusty was alone. And it was circumstance that ruled his entire life. Abandoned at birth, he was tossed from one foster home to another, all just looking for cheap labor. He finally broke the bonds of child slavery in his tenth year, escaping a farm house ruled by a drunken child molester, in the light of an August moon. He only returned six years later to shoot the bastard dead.
Though Dusty had been cut from hard stone, he had not always had such a thirst for blood. Yet this thirst came only with a hunger for revenge. He even managed to live a normal life, for one year, ten months, and twenty-three days - the time he was married to Clara. He wanted that life to last.
But Charles ceased to exist and Dusty was born the day the monster destroyed that normal life and, perhaps, his sanity. Monster was the only word he could think of to describe the person who raped and killed his Clara. He couldn't believe a human could have committed such an act.
This creature had just been passing though when he stopped by Dusty's house on a warm mid-afternoon in June, five long years earlier. That normal house sat on the edge of town near the desert. Clara was singing to herself as she hung clothes out to dry, most likely wondering what to cook for supper as the stranger stepped out from behind the big oak at the side of the house.
"What can I do for you, sir?" She was startled by the sudden appearance of the stranger, but didn't feel threatened.
"Well, ma'am, I was wondering if I could draw a drink of water from your well. It's a hot day, and I've been walking for quite a spell."
"Go right ahead, help yourself."
The stranger walked over to the well, his eyes never leaving Clara, and lowered the wooden bucket. Soon the pail returned with its cool treat. He greedily stifled his thirst and walked back toward her. "Thank you for the water." He stood awkwardly for a moment before speaking again. "I hate to be a bother, but do ya think ya could spare a bite to eat? I'd be happy to pay ya for it."
His constant stare made Clara nervous - the way a wolf would look at a rabbit before setting out after it. Being a good Christian woman, Clara would not even allow her worst enemy to go hungry as long as she had food to offer. She led the stranger into the house and started the stove as his cold gray eyes constantly undressed her.
"Y'know, a man that's been on the road a while gets lonely." He smiled at Clara. "Since my horse died, two weeks ago, I just been walkin' round under God's blue sky and wonderin' if I wasn't the only one who really existed. It began to seem to me that everybody else was put on this here earth to either test me or please me. I'm beginning to think I'm gonna live forever 'cause if I die the world will no longer exist. I think I must be...."
"Here," Clara said coldly as she handed him the food. "Just take this and leave. You can keep the plate. Just go... please." His stare and his words were beginning to frighten her.
"I don't really seem to be hungry at the moment. And you don't seem to understand."
"My husband will be home soon. It would be best if you leave, now."
"You belong to me." He seized her arm. "Everything belongs to me!"
"No!" She screamed as he ripped her thin dress with one quick jerking motion. Clara tried to fight, but the stranger quickly forced her to the floor and went into her, then slammed his fist into her body and face while raping her, yelling at the top of his voice "I am HE!" repeatedly. Blood covered the kitchen floor as he continued to pound on Clara even after she breathed her last.
Suddenly becalmed, the stranger walked back to the well and washed off the blood. He retuned to the kitchen, sat and ate the meal Clara so kindly made for him. Then he went out, took Dusty's horse and rode off into the desert.
Not half an hour had passed before Dusty returned to find what remained of his wife. After weeping for the first time in his adult life, he buried Clara and decided to set out after the monster.
He no longer had a horse so he entered the desert on foot. The hunting was slow, but the longer his search, the greater his thirst grew. The only clues he had to go on were the impressions of the monster's boots in his yard and the tracks left by his own horse. In time he would be able to know which way to travel, as if he were being pulled toward the monster. And he would see the stranger's face in his dreams.
(To be continued)
He took on a stance of readiness as he prepared to meet his destiny. The streets of the little cow-town were deserted; everyone could sense that lead was about to fly - the hostile aroma hung in the air. He lifted his Stetson and scratched his filthy, matted hair. He hadn't bathed in over a month, and he smelled like the stagnant animal he had become.
Ruthless steel hands gripped the pearl handle of his Smith & Wesson 44-40 Old Frontier. A lone, round drop of sweat carelessly rolled down his ragged brow into his right eye. He ignored the slight stinging, burning sensation of the sweat bead. He had waited what seemed like his whole life for this moment, and nothing would deter him.
He was born Charles P. Fredrickson, but to the few people he came in contact with the last five years, he was Dusty. Partly because he rarely bathed, but mainly because he drifted in and out of their lives like a speck of dust.
It was because of circumstance that Dusty was alone. And it was circumstance that ruled his entire life. Abandoned at birth, he was tossed from one foster home to another, all just looking for cheap labor. He finally broke the bonds of child slavery in his tenth year, escaping a farm house ruled by a drunken child molester, in the light of an August moon. He only returned six years later to shoot the bastard dead.
Though Dusty had been cut from hard stone, he had not always had such a thirst for blood. Yet this thirst came only with a hunger for revenge. He even managed to live a normal life, for one year, ten months, and twenty-three days - the time he was married to Clara. He wanted that life to last.
But Charles ceased to exist and Dusty was born the day the monster destroyed that normal life and, perhaps, his sanity. Monster was the only word he could think of to describe the person who raped and killed his Clara. He couldn't believe a human could have committed such an act.
This creature had just been passing though when he stopped by Dusty's house on a warm mid-afternoon in June, five long years earlier. That normal house sat on the edge of town near the desert. Clara was singing to herself as she hung clothes out to dry, most likely wondering what to cook for supper as the stranger stepped out from behind the big oak at the side of the house.
"What can I do for you, sir?" She was startled by the sudden appearance of the stranger, but didn't feel threatened.
"Well, ma'am, I was wondering if I could draw a drink of water from your well. It's a hot day, and I've been walking for quite a spell."
"Go right ahead, help yourself."
The stranger walked over to the well, his eyes never leaving Clara, and lowered the wooden bucket. Soon the pail returned with its cool treat. He greedily stifled his thirst and walked back toward her. "Thank you for the water." He stood awkwardly for a moment before speaking again. "I hate to be a bother, but do ya think ya could spare a bite to eat? I'd be happy to pay ya for it."
His constant stare made Clara nervous - the way a wolf would look at a rabbit before setting out after it. Being a good Christian woman, Clara would not even allow her worst enemy to go hungry as long as she had food to offer. She led the stranger into the house and started the stove as his cold gray eyes constantly undressed her.
"Y'know, a man that's been on the road a while gets lonely." He smiled at Clara. "Since my horse died, two weeks ago, I just been walkin' round under God's blue sky and wonderin' if I wasn't the only one who really existed. It began to seem to me that everybody else was put on this here earth to either test me or please me. I'm beginning to think I'm gonna live forever 'cause if I die the world will no longer exist. I think I must be...."
"Here," Clara said coldly as she handed him the food. "Just take this and leave. You can keep the plate. Just go... please." His stare and his words were beginning to frighten her.
"I don't really seem to be hungry at the moment. And you don't seem to understand."
"My husband will be home soon. It would be best if you leave, now."
"You belong to me." He seized her arm. "Everything belongs to me!"
"No!" She screamed as he ripped her thin dress with one quick jerking motion. Clara tried to fight, but the stranger quickly forced her to the floor and went into her, then slammed his fist into her body and face while raping her, yelling at the top of his voice "I am HE!" repeatedly. Blood covered the kitchen floor as he continued to pound on Clara even after she breathed her last.
Suddenly becalmed, the stranger walked back to the well and washed off the blood. He retuned to the kitchen, sat and ate the meal Clara so kindly made for him. Then he went out, took Dusty's horse and rode off into the desert.
Not half an hour had passed before Dusty returned to find what remained of his wife. After weeping for the first time in his adult life, he buried Clara and decided to set out after the monster.
He no longer had a horse so he entered the desert on foot. The hunting was slow, but the longer his search, the greater his thirst grew. The only clues he had to go on were the impressions of the monster's boots in his yard and the tracks left by his own horse. In time he would be able to know which way to travel, as if he were being pulled toward the monster. And he would see the stranger's face in his dreams.
(To be continued)
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Possum on the Half-Shell
At that time in my life, I was recently wed and momentarily semi-wealthy. I had returned from a tour of duty in the Army and popped the question to my sweetheart. However, at the request of Laura May's parents, we were to wait till the end of the summer. Just long enough for the extravagant church wedding to be planned and prepared for.
Except for my short experience in the armed forces, I had been raised in a moderate south Georgia fashion. I often wondered how I was supposed to keep my upper-level middle-class big city Tallahassee bride satisfied on a factory worker's salary. Also, I had my own ambition to graduate from college and become a successful novelist. Swing shift at the factory made my dreams seem far out of reach.
The closer the wedding day got, the more I realized that I didn't have a clue as to what my bride and I were going to do about a place to live. In the last three months I managed to save $600, but as I priced apartments I realized that $600 wasn't going to go very far.
Although I had never enjoyed anything close to a life of luxury, I had never really wanted for anything. Throughout my life, just when I thought all was hopeless, something or someone had always provided a way. This time was no exception, even though I wish it had been.
It was a little after midnight on a Friday and I had just got home from work. Laura May was at my house as she often was on the weekends. I had just entered my room and found her sleeping on my bed. I went to put my arms around her and told her how glad I was to see her. Something was different in the way she held me. It was a little tighter than normal.
There was a knock on my door and I heard my mother ask, "Can I come in?"
"It's open," I replied. She opened the door and walked in. Something was strange about the way she looked. I had passed her in the living room when I came home but I didn't notice her expression then.
"I wanted to wait until you got to your room to tell you. I didn't think you would want to be told in front of them." As always on Friday nights, we had guests. "I still can't believe it."
Thoughts began to run though my mind: the first was that my dad must be dead. My parents had been divorced fifteen years, but even so, his death would still be accompanied by her tears.
"What happened?" I had to know.
"It's your Uncle Bobby. He died this afternoon. I would've called you at work, but there's really nothing you can do."
My Uncle Bobby was my father's brother. He lived four hours away from us, up above Atlanta. He had always been my favorite uncle. I lived with him for a month after I had graduated high school. And when I was a young boy, he had stayed with us a while. He was my dad's younger, and only, brother. Though he was an alcoholic, he was the greatest and friendliest man I had ever known.
Accepting his death was not an easy matter, and it was made even harder when I was informed that he had left me his profit sharing policy, which totaled more than $80,000. Uncle Bobby had a total of seven nieces and nephews, one brother, two sisters, and a wife. He wasn't rich by any means, but he was a hard worker. His wife received his estate, and insurance policy, while I received the profit sharing, along with two acres of family land in my hometown, Deacon's Pass - land left to my uncle by my grandfather; the only stipulation being that my dad be allowed to live on the land as long as he wished. At that time, he had a mobile home located on the land. But no other relative got anything.
My dad kept reminding me that I was the only male Hodges left to carry on the family name (he already had a vasectomy fourteen years earlier), and that's why my uncle left me what he did. Still, it didn't help me to work out my emotions on the matter. Though all of my relatives on Dad's side (except for him and my sister) lived away from Deacon's Pass, I still found it hard to accept.
It was as if he had given me a needed wedding present. However, I would have preferred his being there. But that was not an option, so I had to learn to deal with my own situation. I invested the money in a CD, quit my job, signed up for college, bought a mobile home to put on the land next to Dad's, and got married. It wasn't that easy - I spent a month of sleepless nights making these decisions, and two weeks of hell moving the mobile home, setting it up, and passing several county building inspections.
Finally, I was married, set into my new college schedule, and living a fairly normal life.
And then he came into my life, and it was never the same again.
The notorious, vile, disgusting creature some people call an armadillo.
"You see that?" My dad and I stood in the middle of our yard between our two homes. He was pointing to the ground.
"Can't you see all those holes?" Dad was a fanatic when it came to his grass. He spent most of his life keeping it neatly trimmed.
"Yeah... now I see them." I personally didn't take the time to notice the ground too much. But there was a 20-foot area that was nothing but a series of small holes and mounds of dirt.
"Not only is that ugly, it can also destroy a riding mower." Personal property and money were two other things my dad was devoted to. He definitely believed in maintaining his equipment and saving money.
"Well, what can I, small independent Wayne Hodges do?" I humbly asked.
"For starters, get the wheelbarrow out of the shed and fill these holes."
I knew I should have kept my mouth shut. "What caused these holes?"
"An armadillo."
"Are you sure?" I really didn't know much about the creature except that I saw a lot of them splattered on the highway.
"Yeah. I saw him one night when I got home from seeing your Uncle Bobby before he died. I should have shot him then."
I didn't feel quite up to talking about Uncle Bobby, so I started on something else. "We didn't have armadillos in Georgia when I was a kid, did we?"
"No. Your Uncle Bobby wanted me to bring one up to him, but I told him they would be there soon enough."
"I didn't know they dug in people's yards."
"They dig for insects. I want you to kill him for me."
"I don't have a gun."
"What happened to all those guns I gave you?"
"They're at Mama's house. I don't think I could kill anything." When I was younger, I was into hunting, but after my time in the Army I decided killing was something I didn't care to do.
"Don't be silly," Dad said. I knew he wouldn't understand.
"God must have made the armadillo for something." I didn't mind people killing an animal for food, but killing for the sake of killing was something else.
"Wayne, they're like cockroaches. Look, if you don't wanna kill him, let one of them dogs of yours out of the pen at night."
"I can't, they might get run over." Laura May and I had gotten in the habit of keeping every stray dog that wandered by.
"Next time you're at your mama's, pick up your shotgun, okay?"
"Sure."
Later, while in bed, I heard the dogs bark all night. They probably had been doing that before, but now, visions of the armadillo began to fill my head. I couldn't sleep that night, or any night in the months to follow.
Next day, I went to the college library and looked up "armadillo" in an encyclopedia. I learned that they were nocturnal creatures that lived off insects. Most don't have teeth, and if they do, they're in the back of their mouths. If a predator attacks them, they first try to run; if they can't, they dig themselves into the ground; and as a last resort, they curl up into a ball of armor. Then I saw the answer to my dilemma - in some South American countries, armadillo meat is considered a delicacy. That meant that I could kill him, as long as I ate him.
I then saw the illustration of the armadillo and lost my appetite. The little beady eyes, long snout, icky tail, and devilish claws not only disgusted me, but if the truth be known, it downright scared me.
"I read that some people eat them," I told my dad. The sun had just set and he was standing on his deck. I was leaning against the deck dressed in my Army camouflage, holding my .12-gauge pump shotgun, and I had a flashlight hanging on my belt. I was ready for battle.
"I suppose you could. They ain't nothin' but a possum on the half-shell. All they eat is insects. I don't think I've ever heard of 'em eating on a dead cow like a possum or coon. And people eat them."
My stomach churned as I pictured an albino-faced possum eating the insides of a dead cow.
After a while, my dad went into his trailer and I headed back toward mine. I was about ready to call it a night of hunting. I didn't like standing out there in the dark with God knows what kind of creatures surrounding me.
I wasn't two feet away from Dad's deck when I heard the dogs start to bark. I hoped it was at me they were barking. I flipped on my flashlight. It was hauntingly dim. The batteries needed to be replaced. As I approached my mobile home, the flashlight was shining on the dog pen. I saw three pairs of terrifying green eyes, all brightly glowing. My friendly mutts looked like barking demon dogs.
My heart was double-timing. I was ready to get back to the house. I moved the light away from the dogs and then I saw him. Straight down the fence line from me, the armadillo was moving steadily toward the field full of weeds behind the dog pen. I guess I scared him, but not half as much as he did me.
The dim light made a ghostly shadow, and I forgot what I had read about armadillos not being able to hide. I could see that guy gnawing my leg off. It was then that I knew that I could kill this thing without a second thought. Hell, I knew I would not rest until I saw him dead.
I raised my shotgun. In doing so, I dropped the flashlight and night surrounded me. The thought of being in total darkness with that beast from hell gave me the chills. I left the flashlight where it lay and bolted for my trailer.
"Did you get him?" Laura May asked as I shut the door behind me.
"No, I didn't see him," I lied.
The dogs didn't bark anymore that night.
----
I began to get into a nightly routine: whenever I heard the dogs bark, I would grab my gun and head out the door to patrol the yard. After blowing my first chance, I kicked myself for a few days. Then I bought a $60 flashlight and tied it to my shotgun.
Weeks went by without seeing the armadillo. Unfortunately, the dogs still barked all night, and I spent more time roaming around the yard than I did in bed. It drove Laura May crazy. "Wayne, why don't you just forget that damn armadillo?" she asked night after night.
"I would, but the dogs are keeping me awake. I won't get any sleep until he's dead."
"How do you know it's a he?"
"Go to sleep."
I had made straight A's during the first half of the quarter, but now my grades were falling rapidly. I spent my whole day in class picturing myself sending that armadillo to an early grave. I was heading toward a psychological breakdown.
The next time I had an encounter with the beast, I managed to get a shot off, but not before my old .12-gauge jammed on me and the flashlight slipped sideways off my gun. The shotgun knocked a hole into the silence of the night. I quickly tried to pump the gun and fire again, but it jammed a second time. While trying to fix it, I heard the creature plunge into the bushes. By the time I had another round loaded, the armadillo disappeared.
I searched for blood, but found none. Laura May stuck her head out the front door asking if I had got him, but I didn't hear her. I wasn't about to let the sick beast get away this time. I had unloaded over half a box of shotgun shells into the twenty feet of bushes before I felt someone grab my shoulder.
"This isn't a war, son," Dad said.
"Yes, it is! Didn't you want me to kill this thing?"
"Yeah, but I didn't mean for you to wake the dead! Do you know that it's four in the morning? We might live outside the city limits, but we still have a few neighbors."
"I guess you're right," I admitted, and went back inside to bed.
The next day, I searched for the remains of the armadillo, but all I found was a hole where he must have buried himself. An empty hole. He survived again.
The next and last time I had a run-in with my armadillo was two weeks later. The first night in months that I actually slept solid. The dogs had been quiet. I was dreaming of burying the armadillo when the dogs started up. By their growls, I knew the fiend was out there making Swiss cheese out of my lawn.
The clock read a quarter to three. I was groggy and in desperate need of more sleep. I even tried to ignore it, but the thought that I might be blowing another chance got me out of bed.
"Where are you going?" Laura May sleepily asked.
"Don't you hear the dogs?"
"No. Come back to bed."
"In a minute." I grabbed my shotgun and was on my way.
He was there, all right. Digging up the west side of the yard. There wasn't any bushes for him to run to on this side of the lawn. He was mine. I was too excited to notice the cool wind blowing on my bare legs. In my haste I had forgotten to put on my pants. I was standing in the dark with only a pair of underwear briefs covering me.
The demon saw me and began running toward the road. I pumped my shotgun. Since that first time I missed him, I had begun to keep my gun well-lubricated and it pumped smoothly. I didn't fire, however; I was going to get as close as possible before pulling the trigger.
I began running full-tilt. To my surprise, that little sucker could move, but I was gaining ground. The moon was full and I really didn't even need my flashlight. He was almost toe the highway when I stopped, short-winded, and took aim.
That little bead on my shotgun was dead-eye right on the bastard when I heard the car. The insane part of my brain, which had really began to thrive since first seeing the armadillo, started to pull the trigger. I knew if I did, I would probably hit the car, which, by the sound of it, was approaching fast. My saner mind said to wait till the car passed.
I'm not sure what caused it. I like to think that it was the full moon, but maybe it was just that part of me that wanted nothing more than to see that dirty stinking son of a devil dead. Whatever it was, it made me pull the trigger. The armadillo was on the road and the car was right on top of it, but still I pulled the trigger.
It was the biggest injustice of my life. In my crazy haste I had forgotten to take the safety off, and the gun didn't fire. Instead the armadillo became the victim of a car tire. I was deranged. I took the shotgun off safe and ran into the road. The car stopped fifty yards after hitting the armadillo.
I stood there in my Fruit of the Looms, and fired the four shells that were in my gun into the dead armadillo. I was still pumping and dry-firing when the State Patrolman forced the gun out of my hands and slapped me a few times.
Laura May and my dad were both coming to see what all the fuss was about.
"He killed my armadillo." That was all I could manage to say while they stared at me.
I was lucky that Dad knew the trooper. He didn't haul me off to jail, but he did make me change the tire that blew when he hit the armadillo. He didn't even let me put on my clothes.
Since that time, I have managed to become a fairly normal person again. But I still feel like grabbing my shotgun every time I hear a dog bark. And I go through tires like socks, because I cannot pass a dead armadillo without driving over him.
Except for my short experience in the armed forces, I had been raised in a moderate south Georgia fashion. I often wondered how I was supposed to keep my upper-level middle-class big city Tallahassee bride satisfied on a factory worker's salary. Also, I had my own ambition to graduate from college and become a successful novelist. Swing shift at the factory made my dreams seem far out of reach.
The closer the wedding day got, the more I realized that I didn't have a clue as to what my bride and I were going to do about a place to live. In the last three months I managed to save $600, but as I priced apartments I realized that $600 wasn't going to go very far.
Although I had never enjoyed anything close to a life of luxury, I had never really wanted for anything. Throughout my life, just when I thought all was hopeless, something or someone had always provided a way. This time was no exception, even though I wish it had been.
It was a little after midnight on a Friday and I had just got home from work. Laura May was at my house as she often was on the weekends. I had just entered my room and found her sleeping on my bed. I went to put my arms around her and told her how glad I was to see her. Something was different in the way she held me. It was a little tighter than normal.
There was a knock on my door and I heard my mother ask, "Can I come in?"
"It's open," I replied. She opened the door and walked in. Something was strange about the way she looked. I had passed her in the living room when I came home but I didn't notice her expression then.
"I wanted to wait until you got to your room to tell you. I didn't think you would want to be told in front of them." As always on Friday nights, we had guests. "I still can't believe it."
Thoughts began to run though my mind: the first was that my dad must be dead. My parents had been divorced fifteen years, but even so, his death would still be accompanied by her tears.
"What happened?" I had to know.
"It's your Uncle Bobby. He died this afternoon. I would've called you at work, but there's really nothing you can do."
My Uncle Bobby was my father's brother. He lived four hours away from us, up above Atlanta. He had always been my favorite uncle. I lived with him for a month after I had graduated high school. And when I was a young boy, he had stayed with us a while. He was my dad's younger, and only, brother. Though he was an alcoholic, he was the greatest and friendliest man I had ever known.
Accepting his death was not an easy matter, and it was made even harder when I was informed that he had left me his profit sharing policy, which totaled more than $80,000. Uncle Bobby had a total of seven nieces and nephews, one brother, two sisters, and a wife. He wasn't rich by any means, but he was a hard worker. His wife received his estate, and insurance policy, while I received the profit sharing, along with two acres of family land in my hometown, Deacon's Pass - land left to my uncle by my grandfather; the only stipulation being that my dad be allowed to live on the land as long as he wished. At that time, he had a mobile home located on the land. But no other relative got anything.
My dad kept reminding me that I was the only male Hodges left to carry on the family name (he already had a vasectomy fourteen years earlier), and that's why my uncle left me what he did. Still, it didn't help me to work out my emotions on the matter. Though all of my relatives on Dad's side (except for him and my sister) lived away from Deacon's Pass, I still found it hard to accept.
It was as if he had given me a needed wedding present. However, I would have preferred his being there. But that was not an option, so I had to learn to deal with my own situation. I invested the money in a CD, quit my job, signed up for college, bought a mobile home to put on the land next to Dad's, and got married. It wasn't that easy - I spent a month of sleepless nights making these decisions, and two weeks of hell moving the mobile home, setting it up, and passing several county building inspections.
Finally, I was married, set into my new college schedule, and living a fairly normal life.
And then he came into my life, and it was never the same again.
The notorious, vile, disgusting creature some people call an armadillo.
"You see that?" My dad and I stood in the middle of our yard between our two homes. He was pointing to the ground.
"Can't you see all those holes?" Dad was a fanatic when it came to his grass. He spent most of his life keeping it neatly trimmed.
"Yeah... now I see them." I personally didn't take the time to notice the ground too much. But there was a 20-foot area that was nothing but a series of small holes and mounds of dirt.
"Not only is that ugly, it can also destroy a riding mower." Personal property and money were two other things my dad was devoted to. He definitely believed in maintaining his equipment and saving money.
"Well, what can I, small independent Wayne Hodges do?" I humbly asked.
"For starters, get the wheelbarrow out of the shed and fill these holes."
I knew I should have kept my mouth shut. "What caused these holes?"
"An armadillo."
"Are you sure?" I really didn't know much about the creature except that I saw a lot of them splattered on the highway.
"Yeah. I saw him one night when I got home from seeing your Uncle Bobby before he died. I should have shot him then."
I didn't feel quite up to talking about Uncle Bobby, so I started on something else. "We didn't have armadillos in Georgia when I was a kid, did we?"
"No. Your Uncle Bobby wanted me to bring one up to him, but I told him they would be there soon enough."
"I didn't know they dug in people's yards."
"They dig for insects. I want you to kill him for me."
"I don't have a gun."
"What happened to all those guns I gave you?"
"They're at Mama's house. I don't think I could kill anything." When I was younger, I was into hunting, but after my time in the Army I decided killing was something I didn't care to do.
"Don't be silly," Dad said. I knew he wouldn't understand.
"God must have made the armadillo for something." I didn't mind people killing an animal for food, but killing for the sake of killing was something else.
"Wayne, they're like cockroaches. Look, if you don't wanna kill him, let one of them dogs of yours out of the pen at night."
"I can't, they might get run over." Laura May and I had gotten in the habit of keeping every stray dog that wandered by.
"Next time you're at your mama's, pick up your shotgun, okay?"
"Sure."
Later, while in bed, I heard the dogs bark all night. They probably had been doing that before, but now, visions of the armadillo began to fill my head. I couldn't sleep that night, or any night in the months to follow.
Next day, I went to the college library and looked up "armadillo" in an encyclopedia. I learned that they were nocturnal creatures that lived off insects. Most don't have teeth, and if they do, they're in the back of their mouths. If a predator attacks them, they first try to run; if they can't, they dig themselves into the ground; and as a last resort, they curl up into a ball of armor. Then I saw the answer to my dilemma - in some South American countries, armadillo meat is considered a delicacy. That meant that I could kill him, as long as I ate him.
I then saw the illustration of the armadillo and lost my appetite. The little beady eyes, long snout, icky tail, and devilish claws not only disgusted me, but if the truth be known, it downright scared me.
"I read that some people eat them," I told my dad. The sun had just set and he was standing on his deck. I was leaning against the deck dressed in my Army camouflage, holding my .12-gauge pump shotgun, and I had a flashlight hanging on my belt. I was ready for battle.
"I suppose you could. They ain't nothin' but a possum on the half-shell. All they eat is insects. I don't think I've ever heard of 'em eating on a dead cow like a possum or coon. And people eat them."
My stomach churned as I pictured an albino-faced possum eating the insides of a dead cow.
After a while, my dad went into his trailer and I headed back toward mine. I was about ready to call it a night of hunting. I didn't like standing out there in the dark with God knows what kind of creatures surrounding me.
I wasn't two feet away from Dad's deck when I heard the dogs start to bark. I hoped it was at me they were barking. I flipped on my flashlight. It was hauntingly dim. The batteries needed to be replaced. As I approached my mobile home, the flashlight was shining on the dog pen. I saw three pairs of terrifying green eyes, all brightly glowing. My friendly mutts looked like barking demon dogs.
My heart was double-timing. I was ready to get back to the house. I moved the light away from the dogs and then I saw him. Straight down the fence line from me, the armadillo was moving steadily toward the field full of weeds behind the dog pen. I guess I scared him, but not half as much as he did me.
The dim light made a ghostly shadow, and I forgot what I had read about armadillos not being able to hide. I could see that guy gnawing my leg off. It was then that I knew that I could kill this thing without a second thought. Hell, I knew I would not rest until I saw him dead.
I raised my shotgun. In doing so, I dropped the flashlight and night surrounded me. The thought of being in total darkness with that beast from hell gave me the chills. I left the flashlight where it lay and bolted for my trailer.
"Did you get him?" Laura May asked as I shut the door behind me.
"No, I didn't see him," I lied.
The dogs didn't bark anymore that night.
----
I began to get into a nightly routine: whenever I heard the dogs bark, I would grab my gun and head out the door to patrol the yard. After blowing my first chance, I kicked myself for a few days. Then I bought a $60 flashlight and tied it to my shotgun.
Weeks went by without seeing the armadillo. Unfortunately, the dogs still barked all night, and I spent more time roaming around the yard than I did in bed. It drove Laura May crazy. "Wayne, why don't you just forget that damn armadillo?" she asked night after night.
"I would, but the dogs are keeping me awake. I won't get any sleep until he's dead."
"How do you know it's a he?"
"Go to sleep."
I had made straight A's during the first half of the quarter, but now my grades were falling rapidly. I spent my whole day in class picturing myself sending that armadillo to an early grave. I was heading toward a psychological breakdown.
The next time I had an encounter with the beast, I managed to get a shot off, but not before my old .12-gauge jammed on me and the flashlight slipped sideways off my gun. The shotgun knocked a hole into the silence of the night. I quickly tried to pump the gun and fire again, but it jammed a second time. While trying to fix it, I heard the creature plunge into the bushes. By the time I had another round loaded, the armadillo disappeared.
I searched for blood, but found none. Laura May stuck her head out the front door asking if I had got him, but I didn't hear her. I wasn't about to let the sick beast get away this time. I had unloaded over half a box of shotgun shells into the twenty feet of bushes before I felt someone grab my shoulder.
"This isn't a war, son," Dad said.
"Yes, it is! Didn't you want me to kill this thing?"
"Yeah, but I didn't mean for you to wake the dead! Do you know that it's four in the morning? We might live outside the city limits, but we still have a few neighbors."
"I guess you're right," I admitted, and went back inside to bed.
The next day, I searched for the remains of the armadillo, but all I found was a hole where he must have buried himself. An empty hole. He survived again.
The next and last time I had a run-in with my armadillo was two weeks later. The first night in months that I actually slept solid. The dogs had been quiet. I was dreaming of burying the armadillo when the dogs started up. By their growls, I knew the fiend was out there making Swiss cheese out of my lawn.
The clock read a quarter to three. I was groggy and in desperate need of more sleep. I even tried to ignore it, but the thought that I might be blowing another chance got me out of bed.
"Where are you going?" Laura May sleepily asked.
"Don't you hear the dogs?"
"No. Come back to bed."
"In a minute." I grabbed my shotgun and was on my way.
He was there, all right. Digging up the west side of the yard. There wasn't any bushes for him to run to on this side of the lawn. He was mine. I was too excited to notice the cool wind blowing on my bare legs. In my haste I had forgotten to put on my pants. I was standing in the dark with only a pair of underwear briefs covering me.
The demon saw me and began running toward the road. I pumped my shotgun. Since that first time I missed him, I had begun to keep my gun well-lubricated and it pumped smoothly. I didn't fire, however; I was going to get as close as possible before pulling the trigger.
I began running full-tilt. To my surprise, that little sucker could move, but I was gaining ground. The moon was full and I really didn't even need my flashlight. He was almost toe the highway when I stopped, short-winded, and took aim.
That little bead on my shotgun was dead-eye right on the bastard when I heard the car. The insane part of my brain, which had really began to thrive since first seeing the armadillo, started to pull the trigger. I knew if I did, I would probably hit the car, which, by the sound of it, was approaching fast. My saner mind said to wait till the car passed.
I'm not sure what caused it. I like to think that it was the full moon, but maybe it was just that part of me that wanted nothing more than to see that dirty stinking son of a devil dead. Whatever it was, it made me pull the trigger. The armadillo was on the road and the car was right on top of it, but still I pulled the trigger.
It was the biggest injustice of my life. In my crazy haste I had forgotten to take the safety off, and the gun didn't fire. Instead the armadillo became the victim of a car tire. I was deranged. I took the shotgun off safe and ran into the road. The car stopped fifty yards after hitting the armadillo.
I stood there in my Fruit of the Looms, and fired the four shells that were in my gun into the dead armadillo. I was still pumping and dry-firing when the State Patrolman forced the gun out of my hands and slapped me a few times.
Laura May and my dad were both coming to see what all the fuss was about.
"He killed my armadillo." That was all I could manage to say while they stared at me.
I was lucky that Dad knew the trooper. He didn't haul me off to jail, but he did make me change the tire that blew when he hit the armadillo. He didn't even let me put on my clothes.
Since that time, I have managed to become a fairly normal person again. But I still feel like grabbing my shotgun every time I hear a dog bark. And I go through tires like socks, because I cannot pass a dead armadillo without driving over him.
Friday, February 21, 2014
A Good Boy
Johnny arrived five minutes late to work. He opened the door to Ray's Auto Parts House and let his four-year-old son Wayne walk in ahead of him. It had been a mild August for south Georgia, but this morning Ray's NAPA thermometer already read 90. The familiar smell of oil, rubber and iron lingered in the deserted front room. Johnny led Wayne over to the sales counter and sat him on one of the tall stools. With his hand he straightened his son's cotton-blond hair.
"Now, you sit right here. Don't go nowhere. I'll put you down, when I'm ready. Okay, partner?"
"Okay, Daddy."
Johnny left his son sitting on the stool and walked around the counter, through the storehouse door, and into the back room. Ray sat at the small desk in the corner next to an aisle of mufflers. The calendar behind him depicted Miss NAPA Parts sitting seductively on a large red toolbox. He punched buttons on an adding machine, and didn't respond to Johnny's entrance.
"Have you figured out how to use that thing yet?" Johnny asked.
Ray looked up and smiled. "Mornin'."
"Sorry I'm late. My wife had a doctor's appointment, and I had to bring Wayne with me. She'll pick him up after lunch."
"That's fine. Where is he?"
"He's out front. I got him sitting on a stool. He won't be any trouble."
Ray reached into his pocket and pulled out some change. He held it up toward Johnny. "Buy the kid a soda or something."
"That's okay. He don't need one. He had breakfast before we came. He'll be all right."
Ray stood and put the money back in his pocket. He was shorter than Johnny, but had a bigger build than his 25-year-old employee. He stretched his arms out to his sides.
"Did you complete that order that White's Garage sent over yesterday?"
"Yes, sir. I've already taken it over to 'em. I did it on my way home yesterday."
"Son, I don't know why you work so hard, but I'm glad you're working for me."
"My daddy raised me right. When I was a boy I had work that I was responsible for, and I knew that if I didn't do it, my daddy would get that ol' peach tree switch after me."
"Well, he did a good job. You're the best worker I have."
"It's just the way I was raised."
Ray sat back down and Johnny excused himself. He went out to the front of the store and swept up while he waited for the first customers to arrive. He would playfully pinch or nudge Wayne every time he passed him. "Hang in there, partner," he would say.
Wayne sat patiently and looked around at the various objects in the store. He spent most of his time staring at the shiny hubcaps that were arranged in a pyramid display next to the soft drink machine.
By 10 am, five customers had come and gone, and Ray had finished his figuring and entered the front room. He told Wayne good morning, but then forgot that the boy was even there. After Joe Gresson left with a new alternator, Ray noticed Wayne sitting quietly on the stool. He walked over to Johnny who was wiping down the shelf that held the air filters.
"Something wrong with your boy?"
"No, sir. He hasn't done anything, has he?"
"That's just it. He hasn't moved from that stool all morning. You sure he's not sick? I've never seen a kid sit still for this long."
"That's because I told him to sit there till I got him down. You could close up this shop ad come back tomorrow and he would still be sittin' there. He minds his daddy."
Ray looked over the shelves at Wayne, who remained on the stool looking at the row of wrenches that hung along the wall behind the sales counter. His hands lay passively in his lap. He sat still and quiet. Ray couldn't even hear him breathing.
"Go over there and ask him if he wants to get down," Johnny said.
Ray walked over to the boy. Wayne shyly smiled as he approached.
"Son, wouldn't you like to get down and run around a little?"
"No, sir."
"There's some neat stuff in this here room. I'll bet you'd like to go back there and look around."
"No, sir."
Ray reached into his pocket and brought out some change. He picked through it and pulled out a quarter. He held it out to Wayne, who didn't reach for it. "Why don't you take this quarter and go over to that machine and get you a Coca-Cola?"
"No thank you, sir.'
Johnny walked around the rows of shelves and stood beside his son. He ruffled Wayne's cotton fine hair and smiled at Ray. "I told you my boy minded me." He patted Wayne on the back. "He knows to do what his daddy says. He's gonna grow up to be a responsible man. Ain't that right, partner?"
Johnny reached into his own pocket and pulled out a quarter. He handed it to Wayne, then picked him up off the stool and sat him on the floor. "Go on over there and get you a drink. Then come back over here and I'll put you back on the stool."
Wayne walked somberly to the drink machine as both men watched. His head gently brushed against a Ford hubcap as he passed the display.
Ray patted Johnny on the back. "He sure is a good boy. He's gonna make a fine, responsible man one day."
"Now, you sit right here. Don't go nowhere. I'll put you down, when I'm ready. Okay, partner?"
"Okay, Daddy."
Johnny left his son sitting on the stool and walked around the counter, through the storehouse door, and into the back room. Ray sat at the small desk in the corner next to an aisle of mufflers. The calendar behind him depicted Miss NAPA Parts sitting seductively on a large red toolbox. He punched buttons on an adding machine, and didn't respond to Johnny's entrance.
"Have you figured out how to use that thing yet?" Johnny asked.
Ray looked up and smiled. "Mornin'."
"Sorry I'm late. My wife had a doctor's appointment, and I had to bring Wayne with me. She'll pick him up after lunch."
"That's fine. Where is he?"
"He's out front. I got him sitting on a stool. He won't be any trouble."
Ray reached into his pocket and pulled out some change. He held it up toward Johnny. "Buy the kid a soda or something."
"That's okay. He don't need one. He had breakfast before we came. He'll be all right."
Ray stood and put the money back in his pocket. He was shorter than Johnny, but had a bigger build than his 25-year-old employee. He stretched his arms out to his sides.
"Did you complete that order that White's Garage sent over yesterday?"
"Yes, sir. I've already taken it over to 'em. I did it on my way home yesterday."
"Son, I don't know why you work so hard, but I'm glad you're working for me."
"My daddy raised me right. When I was a boy I had work that I was responsible for, and I knew that if I didn't do it, my daddy would get that ol' peach tree switch after me."
"Well, he did a good job. You're the best worker I have."
"It's just the way I was raised."
Ray sat back down and Johnny excused himself. He went out to the front of the store and swept up while he waited for the first customers to arrive. He would playfully pinch or nudge Wayne every time he passed him. "Hang in there, partner," he would say.
Wayne sat patiently and looked around at the various objects in the store. He spent most of his time staring at the shiny hubcaps that were arranged in a pyramid display next to the soft drink machine.
By 10 am, five customers had come and gone, and Ray had finished his figuring and entered the front room. He told Wayne good morning, but then forgot that the boy was even there. After Joe Gresson left with a new alternator, Ray noticed Wayne sitting quietly on the stool. He walked over to Johnny who was wiping down the shelf that held the air filters.
"Something wrong with your boy?"
"No, sir. He hasn't done anything, has he?"
"That's just it. He hasn't moved from that stool all morning. You sure he's not sick? I've never seen a kid sit still for this long."
"That's because I told him to sit there till I got him down. You could close up this shop ad come back tomorrow and he would still be sittin' there. He minds his daddy."
Ray looked over the shelves at Wayne, who remained on the stool looking at the row of wrenches that hung along the wall behind the sales counter. His hands lay passively in his lap. He sat still and quiet. Ray couldn't even hear him breathing.
"Go over there and ask him if he wants to get down," Johnny said.
Ray walked over to the boy. Wayne shyly smiled as he approached.
"Son, wouldn't you like to get down and run around a little?"
"No, sir."
"There's some neat stuff in this here room. I'll bet you'd like to go back there and look around."
"No, sir."
Ray reached into his pocket and brought out some change. He picked through it and pulled out a quarter. He held it out to Wayne, who didn't reach for it. "Why don't you take this quarter and go over to that machine and get you a Coca-Cola?"
"No thank you, sir.'
Johnny walked around the rows of shelves and stood beside his son. He ruffled Wayne's cotton fine hair and smiled at Ray. "I told you my boy minded me." He patted Wayne on the back. "He knows to do what his daddy says. He's gonna grow up to be a responsible man. Ain't that right, partner?"
Johnny reached into his own pocket and pulled out a quarter. He handed it to Wayne, then picked him up off the stool and sat him on the floor. "Go on over there and get you a drink. Then come back over here and I'll put you back on the stool."
Wayne walked somberly to the drink machine as both men watched. His head gently brushed against a Ford hubcap as he passed the display.
Ray patted Johnny on the back. "He sure is a good boy. He's gonna make a fine, responsible man one day."
Checking the Oil
The mechanic's light hung under the raised hood of the '78 Plymouth illuminating the open heart of the engine. Wayne watched as Watt Sr. lay over the side of the car scraping something off the block with a screwdriver. The mid-afternoon sun was forgotten in the dark, cavelike portion of Watt's garage, a large room enclosed in tin with several cars scattered around on a dirt floor. The ground was littered with old auto-part wrappers and discarded guts of engines ripped apart several years ago, even before Wayne had been born. Wayne's father Johnny talked with Watt Sr. in a voice that was very friendly, almost patronizing. A voice that placed an empty pain in Wayne's stomach.
"The boy's got more money than sense," Johnny said. "This is the second engine he's had to buy. I thought the Army would have straightened him out more than that. I bet he hadn't checked the oil in his or his wife's car since we changed them."
Wayne remained silent. His dad always liked to tell stories about how he helped Wayne and his wife. He liked to talk about how he mowed the grass, fixed whatever they had broken, and generally kept them from just falling to pieces. His father liked to make it sound as if Wayne couldn't really function without him.
"You haven't, have you?"
"I checked it two weeks ago," Wayne lied.
"Watt Junior said that oil stick had some oil burnt to it. It'll look full when you check it, unless you scrub it off. He might have checked it and thought it was full," Watt Senior said.
Johnny adjusted his thin frame, grabbed his glasses above and below the right lens and pushed them up on his nose, more out of habit than need. A defense mechanism, designed to create an air of self-confidence. Wayne noticed that a lot of southern men took on that posture and voice which seemed to him to be an attempt at appearing to know what you're "talkin'bout," when deep down you're so insecure you're lucky to be talking at all. If you looked at them hard enough, they began to look like scared boys. Of course, Wayne knew his dad wouldn't understand that kind of talk. He would think it was weird.
"Have you looked at the car?" Johnny asked the mechanic.
"No, Watt Junior looks at all the new ones. I mess with these here ones. They ain't like they was when we was his age." The elder Watt's voice was rough and vibrated with slow waves; there was a high, squeaky quality that seemed to hitch a ride on its low end, as if two voices spoke at once - but without harmony. His black skin was wrinkled and seemed to droop. He looked a lot older than Wayne's father.
"You used to could just take 'em apart and see what was wrong," Johnny said. "Now, with all these computers it's a little more complicated. You got to get schooling for that."
Wayne hated his father's implication. He didn't even know what he was saying. He still thought that people who were black were automatically less bright than white people. He was always sure to say that he wasn't prejudiced, and held up friends like Watt as examples. But he still told racist jokes and used tones of voice that suggested his superiority. Still, Wayne knew that his dad didn't realize that he was a bigot. It was some sort of southern generational thing. His father hadn't gone to college. It was a learned ignorance.
"Yeah, Watt Junior keeps talkin' about signing up for one of them courses out at the Junior College. But you can learn as much about doing by just doing, then you can get out there."
"But you got to get that piece o' paper nowadays. I told Wayne that all through high school, but he wouldn't listen. At least the Army got that through his head. He makes straight A's now. It's amazin' what a little hard work will do for you. He said that the Army made him want to go to college, 'cause he sure didn't want to do that all his life."
"It'll sure 'nough do that," Watt Senior said.
"He's always been lazy." Johnny reached out and nudged Wayne's shoulder with his fist. Wayne knew what was coming next. "He musta gotten that from his mama's side. He sure didn't get that from me."
"When do you think Watt Junior will get the new engine in my car?" Wayne asked. "I really don't need it in a hurry, but I don't like driving Daddy's truck. I have bad luck with mechanical things."
"I don't want him driving it no longer than he has to. He already about knocked the door off it, trying to back up with it open."
Watt Senior laughed. "I don't know. Watt Junior will be back directly. He just walked over to the parts house."
Johnny had known the elder Watt for more than twenty years. He'd first taken Wayne to the garage, which always seemed to be on the verge of collapse, when he was five. Since then, Wayne had been there several times. Watt's garage was located in the heart of the black section of town. As a child, Wayne had not understood why the "niggers" lived in such a crowded place where they didn't have yards to play ball in or swing sets to play "Star Trek" on, beaming down to earth by jumping from the slide. Wayne once asked his father if all black people were going to hell - were they black because they were full of sin? The preacher had said that sins were black and only the salvation of Jesus could make them white as snow. At the time, he had hoped that his dad would tell him that it was the black people that were going to hell. Then he would have thought there was hope for them to change, but more importantly it would have meant that he was all right and was going to heaven. But his dad had told him that skin color had nothing to do with sin. That was Wayne's first lesson in gray.
When Watt Junior entered, he saw Wayne and his father and walked over. Watt Senior came up from the car's heart and stood beside his son. They were the same height, though the younger Watt was slimmer with more muscular definition showing through his army-brown T-shirt. His skin was still smooth but his hands were rough and scarred, and he was missing two front teeth.
"I think we gonna have to change out the engine," Watt Junior told Johnny. His voice had the same dual quality of his father's.
"Your daddy told us. One day the boy'll learn to take care of what's his. I don't know what he would do if I wasn't here to help fix everything. Have you ever seen a twenty-five-year- old, married man that won't check his oil?"
"He could've been checkin' it," Watt Junior said. "There was oil burnt to the dipstick. If he just pulled it out and wiped it off without lookin' at it, and then checked it, it might look full."
"Did it have any oil on it at all?" Johnny asked.
"Naw, it was bone dry."
Johnny looked at Wayne and grinned. "Dawg, I think I could tell the difference between burnt oil and real oil. I look for the wetness more than anything. I reckon he'll remember after he has to pay for a new engine."
"I reckon he will," Watt Senior agreed.
"I think he should get a Clauson rebuild instead of one from Ray. Don't you?"
"Wellll, now, I don't know," Watt Junior said. "I'd think they 'bout the same. I ain't ever had any problems with none of 'em."
"Yeah, but Clauson sells them for fifty dollars less. And they put chrome rings in them. Ray still uses cast iron. Chrome rings seat better, don't they, Watt?"
"Yeah...yeah, that they do." Watt Senior's eyes looked old and tired. They drooped like his face, and were bloodshot like the eyes of a career drunk. "Yeah, I reckon Clauson's be just as good as one of Ray's."
"I'll order one for you," Johnny said to Watt Junior. "I'll call over to Cairo tomorrow and get them to send one over. I trust you to fix whatever else you find. Your dad knows how I like my cars. I an remember times when I would bring that old Bonneville I used to have in here for your daddy to replace bearings or something. I'd come back for it and he would tell me that he changed the brake pads or replaced the blinker bulb on it. Once he would get into it, he would find other things that needed fixin'. He knew he didn't even have to ask. He knew how I wanted my car. You can't have that kind of relationship with just anybody. Some people would start fixin' things that ain't broke. But I knew your daddy, and I knew he wouldn't do that. That's why I knew that you're like that. You and your daddy are good people."
Watt Junior just nodded in agreement with Johnny's words.
"The boy's got more money than sense," Johnny said. "This is the second engine he's had to buy. I thought the Army would have straightened him out more than that. I bet he hadn't checked the oil in his or his wife's car since we changed them."
Wayne remained silent. His dad always liked to tell stories about how he helped Wayne and his wife. He liked to talk about how he mowed the grass, fixed whatever they had broken, and generally kept them from just falling to pieces. His father liked to make it sound as if Wayne couldn't really function without him.
"You haven't, have you?"
"I checked it two weeks ago," Wayne lied.
"Watt Junior said that oil stick had some oil burnt to it. It'll look full when you check it, unless you scrub it off. He might have checked it and thought it was full," Watt Senior said.
Johnny adjusted his thin frame, grabbed his glasses above and below the right lens and pushed them up on his nose, more out of habit than need. A defense mechanism, designed to create an air of self-confidence. Wayne noticed that a lot of southern men took on that posture and voice which seemed to him to be an attempt at appearing to know what you're "talkin'bout," when deep down you're so insecure you're lucky to be talking at all. If you looked at them hard enough, they began to look like scared boys. Of course, Wayne knew his dad wouldn't understand that kind of talk. He would think it was weird.
"Have you looked at the car?" Johnny asked the mechanic.
"No, Watt Junior looks at all the new ones. I mess with these here ones. They ain't like they was when we was his age." The elder Watt's voice was rough and vibrated with slow waves; there was a high, squeaky quality that seemed to hitch a ride on its low end, as if two voices spoke at once - but without harmony. His black skin was wrinkled and seemed to droop. He looked a lot older than Wayne's father.
"You used to could just take 'em apart and see what was wrong," Johnny said. "Now, with all these computers it's a little more complicated. You got to get schooling for that."
Wayne hated his father's implication. He didn't even know what he was saying. He still thought that people who were black were automatically less bright than white people. He was always sure to say that he wasn't prejudiced, and held up friends like Watt as examples. But he still told racist jokes and used tones of voice that suggested his superiority. Still, Wayne knew that his dad didn't realize that he was a bigot. It was some sort of southern generational thing. His father hadn't gone to college. It was a learned ignorance.
"Yeah, Watt Junior keeps talkin' about signing up for one of them courses out at the Junior College. But you can learn as much about doing by just doing, then you can get out there."
"But you got to get that piece o' paper nowadays. I told Wayne that all through high school, but he wouldn't listen. At least the Army got that through his head. He makes straight A's now. It's amazin' what a little hard work will do for you. He said that the Army made him want to go to college, 'cause he sure didn't want to do that all his life."
"It'll sure 'nough do that," Watt Senior said.
"He's always been lazy." Johnny reached out and nudged Wayne's shoulder with his fist. Wayne knew what was coming next. "He musta gotten that from his mama's side. He sure didn't get that from me."
"When do you think Watt Junior will get the new engine in my car?" Wayne asked. "I really don't need it in a hurry, but I don't like driving Daddy's truck. I have bad luck with mechanical things."
"I don't want him driving it no longer than he has to. He already about knocked the door off it, trying to back up with it open."
Watt Senior laughed. "I don't know. Watt Junior will be back directly. He just walked over to the parts house."
Johnny had known the elder Watt for more than twenty years. He'd first taken Wayne to the garage, which always seemed to be on the verge of collapse, when he was five. Since then, Wayne had been there several times. Watt's garage was located in the heart of the black section of town. As a child, Wayne had not understood why the "niggers" lived in such a crowded place where they didn't have yards to play ball in or swing sets to play "Star Trek" on, beaming down to earth by jumping from the slide. Wayne once asked his father if all black people were going to hell - were they black because they were full of sin? The preacher had said that sins were black and only the salvation of Jesus could make them white as snow. At the time, he had hoped that his dad would tell him that it was the black people that were going to hell. Then he would have thought there was hope for them to change, but more importantly it would have meant that he was all right and was going to heaven. But his dad had told him that skin color had nothing to do with sin. That was Wayne's first lesson in gray.
When Watt Junior entered, he saw Wayne and his father and walked over. Watt Senior came up from the car's heart and stood beside his son. They were the same height, though the younger Watt was slimmer with more muscular definition showing through his army-brown T-shirt. His skin was still smooth but his hands were rough and scarred, and he was missing two front teeth.
"I think we gonna have to change out the engine," Watt Junior told Johnny. His voice had the same dual quality of his father's.
"Your daddy told us. One day the boy'll learn to take care of what's his. I don't know what he would do if I wasn't here to help fix everything. Have you ever seen a twenty-five-year- old, married man that won't check his oil?"
"He could've been checkin' it," Watt Junior said. "There was oil burnt to the dipstick. If he just pulled it out and wiped it off without lookin' at it, and then checked it, it might look full."
"Did it have any oil on it at all?" Johnny asked.
"Naw, it was bone dry."
Johnny looked at Wayne and grinned. "Dawg, I think I could tell the difference between burnt oil and real oil. I look for the wetness more than anything. I reckon he'll remember after he has to pay for a new engine."
"I reckon he will," Watt Senior agreed.
"I think he should get a Clauson rebuild instead of one from Ray. Don't you?"
"Wellll, now, I don't know," Watt Junior said. "I'd think they 'bout the same. I ain't ever had any problems with none of 'em."
"Yeah, but Clauson sells them for fifty dollars less. And they put chrome rings in them. Ray still uses cast iron. Chrome rings seat better, don't they, Watt?"
"Yeah...yeah, that they do." Watt Senior's eyes looked old and tired. They drooped like his face, and were bloodshot like the eyes of a career drunk. "Yeah, I reckon Clauson's be just as good as one of Ray's."
"I'll order one for you," Johnny said to Watt Junior. "I'll call over to Cairo tomorrow and get them to send one over. I trust you to fix whatever else you find. Your dad knows how I like my cars. I an remember times when I would bring that old Bonneville I used to have in here for your daddy to replace bearings or something. I'd come back for it and he would tell me that he changed the brake pads or replaced the blinker bulb on it. Once he would get into it, he would find other things that needed fixin'. He knew he didn't even have to ask. He knew how I wanted my car. You can't have that kind of relationship with just anybody. Some people would start fixin' things that ain't broke. But I knew your daddy, and I knew he wouldn't do that. That's why I knew that you're like that. You and your daddy are good people."
Watt Junior just nodded in agreement with Johnny's words.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Digging In
(This was written for a college class and inspired by the author's military experiences.)
Parked on the top of Hill NG6 15 24 19 55, we could see the first platoon of Alpha Battery crossing a bridge and making the turn that would eventually lead them into position, a small snake in the distance that halted halfway through the turn. The rows of firs on our left came to a sudden stop and a clear grassy meadow sloped the rest of the way down the hill. There was just enough ridge for the howitzers and ammo carriers to set up and still be in the cover of the trees. It was a great location in which camouflage nets would not be required. The village of Baumdorf sat across the road to the right of the Humvee, and the town of Schonbrunner stood between the stalled first platoon and our position.
Captain Carraway had just received word that a red infantry unit from the States patrolled five kilometers north of our position First Platoon should have already been set up and firing, but a flock of sheep crossing the road had delayed their arrival earlier. Carraway radioed Lieutenant Higgins and gave Second Platoon, who were in position two kilometers east of us, the fire mission. Then he radioed Lieutenant Dyer of First Platoon.
"Goddammit, Lieutenant! What's the fucking hold up? Over."
There was static, and then: "Section 3's gun is down with major diesel leak. We've got a ditch full of fuel. Over."
"Goddammit," the captain said, staring down at the crippled snake in the distance. "Something else for the colonel to bitch about." Then, into the radio handset: "Leave the gun. Call Maintenance to come fix it. Leave the gunner and driver with it. And get your asses up here!"
Two young boys on bicycles came pedaling around the curve behind us. They looked inquisitively at the Humvee as they rode by. Captain Carraway smiled and waved. "Guten Tag." The boys giggled and coasted down the hill, sinking out of sight.
"Not very social, are they, Laufmann?"
"No, sir." I was always amazed at the captain's ability to go from rage to small talk. He had been a Ranger earlier in his career, and everyone in the battery considered him half crazy and hotheaded. The guys in the battery used to tell me what a cushy job I had as the battery commander's driver, but none of them wanted it after Captain Ranger took over. Now, instead of envy, I had pity.
A few minutes later, the bicyclers returned up the hill pushing their bikes. They were followed by five more kids - two girls and three boys. They slowly moved near the captain's door. All walked apprehensively behind the biggest of the bicyclers, ready to dart away at the first sign of trouble.
"Guten Tag," he said through his window. Captain Callaway spoke good German and carried on a conversation with the children. I could only understand the English parts, which consisted of "MRE." Meals, Ready to Eat. The soldiers hated them, but the kids loved them. I knew several guys in the battery that would get the kids to bring them beer in return for one of the brown plastic MRE pouches that contained a meal of cold food, most of it dehydrated. We traveled through the small German towns in parade-like fashion. Humvees followed by monstrous howitzers with their 16-meter, phallic cannons extending beyond the front of the vehicle, ammo carriers and personnel carriers loudly promenading through the center of farming villages with red brick roads and orange roofs. Children would line the streets screaming "MRE, MRE," as dirty, tired soldiers protruding from the tops of howitzers and ammo carriers would toss them the portions of the MREs they didn't like - packets of nasty cheese, peanut butter, stew, beans, dehydrated hamburgers, pork, fruit and ketchup rained onto the red bricks where greedy hands scooped them up. Most of the times the soldiers ate the gum and candy.
"Reach back there and get them an MRE," the captain said. "They can divide it up themselves."
I listened as the children walked away laughing and talking in high excited voices. A successful mission. I could smell rain coming. It rained every day.
"It's about goddamn time," Captain Carraway barked.
Lieutenant Dyer's personnel carrier rose over the hill and approached us. Captain Carraway jumped out of the Humvee and began signaling them into the corrected position. He moved quickly and too sure of himself. A childhood accident had deformed his elbow slightly, and it always seemed to be pointed away from his body. His Kevlar fit his head loosely, making his neck look thin from the back, as if it were coming out of a camouflage bell. The personnel carrier moved in position, and the rest of the battery followed. The track vehicles marred deep ruts into the meadow as they left the road. The asphalt was scraped white at the pivot point of each track's turn.
The quiet afternoon filled with noise and action. Soldiers emerged from the back hatches of the guns as they stopped. Young men scrambling out of the asses of green iron dragons. Some ran with red and white striped aiming posts, while others dropped the rear spades that the big gun backed up on to keep it in place as it fired its hundred-pound projectiles. Shouts rang out along with hand signals communicating which way to position the instruments used in measuring how far each shot knocked the howitzers off their original location. Only here there was no live fire, just exercises.
Captain Carraway stood a hundred meters out in front of the guns at the aiming circle with Lieutenant Dyer, "Smoke" (Sergeant First Class McMeans) and "Gunny" (Staff Sergeant Davis). The captain flung his arms skyward in a gesture of disgust. His short, jerky movements communicated his anger. The lieutenant continued his work with the aiming circle, letting the captain's words bounce off him. Smoke and Gunny were behind the captain, laughing into their hands. Officers were only comic nuisances to these two old career soldiers.
Representatives from each gun ran half the distance to the aiming circle, relaying the necessary adjustments each gunner had to make. "Zero mils! Set! Gun one laid!" returned the gunner. As the last relays of shouts from the aiming circle to each individual gun ended, it began to rain.
Captain Carraway returned to the shelter of the Humvee. He removed a faux-antique red metal box with the Ritz cracker logo from his green travel bag and offered me one of his wife's brownies. I declined. He took one for himself, and placed it on a napkin. He closed the red box, put it back in the green bag, and laid it on the rear seat behind me.
"How can someone so incapable of making a decision get to be an officer in the United States Army?"
"I don't know, sir."
"I swear, he makes things so goddamn difficult."
"Who's that, sir?"
"Go over there and tell Lieutenant Dyer to come here."
I started to get my poncho, but decided against it. I stepped out into the cold rain and ran over to the Field Directional Command track, where I saw the lieutenant enter earlier. I opened the hatch. Five men sat squeezed into the small track, monitoring three radios and waiting for fire missions.
"What's he want this time, Laufmann?" Staff Sergeant Bennett asked. He was a tall man from South Carolina who loved to fish.
"He wants to see you, sir," I said to the lieutenant.
"He wants some more of that ass," Sergeant Bennett said.
"That man has got it in for me. Did he say what it was about?"
"No, sir."
"Did he sound mad?"
"I don't know, sir."
"You're not much help, Laufmann. You're the BC's driver, you're supposed to know everything!"
"Go on, sir," the sergeant said, "take your ass-chewing like a man."
"Tell him I'll be there in a minute. Tell him I'm in the middle of a meeting with FDC."
The rain came down harder. I ran back to the Humvee and delivered the message.
"Go tell him I said right now! No... better yet, drive right behind FDC."
I started the Humvee, drove in front and around the guns to FDC's track. Lieutenant Dyer exited the back hatch as I came to a stop. He circled the Humvee and got in the back seat behind the captain. He glanced over toward me. His face looked white, nervous. I felt ashamed to be in the vehicle. I turned away.
"I want your men to dig foxholes."
"But, sir, we're supposed to minimize dam..."
"Did I ask for your opinion, Lieutenant? Have each gun dig in! What's the use of having million-dollar exercises like this if we don't act like it's real? They can sit on their asses when we get back to the barracks, but for the next three weeks, I want to see some hustling, understand?"
The captain had not turned back to look at the lieutenant. He was finishing up his brownie. I also looked straight ahead out of respect for Lieutenant Dyer.
"Yes, sir. But still, I must protest. The colonel said to minimize the damage to the land."
Silence.
I looked down at the speedometer and played my eyes from zero all the way around to 80. I didn't move.
"You have your orders."
I felt the Humvee rock slightly as the lieutenant got out. He moved down the gun line and stopped at each howitzer. One or two figures with shovels emerged from each gun as he left for the next. There were no faces, only shadows hooded with ponchos. Each one broke the earth and piled it in miniature mountains. I watched as the rain poured even harder, turning the mountains into mud. The lieutenant came walking back behind the guns. He stopped twice to say something to the digging soldiers. He patted one on the back, passed the Humvee without looking in our direction, and entered the FDC track.
I could hear the captain moving something in the back seat. I then heard something being unzipped, but didn't look back towards him. I just kept staring at the digging soldiers. The radio crackled as lightning streaked in the distance. The sound of the rain beating against the tarp-like roof merged with the radio static to create one thick sound. I smelled chocolate.
"Are you sure you don't want a brownie, Laufmann? My wife told me to share them."
I turned and took one. I ate it carefully, trying not to lose any crumbs, as I watched each hole get deeper.
Parked on the top of Hill NG6 15 24 19 55, we could see the first platoon of Alpha Battery crossing a bridge and making the turn that would eventually lead them into position, a small snake in the distance that halted halfway through the turn. The rows of firs on our left came to a sudden stop and a clear grassy meadow sloped the rest of the way down the hill. There was just enough ridge for the howitzers and ammo carriers to set up and still be in the cover of the trees. It was a great location in which camouflage nets would not be required. The village of Baumdorf sat across the road to the right of the Humvee, and the town of Schonbrunner stood between the stalled first platoon and our position.
Captain Carraway had just received word that a red infantry unit from the States patrolled five kilometers north of our position First Platoon should have already been set up and firing, but a flock of sheep crossing the road had delayed their arrival earlier. Carraway radioed Lieutenant Higgins and gave Second Platoon, who were in position two kilometers east of us, the fire mission. Then he radioed Lieutenant Dyer of First Platoon.
"Goddammit, Lieutenant! What's the fucking hold up? Over."
There was static, and then: "Section 3's gun is down with major diesel leak. We've got a ditch full of fuel. Over."
"Goddammit," the captain said, staring down at the crippled snake in the distance. "Something else for the colonel to bitch about." Then, into the radio handset: "Leave the gun. Call Maintenance to come fix it. Leave the gunner and driver with it. And get your asses up here!"
Two young boys on bicycles came pedaling around the curve behind us. They looked inquisitively at the Humvee as they rode by. Captain Carraway smiled and waved. "Guten Tag." The boys giggled and coasted down the hill, sinking out of sight.
"Not very social, are they, Laufmann?"
"No, sir." I was always amazed at the captain's ability to go from rage to small talk. He had been a Ranger earlier in his career, and everyone in the battery considered him half crazy and hotheaded. The guys in the battery used to tell me what a cushy job I had as the battery commander's driver, but none of them wanted it after Captain Ranger took over. Now, instead of envy, I had pity.
A few minutes later, the bicyclers returned up the hill pushing their bikes. They were followed by five more kids - two girls and three boys. They slowly moved near the captain's door. All walked apprehensively behind the biggest of the bicyclers, ready to dart away at the first sign of trouble.
"Guten Tag," he said through his window. Captain Callaway spoke good German and carried on a conversation with the children. I could only understand the English parts, which consisted of "MRE." Meals, Ready to Eat. The soldiers hated them, but the kids loved them. I knew several guys in the battery that would get the kids to bring them beer in return for one of the brown plastic MRE pouches that contained a meal of cold food, most of it dehydrated. We traveled through the small German towns in parade-like fashion. Humvees followed by monstrous howitzers with their 16-meter, phallic cannons extending beyond the front of the vehicle, ammo carriers and personnel carriers loudly promenading through the center of farming villages with red brick roads and orange roofs. Children would line the streets screaming "MRE, MRE," as dirty, tired soldiers protruding from the tops of howitzers and ammo carriers would toss them the portions of the MREs they didn't like - packets of nasty cheese, peanut butter, stew, beans, dehydrated hamburgers, pork, fruit and ketchup rained onto the red bricks where greedy hands scooped them up. Most of the times the soldiers ate the gum and candy.
"Reach back there and get them an MRE," the captain said. "They can divide it up themselves."
I listened as the children walked away laughing and talking in high excited voices. A successful mission. I could smell rain coming. It rained every day.
"It's about goddamn time," Captain Carraway barked.
Lieutenant Dyer's personnel carrier rose over the hill and approached us. Captain Carraway jumped out of the Humvee and began signaling them into the corrected position. He moved quickly and too sure of himself. A childhood accident had deformed his elbow slightly, and it always seemed to be pointed away from his body. His Kevlar fit his head loosely, making his neck look thin from the back, as if it were coming out of a camouflage bell. The personnel carrier moved in position, and the rest of the battery followed. The track vehicles marred deep ruts into the meadow as they left the road. The asphalt was scraped white at the pivot point of each track's turn.
The quiet afternoon filled with noise and action. Soldiers emerged from the back hatches of the guns as they stopped. Young men scrambling out of the asses of green iron dragons. Some ran with red and white striped aiming posts, while others dropped the rear spades that the big gun backed up on to keep it in place as it fired its hundred-pound projectiles. Shouts rang out along with hand signals communicating which way to position the instruments used in measuring how far each shot knocked the howitzers off their original location. Only here there was no live fire, just exercises.
Captain Carraway stood a hundred meters out in front of the guns at the aiming circle with Lieutenant Dyer, "Smoke" (Sergeant First Class McMeans) and "Gunny" (Staff Sergeant Davis). The captain flung his arms skyward in a gesture of disgust. His short, jerky movements communicated his anger. The lieutenant continued his work with the aiming circle, letting the captain's words bounce off him. Smoke and Gunny were behind the captain, laughing into their hands. Officers were only comic nuisances to these two old career soldiers.
Representatives from each gun ran half the distance to the aiming circle, relaying the necessary adjustments each gunner had to make. "Zero mils! Set! Gun one laid!" returned the gunner. As the last relays of shouts from the aiming circle to each individual gun ended, it began to rain.
Captain Carraway returned to the shelter of the Humvee. He removed a faux-antique red metal box with the Ritz cracker logo from his green travel bag and offered me one of his wife's brownies. I declined. He took one for himself, and placed it on a napkin. He closed the red box, put it back in the green bag, and laid it on the rear seat behind me.
"How can someone so incapable of making a decision get to be an officer in the United States Army?"
"I don't know, sir."
"I swear, he makes things so goddamn difficult."
"Who's that, sir?"
"Go over there and tell Lieutenant Dyer to come here."
I started to get my poncho, but decided against it. I stepped out into the cold rain and ran over to the Field Directional Command track, where I saw the lieutenant enter earlier. I opened the hatch. Five men sat squeezed into the small track, monitoring three radios and waiting for fire missions.
"What's he want this time, Laufmann?" Staff Sergeant Bennett asked. He was a tall man from South Carolina who loved to fish.
"He wants to see you, sir," I said to the lieutenant.
"He wants some more of that ass," Sergeant Bennett said.
"That man has got it in for me. Did he say what it was about?"
"No, sir."
"Did he sound mad?"
"I don't know, sir."
"You're not much help, Laufmann. You're the BC's driver, you're supposed to know everything!"
"Go on, sir," the sergeant said, "take your ass-chewing like a man."
"Tell him I'll be there in a minute. Tell him I'm in the middle of a meeting with FDC."
The rain came down harder. I ran back to the Humvee and delivered the message.
"Go tell him I said right now! No... better yet, drive right behind FDC."
I started the Humvee, drove in front and around the guns to FDC's track. Lieutenant Dyer exited the back hatch as I came to a stop. He circled the Humvee and got in the back seat behind the captain. He glanced over toward me. His face looked white, nervous. I felt ashamed to be in the vehicle. I turned away.
"I want your men to dig foxholes."
"But, sir, we're supposed to minimize dam..."
"Did I ask for your opinion, Lieutenant? Have each gun dig in! What's the use of having million-dollar exercises like this if we don't act like it's real? They can sit on their asses when we get back to the barracks, but for the next three weeks, I want to see some hustling, understand?"
The captain had not turned back to look at the lieutenant. He was finishing up his brownie. I also looked straight ahead out of respect for Lieutenant Dyer.
"Yes, sir. But still, I must protest. The colonel said to minimize the damage to the land."
Silence.
I looked down at the speedometer and played my eyes from zero all the way around to 80. I didn't move.
"You have your orders."
I felt the Humvee rock slightly as the lieutenant got out. He moved down the gun line and stopped at each howitzer. One or two figures with shovels emerged from each gun as he left for the next. There were no faces, only shadows hooded with ponchos. Each one broke the earth and piled it in miniature mountains. I watched as the rain poured even harder, turning the mountains into mud. The lieutenant came walking back behind the guns. He stopped twice to say something to the digging soldiers. He patted one on the back, passed the Humvee without looking in our direction, and entered the FDC track.
I could hear the captain moving something in the back seat. I then heard something being unzipped, but didn't look back towards him. I just kept staring at the digging soldiers. The radio crackled as lightning streaked in the distance. The sound of the rain beating against the tarp-like roof merged with the radio static to create one thick sound. I smelled chocolate.
"Are you sure you don't want a brownie, Laufmann? My wife told me to share them."
I turned and took one. I ate it carefully, trying not to lose any crumbs, as I watched each hole get deeper.
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