The Buffalo Nickel
Five Stories of Short Fiction
Copyright 2012 Lance William Allen
Table of Contents
Brownsville
My Last Mistake
Yesterday
Before I Go
Who’s to Blame
Brownsville
There’s this guy, he works for the president. Dr. John Hastings is his name. He wrote a book about how the world isn’t big enough for all of us. It’s the right size for him and his friends, but not the rest of us. He went to Harvard. That’s what he learned. Read it for yourself. Maybe you don’t care. And maybe it doesn’t matter. But he works for the president and he went to Harvard. You didn’t and neither did I.
I could have been anything. That’s what I learned. They told me in their schools if I studied and worked hard I could be anything. But this shit town doesn’t listen. And most of the people can’t read beyond the headline. Maybe if they did, they would see what I see.
There’s this girl I know, she remembers being crowned homecoming queen. Someone told her it was an honor and very important to her social well being. She still thinks she’s someone. We all think we’re someone. That’s what we’re taught. In their schools. But I know better.
Last year, the mayor, The Honorable Richard James, they say honorable. That’s how they address him. The Honorable Richard James. I think he is more of a Tricky Dick. Like the one from the 70’s. He has an important title, a big desk, and a car paid for by the local tax payers.
He had a habit of not sitting at that big desk very often. He preferred the 3rd house down on the right side of Maple Street. Number 21 I believe. He thought his title encouraged him to behave in a way regular folks like you and I wouldn’t. He thought no one would see his car parked outside of 21 Maple Street and start asking questions. He was the Honorable Richard James. It said so on his big desk.
The story first showed up, buried at the bottom of the local news section. A place not many would see. It was put there on purpose. The story had to be told but subtly, not to arouse too many suspicions. The article was a wake up call to Richard James. He was supposed to understand he was The Honorable Richard James and stop going to 21 Maple Street. He thought better of that.
Richard James sat behind his big desk one morning and picked up his phone and began calling around. Before lunch, the story had been retracted and a liable suit had been placed in the hands of the reporter, who was not the source. But he couldn’t protest. He could only write a follow-up article, suggesting the original story about the Honorable Richard James being at 21 Maple Street had been a hoax. A ploy.
He got a new car, The Honorable Richard James. It parks somewhere else now. He’s still Tricky Dick if you ask me. But then again, who am I?
My name is Larry, or is it George, or Bob. Could be anyone of them I guess. I’m nobody. Just a man without a title. A man with principles and morals. Maybe not the same list of dos and don’ts as you. But I have a good idea of what it means to be a person and understand how I like to be treated. I’m not a biblical guy, although I can see where they were going with that. It makes sense. Be nice to others and trust they will reciprocate. I am on board with that. Some of the other stuff, well I wasn’t alive then so who am I to say. It’s just not where I am coming from.
I grew up in this town. This is where I’m from. Small town life isn’t for everyone. Maybe it isn’t for me either. But it’s where I am from. I thought about leaving once or twice, but mostly out of spite. This is my home.
The day I was born, it snowed. Back then it used to snow a lot more than it does now. There are differing opinion’s as to why it doesn’t snow as much, but mostly it’s just noise.
Anyway, November 24 is my birthday. The day Jack Ruby walked into the Dallas police station and shot and killed Lee Harvey Oswald in front of a stunned nation, still in mourning from the passing of JFK. I wasn’t born that day. But we share the date.
My parents were good people. My father worked hard and said little. He smoked cigarettes in the garage and kept beer in the fridge. He loved my mother, but didn’t say so. My mother knew her role. And she seemed content. She stayed alive long enough to see my father buried. Then she dropped dead too.
I live in the house they lived in. The one I grew up in. There are a lot of memories in that house. Some better than others. But memories all the same. A place connecting me to the only world I have ever known. Roots some people say.
My grandfather was born here too. He lived closer to downtown. He was a war hero. Back when we were allowed to have such things. He was decorated for valor while learning about the intricacies of hell in a place called The Chosin Reservoir. Read about it sometime. The men, who were there, my grandfather, would never be the same after that experience. Nor should they be. But no one remembers that, let alone cares. That was then.
Gramps didn’t talk much about politics or such. He loved his country. He loved his town. He loved his family. The idea of ‘who’ never came to mind for him only ‘why’. He was told there was a group of people that wanted to change the way he lived and harm his family. That was good enough. He didn’t need to know the rest of the story. If it had been about resources, no matter. Had it been about ideology, who cares. The story went that his family and his town and his country had been threatened. His way of life was about to be compromised. So off he went.
When he came back, his right hand was missing the thumb and forefinger, his left leg was gone just below the knee. He wouldn’t talk about what happened to him. Only reminisced about his friends and the good times they had. Hard to believe there was any opportunity for good times. But I wasn’t there. I could never understand.
Before he died, I don’t remember exactly when, he was still in decent shape for a man who had been to hell and back, Gramps was sitting out in his screen house, under the maple tree in his backyard. My brother and I had just finished mowing his lawn. He called us over and asked us to sit. He told us how he lost his fingers and his leg. I was stunned. My brother was in tears. He did it for us. And he didn’t even know it.
His funeral was somber, yet upbeat. He had a military funeral, honor guard and everything. Respect he deserved. He’d been to hell. But he was a proud man and never complained. He met my grandmother in the VA hospital, where he recovered after the War. He had given more than his share but went on living after, as if nothing had happened. I loved my grandfather.
But I was resentful for what he had given. I couldn’t clearly understand why. But I was angry. He loved his country and gave a part of himself, literally, and yet wasn’t concerned with how things turned out. I love my country and the town I live in. But I am concerned with how things have turned out.
My younger brother was killed in the Korengal Valley, Kunar Province, Afghanistan. He loved my grandfather. He was angry too. But his anger was aggressive. He felt like my grandfather. He listened to the words, “threats to our way of life” and “we are the forces of good over evil” and “paving the way for freedom and democracy”. He wasn’t about to let some backward country from the other side of the world change his way of life. He was going to go over there and kill them. His words. I’m not sure if he did. No one would say. But he died a hero. That’s what they told us.
The flag draped coffin arrived in Delaware. It should have been on the nightly news. They show them now, but not then. My brother is still dead. Just fewer folks know about it. The people in town know. They said so. Some cried. Some saluted. Some shook their heads. But they all knew. The town cared. They’d lost one of their own. I was still angry.
My sister got married and moved away.
She didn’t like the town. She didn’t like thinking about our dead brother. She loved him very much. My sister had tried to reason with him, pleaded for him not to go. She talked to him about life and love and priorities. He reminded her of sacrifice and honor and patriotism. She couldn’t stop him. A bullet did though.
Since my brother died, I’ve made a habit of visiting the broken kids at the VA hospital. They really are broken. And they really are kids. Most of the kids I’ve seen and talked to have been blown up in some way. Some walking. Some riding. Some standing. A few sleeping. All blown up though. Missing limbs. Missing sight. Missing hearing. Rattled brains. They still laugh though. Still appreciate life. It makes me angry.
I talked to John one day. He was from a town a few towns over. He’d been in the VA over a year. He’d been riding in a Humvee (we all know what those are) and it was blown up. Something buried in the road. The Humvee lifted off the ground and landed on its side. John’s spine broke. He was paralyzed. Nothing worked from the middle of his chest down. I learned it was a C6 injury. John was 20 years old.
We played cards and talked about the fun he had before his accident. He and his buddies played tricks on each other and talked about girls. They talked about football. They shot at anything that moved. He told me how boring it was. He was deployed to a forward operating base. They looked at mountains and sky. They ate. They slept sometimes. He made it through his deployment and was rotating out. That’s where he had his accident. I tried my best not to sound angry.
The last time I saw John was the week before Thanksgiving. I brought him some cookies he wanted. He said the VA didn’t have a lot of stuff. He didn’t want much. But he wanted cookies. So I brought them to him. I asked him about the upcoming holiday. Asked what he was doing. He said he didn’t know, but figured to be right here in his bed. Not many came to visit, besides me. I tried my best not to cry.
I went to the VA the Saturday after Thanksgiving. John’s bed was empty. No one seemed to know anything. I found Jake, a kid from Springfield, he said John committed suicide. He swallowed the stuffing from his pillow. They found him sometime during the night of Thanksgiving. Anderson sleeps about six feet away and he swears he heard noting.
I looked in the papers and found nothing. No obituary, no funeral arrangements, nothing. I cried. He was just a kid. He sacrificed himself for purpose unknown. He never told me why he went. I never asked. Maybe he was fighting for a cause. Maybe he wanted an adventure. Maybe, just maybe, he was lost.
Next Tuesday is Fourth of July. My town has a parade every year. A stereotypical, red, white and blue, American as apple pie, parade. The high school band will play God Bless America, Take Me out to the Ballgame, and the theme from Rocky 3. Tricky Dick, I mean, The Honorable Richard James, will walk arm in arm with his wife Millie, shaking hands and kissing babies. The usual contingent from the VFW will be there, along with the local ROTC, boy scouts, and the ever loving Shiners’ in their little cars.
I usually walk downtown early with a lawn chair, a cooler of Mountain Dew and an American flag, which I put into a hole I drilled into the arm of the lawn chair. I love my town and my country. The flag ties it all together. But if that’s all I do, no one will know how angry I am. No one will know that beneath my skin I seethe with rage at what has become of my town and my country. If I sit, as I always do, laughing and waving at the marchers, no one will be able to appreciate what has been lost.
My brother had so much to give but chose to operate in a war zone with very little room for error. John wanted to live and play with his friends but was left behind when he couldn’t play anymore. Who knows how the town and the country would have been changed by them or others like them. And if I sit there and say nothing, then nothing changes.
Some will not like me after the parade. Some will probably threaten my life. I might even be assaulted. But if I love my town and my country do I really have a choice?
My Last Mistake
June 15th, sometime after midnight; she's standing in the road, it's raining. Her hair is matted and wet, dripping into her face. Her skin is pale, milky white. Her gaze pierces the distance, looking at nothing, seeing only darkness.
I am driving. It is June 15th after midnight; it is raining. My mind races through the events of the passing day. I am young but drained of life. The future seems in doubt. My fears are emblematic of the headlines. I dream of things that will not be. The road spreads out in front of me, flat, dark, desolate.
My headlights capture something in the distance. A willowing figure; white against black. How could this be? I slow to a crawl and roll down my window.
Can I help you?
I'm Awake. Can you give me a ride?
She climbs in and I pull away. I offer her a blanket from the back seat. She says little.
***
The television airs in my mind telling me about picking up strangers. I'm young. It can't happen to me. The television always tells me the right things to do. In the Land of the Free, we are raised by His hand in the TV. She rests gently against the door, her head still, her breathing rhythmic, but sedate. Droplets of once fallen rain drip from the ends of autumn strands, absorbed into the weave of the once dry blanket.
The darkness of night gives way to the springing of dawn. The rain has stopped. A once full moon ducks beneath the clouds as a crimson spray builds from beneath the horizon. Spider webs glisten in the new day's light, dripping life. The cycle of thoughts, real and imagined continue to churn in my head. Who is she and from where did she come. My eyes enter her void and she moves, stirred from sleep. Could she have known I was staring? Wondering? Once closed lids open, revealing an azure blue sea as captivating as a moonless sky.
She smiles, I'm Awake.
I can see that.
No. You don't understand. I'm Awake. That's my name. Awake.
***
Brother, we are one in the same, you and me. Like a two headed boy. I couldn't have experienced this without my partner in crime.
I say nothing. My chest gurgles. This can't be happening. What the fuck?
Can you see we are the same? Remember, last summer. We stayed out late with those girls. You remember?
The windshield took the back part of your head off. Can you feel that?
The sun was really bright that day. Her hair. Jane's hair. Auburn and burning. Oh shit!
His eyes get real wide. A color, not a color, something, returns to his face and he gasps. Slowly, wavering to the right, or was it left, maybe just towards the light. He grows pale. And then, he is gone.
She was there, I knew it. Waiting to take me. She wasn't on fire.
***
When the ambulance arrived, he was gone, real gone; cold and everything. I can still feel it. You ever stick your hand in a fire and grab a glowing coal? It's cold. Real cold! But then it isn't cold anymore. It's burning. I throw the coal to the ground and shake my hand. It's red but not blistered. No burn.
They load me into my own rig, all white and sterile. The guy from down the street; sitting next to me. He’s filling in a chart. I don't know him. But he probably knows who I am; at least by now. I'm a minor. They had to call my parents.
***
My mother pushed. And she pushed. And then, she pushed. They said I wasn't breached. But she didn't believe them. My mother. She said they were lying to her. It has to be breached she yelled. I wasn't budging.
Relax Mrs. Morse. They called her Mrs. Morse. And breathe.
Anyway, when I came out, my mother, she was exhausted. She fell asleep. And relaxed. I slid right out. As she came to, my dad was standing there, a real genuine look of concern on his face. He looked scared.
Are you awake he said?
My mother she was still sleeping. Again, my father says to my sleeping mother, are you awake?
Just to finish this, my mother slowly starts coming around. She's spacey though. Not quite sure of much.
Are you awake?
She can feel the burn from the baby
. She remembers. She had a kid. Just here. Just now. Are you awake?
She sees her husband. My father.
Are you awake he says?
I'm not awake I'm Barbara.
So that's how I got my name.
***
I wake up in the cell. My head really fucking hurts. A thick paste arrests my mouth. I look at the toilet.
There's a beep. There it is again. The walls are not mine, where am I?
Hey there you are. You've been gone for a while
Gone?
I don't know. You tell me?
I had been somewhere but where.
***
John, he was my friend. My best friend! We did everything together. My partner in crime he used to say. We got tangled up in something pretty nasty that day. Looking back I wish I could have understood better. But that's the way it goes.
We met at Argyle's place. Shot the shit and killed a few beers.
There's no chance the Sox win it all this year. No chance.
He loved baseball. More than anything else, he loved the Red Sox. But he was critical of their every move. I think he took it too seriously. But what harm was he doing.
They should have gotten more pitching. You can never have enough pitching.
We left Argyle's and went to the Down's. Killed a few more beers there too. It was just afternoon.
Big Papi is the real deal this time. He's gonna hit 30 and 100. I love that man. He's gonna retire a member of the Red Sox and I am going to retire my jersey. Hang it on the wall of my living-room. When I get a living-room. Some day. You'll see.
John wasn't much of a student. Not much of a worker either. But he was sweet on the ears. Could sell a wafer to a nun, I'd say. He'd been working the phones of his father's insurance office the last few summer's and now meant to make a real go of it. He wanted to prove he didn't need college. I did. I told him so. But he wouldn't hear it. He was going to make something of himself on his own terms.
The shadows of the passing day grew long, stretching us out. I extended my arms and pretended to be an alligator. The kid was still inside of me. Can't say that now.
My car was nothing special, a few years past acceptable but still in the useful category. I didn't much care. I had a way to get around. And I knew anything more than that was probably going to get me into some other level of trouble. Guess that was an oversight too.