4th request for magenta flame

[KB.]

Fourth request based on the quote below that magenta flame posted. Same story as the other three.



"Naturally the common people don't want war; neither in Russia, nor in England, nor in America, nor in Germany. That is understood. But after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine policy, and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy, or a fascist dictatorship, or a parliament, or a communist dictatorship. Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is to tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in any country.”

~Herman Goering

I woke up after a dream of a dark haired woman singing me to sleep, forty, screw that I was 39 again. The night before had been wonderful. Music too loud, good food, a woman that had the world’s share of humility, patience, and understanding. There had been a twinkle in my eye, and she had seen it, taken care of it. The babies were at my Mother’s, and I was sure they were being spoiled rotten. I looked over, but that sneaky siren was no where to be seen. I pulled myself out of the comfortable of it all, and decided to leave my shirt off, just go find her. I walked into the living room and she was sitting there crying, looked at me like she had something to tell me that was going to hurt her worse than me. The call I had been dreading for ten years had came the day before. Life was about to take a twist; amazing what pushing a few numbers on a phone can lead to. She told me an old friend was gone, she never mentioned a name; just a pseudonym. I was struck as still as stone, I couldn’t move, not even my eyes. I felt my knees buckling in a metaphorical sense. Suddenly the world had become just a bit too heavy. I looked at her, this woman who had taken the weight of me on her shoulders, and by doing so took the weight of all I felt the compulsive need to carry as well. She nodded her head, and gave me that old medallion of St. Jude to carry with me, said it would keep me safe. I looked for my suit, and left to buy flowers before that infinite four hour trip north.

I looked across at this young man; so much older now than the first time I met him. No toy soldiers in his pocket, no plastic vampire teeth suspended, grinning, in a frozen glass; quietly sitting in a freezer. He wasn’t bouncing around filled with the energy of a young man with an imagination as big as the space between here and over there. He wore a uniform, Marines, and he looked like a prince in it. He looked like just what his absent father must have, Vietnamese, dark hair and eyes, skin turning brown with the summer sun. It burdened me to see that uniform, he was after all the last thing left of her. Flesh and blood, heart and mind. He was 18, God, where had the years gone? His birthday was the day before his Mothers, they both turned another year older every November. It seemed like everyone did. As I stood there, not listening to the generic sermon, I remembered the first time I had met him.

His Mother and I had been talking, drinking a little, and trading smiles for winks. I had shown up at the center of the universe, and she had stayed a little longer than required. We talked, I don’t remember about what, and finally she decided to go home. It wasn’t late, but the Winter sun had set, and I told her I would walk her out to her car. We hugged, a few times; held on a little too long. She was bundled up in a over sized coat, and I had short sleeves on. I can feel how warm it was. She asked if I wanted to go to a movie, and I told her of course I did, she asked me if it would be okay if this man, ten years younger and a boy then, could come as well. I told her of course he could, I would love for him to. I got her number, gave her mine, and told her I would call in twenty minutes. I went home, freshened up a bit, and called her. When she got to the apartment she told the boy to get into the back seat, but I told her let him stay up front, it was fine by me. She got out and asked me if I was sure it was okay that he came along, said something about most guys didn’t want to mess with a woman who had a child. I looked at her and said I was kid one time to you know.

It was fine, apparently all of the things that were cool when I was eight were now cool again when I was thirty, I wondered if that was the official length of time between fads, twenty two years. We got to the movies, played games for too long and missed the beginning of the show, but we had fun. She had demolished me in a few games of air hockey, I think I won one game out of six. We watched the movie, I think it had Will Smith and a cute little boy in it. Just like she said would happen, the boy had looked up at her when she started to cry a bit at one point. I remember how he looked at her, she was invincible to him, and here she was crying; it must have made him a little worried. He grabbed her face, at the chin, and pulled her head down; told her it would be okay. Eight years old and already telling mom it was going to be okay, I wondered if he knew it never really would be. He had only seen him once more over the few months they stayed together. She didn’t want him to be around different men, and have his hopes get lifted. That confused me, all I heard was she was tired of messing with want to be men, she needed someone who could be a Father. Then she would tell me I was a good man, with a kind heart, then as soon as the thought had allowed itself to settle in; it would be thrown out with something along the lines of, too good, she wasn’t ever gonna be happy, she don’t want to get my hopes up. That last time I had seen him, we sat together on a bench outside the spot he liked to call his center. She had worked and he had been at the dog parade, it was freezing, the wind was rough from the north, and he had given his coat to someone. We sat there, two men; one by need, and one because the world chewed little boys up for too soon these days. We aggravated the hell out of his mother, he said something about her needing a spanking if she didn’t act better, and I agreed in a subtle, mischievous way. I moved closer to him, either because he looked cold or I felt it.

We left and walked the few blocks to her Mother’s truck, I held the door open, and as she put her seat belt on I told her to call me if she wanted to do something later. She looked at that boy and asked him if he thought I should call her if I wanted to do something? That little man was a born politician, he just replied that we should call each other. I didn’t call, and neither did she. That was the last time I had seen him until now, ten years since, and a million years later.

He told me he still had the television I had left for him when I had moved back home a decade ago. He told me he remembered the movie, and the dog parade; how we had teased his Mom so much. He told me he had finally asked his Mom if he could read those wine stained, smudged, and out of order stories she looked at so much. He told me she was always excited when she got the mail and instead of final notices there was a letter from Tennessee.

I told him his Mother was the kindest soul I had ever met, judgment didn’t come natural to her, and she knew not how to hate. That she had always loved her little boy no matter what she did. He looked at me the same way he had looked at her during that sad movie.

We sat there and talked about what had happened for a little while. I told him no matter what he heard to realize it wasn’t his Mom’s fault. There was no way she was driving, there was no way she would do that after she promised not to. He said he knew it, and had never doubted it. I told him that I had went to see that lousy son-of-a-bitch in the hospital. He asked if I went to forgive him, and I told him I went to kill him, but couldn’t do it. After I saw him I figured it would be a hell of a lot more fitting for him to lay there and rot instead. He asked what I wished would happen, and I looked at him and said I wish I had set the mother f***er on fire and cooked a marsh mellow over him as he tried to scream. I told him to go take that uniform off, he didn’t need to do it just to pay for school. That was taken care of with money no one could ever take to pay the bills of a liar. They would release him of his obligations based on what had happened, even if he had to feign some sort of mental anguish. He said he didn’t have to fake sh!t. I told him it wasn’t his war, it was some fat cats in Washington, and he didn’t owe anyone a damn thing.

I asked him if he was going to be okay, and he said he would eventually. He asked me if I would be, and I looked at him and said I would be, but those eyes; they never tell a lie. He looked at me, told me I was a horrible liar, and said he didn’t blame me. He kissed me on the top of my graying head. He put his strong hand around my neck and gripped tight, moved his hand up and down just a little bit. A moment of relieved tension from the hands of a boy that I had never had the chance to see become a man. I took the medallion of that poor saint from around my neck and handed it to him. Told him I didn’t need it anymore. He put it around his neck and walked away.

I just sat there, looking at that meaningless headstone; with lyrics from a Neil Young song etched in it. “Her long Blonde hair flyin in the wind, she’s been runnin half her life”. I figured I would never move from here; I was tired, wore out, and done. One more in a long line I couldn’t keep safe from the too big world. No one else needed worrying about. They were all gone now. The strong ones were left as they always are, searching for something to try and save. A reason to be a hero, to be better than they were. I decided I would take their offer of early retirement, and go fishing somewhere that the fish never got away. Just had to wait for it to wind down, and be still. He knew it would come eventually. Fate, chance, luck, desire or God one would grant him one last request.

The man, the boy; drove home in a car that his Mom had bought him. Told him it wasn’t flashy, but it was reliable, and that mattered far more. It also had a decent stereo in it, always had to have that. The radio stations were awful, worse than TV. He pulled out a CD, it was a copy, of a copy, of a copy, and so on. He put it into the player and a slow mellow tune came through the speakers. His Mom used to play these songs when he couldn’t sleep. Coltrane and Miles, such a soothing sound. After a couple songs, “In A Sentimental Mood” and “Softly As In A Morning Sunrise”, the latter was his Mom’s favorite, said it reminded her of someone she had never met, but had meant a lot to her. After he played those two, he removed the CD and placed the one he had found on the seat next to a letter. It was Credence, he of course knew the song; how could he not growing up with the woman he had. He listened to it again and remembered what that man that was a stranger yet so very familiar had told him. He listened to a set of lyrics in particular

“Some folks inherit star spangled eyes,

Ooh, they send you down to war, lord,

And when you ask them, how much should we give?

Ooh, they only answer more! more! more! Yoh,”

He decided he wasn’t a military son, and he held that medallion that hung slightly below his neck. He wondered how he would tell this story.

KB

[zinkyusa]

Tip of the hat...

FG's own Edward R.. Murrow;)