c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(3-24)
“Take it from me, there’s nothing like a job well done. Except the quiet enveloping darkness at the bottom of a bottle of Jim Beam after a job done any way at all.” – Hunter S. Thompson
Dirk Loamer had been in Evergreen Estates alone since the passing of his wife, a dozen years before. He was the sort of callused, blue-collar laborer that once populated vast areas of middle America. Raised on a diet of meat and potatoes, and a philosophy of patriotism and the Christian work ethic. In his distant era, he had been completely unremarkable. A faceless member of a teeming horde. Yet by the modernist standards of 21st Century living, he had become an anachronism. Out of place, and socially inept.
He did not participate in the craze of social media interactions. He owned no cell phones, computers, or game consoles. He hadn’t been to a movie theater since John Wayne was still making films. And he drove the same Dodge Ram W250, with a Cummins motor, that first appeared in his driveway as a new rig in 1990. He and the mechanized hauler had both succumbed a bit to the weight of responsibilities and challenges met throughout the years. Yet both of them remained uncommonly strong for their age.
Only one vanity kept him occupied during the lonely hours of living solo in a village of mobile homes – drinking bourbon whiskey. Something he did out in the driveway during summer months, when the gloom of being a widower made him seek the comfort of sunshine and drunkenness.
On a Monday in June, he started early after a late breakfast of hash brown patties, and eggs. With a pitcher of lemonade mix, and a bottle of brown liquor, he took a lawn chair out onto his concrete slab. The webbing was green and yellow. He remembered purchasing it at a Western Auto store, with his beloved spouse. This reflective jolt made his eyes moist, but did not dampen his resolve to be obliterated by the afternoon.
The morning air was already hot. He had just enjoyed a first sip of refreshment, when a tattooed cowboy rolled past in his brand-new Chevy Silverado. The wheeled mule teetered on its jacked-up suspension, and oversized, rubber hoops with wide rims.
Eugene Mora was chewing on a vape pen. He had a hipster bandana tied around his bald skull.
“HEY GRANDPA DICK! HOW YA BEEN, OLD TIMER? GETTING ANY ACTION FROM THE LADIES?”
The satirical greeting made him flinch. But he sat up straight, and waved in response.
“That’s Dirk, boy! Justice Dirk Loamer, US Army, retired. I reckon you can call me grandpa though, everyone else in the neighborhood already uses that handle...”
The short-of-stature cowpoke sneered over his steering wheel, which was wrapped with a leather skin purchased at Walmart.
“I don’t know about that! I call out a dick when I see one! Somebody ‘s been complaining about the noise on our street, when we have parties on the weekends. I figured it had to be a crabby shit like yourself! Who else wouldn’t appreciate hearing some tunes and turbo diesels getting it on? I ain’t never had too much fun like that! How ‘bout you?”
The solitary veteran huffed quietly, and smiled. More than being insulted, he felt pity for the loudmouth kid.
“I don’t recognize you, son. So let me ask, how long have you been in this trailer park?”
The rogue runt spun his rear wheels until chunks of asphalt began to fly. A cloud of exhaust obscured the dual Confederate flags on his bumper.
“That’s none of yer business, asshole! Just keep that mouth shut when I’ve got friends coming over. I don’t appreciate a troublemaker calling the Po-Po!”
Dirk was slightly amused by the youthful slang. But shrugged off the aggressive tone of his junior neighbor as evidence that he hadn’t been raised in a stable household.
“I’ve never called the police for any reason, boy. I handle my own conflicts. Just like in Vietnam...”
Eugene hit the brakes on his half-ton Chevy. Then laughed out loud.
“OKAY BOOMER! I GET YOU! ANOTHER PISSED-OFF DUDE WHO SPENT TOO MUCH TIME CROUCHED IN A FOXHOLE! YA GOT PTSD, GRAMPS? DON’T GET CRAZY ON ME! I MIGHT HAVE TO SHOW OFF MY MUSCLES! THE LADIES LIKE BIG MUSCLES!”
The graybeard retiree continued to sip his liquor and lemonade.
“Service to this country is a proud tradition, son. I can tell you’ve never enlisted...”
The pint-sized cowboy jammed his truck into reverse. More road debris filled the air. He made a power turn and ended up grille-first in front of his shaggy, senior opponent. Then, came leaping out of the driver’s seat.
“LET’S DO THIS, DAMMIT! STAND UP AND FACE ME! STAND UP! STAND UP!”
Dirk sat his drink glass on the concrete.
“My late wife used to say ‘Life is choice.’ She was a star pupil, much smarter than me by a mile. Do you understand what that means? Everybody chooses. My thought was to sacrifice. Just like the characters I saw in war movies and western films, as a child. That can cost a pretty penny though, and more. It’s a debt paid so headstrong people like you can run off at the mouth. But I don’t regret what I did. I only wish there had been more men and women willing to serve, when this country needed it most...”
Eugene rummaged through the folds of his camouflage, cargo pants. A pistol was hidden in his underwear. He pointed the weapon and yelped with a warble of fugazi confidence.
“C’MON GRANDPA DICKHEAD! SHOW ME HOW TOUGH YA ARE! LET’S SEE HOW MUCH COURAGE IS PUMPING IN YER VEINS! GET UP OFF YER ASS!”
The seasoned citizen sighed and stiffened. He tugged at his pant legs, without attempting to rise from the folding lawn chair. Slowly, the dungaree fabric of his work trousers crept upward, to reveal twin shafts of polished metal. Black shoes were tied at the bottom, to prosthetic feet.
“Every other man in my outfit was killed, when our transport caravan took a strike. I crawled out on stumps. Bleeding like a stuck pig. There was so much NVA artillery present that they couldn’t rescue me for more than an hour. I kept reciting the Lord’s Prayer, over and over. ‘Our father in heaven, hallowed be your name, your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven...”
The rowdy rube felt his skinny, inked-up limbs beginning to tremble.
“HOLY SHIT, GRANDPA! HOLY FREAKING SHITTTTT!”
Dirk lit a cigar and leaned back in the rickety seat.
“Once they fitted me with these artificial bones, and I learned how to walk again, I went right back in the military. Not for combat anymore, I couldn’t qualify. But to counsel and advise. There were a lot of soldiers like me, who left part of our bodies in Southeast Asia. Coming home meant facing folks that didn’t understand the conflict. Hell, I didn’t understand it myself! Anyway, if you’re trying to rile up this old soul, forget it. I don’t have feelings anymore. You can’t hurt my pride. My heart is red-white-and-blue. I feel sorry for you, son. You needed somebody like that in your life...”
Eugene had actually wet his athletic briefs. He dropped the gun as if it had burst into flames. With his head down, he retreated to the lifted Chevrolet.
“Gawdamm, grandpa! Gaw-freaking-damm!”
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