Day of the Bomb

by Steve Stroble

  “Nope. We’re setting up some speakers in the windows to run the pulpit microphone through so people stuck outside can hear the sermon.”

  They stopped at an open window and balanced the amplifier on its sill. An usher closed the window to wedge it into place. While Fred helped carry another amp to a window on the other side of the church, Sally found a spot to sit in the shade of a weeping willow tree. She smiled when she heard a familiar voice.

  “You brought the whole tribe out for the revival?”

  “Thelma.” Sally stood and hugged her.

  “Guess you heard about all the excitement last night?”

  “Yeah. From what Fred said it sounded like an old time barnburner of a revival meeting. I’m sorry I missed it.”

  “Better late than never.” Thelma and Stanley sat on the grass.

  “Where’s Jason?”

  “Inside. No way I’m sitting in that hot box of a church. When I went in it felt hotter there than out here. Must be because every seat is filled up. They even put the overflow up in the choir loft and chairs along the aisles.”

  When the message began Karl, Dan, and Stanley took turns pantomiming Rev. Oxfort. With only his booming baritone firing their imaginations, they stood and gestured as they had watched their pastors do every Sunday. Their mothers’ warnings to behave went unheeded until Thelma grabbed Stanley and swatted his butt with her palm. His head jerked back and he gawked at her. She buried him in her breast and arms and whispered into his ear.

  “Now you know better, Stanley. Just sit on my lap and listen.”

  Stanley obeyed by nodding off into a dream. He awoke as the call went out for prayer. To accommodate those outside, Rev. Lacharetti and Rev. Oxfort set up prayer lines on the east and west sides of the church while Rev. Trueblood and three elders handled the throng inside. Sally blinked when Fred joined those lined up in front of the visiting evangelist. Thelma elbowed her ribs.

  “Looks like Fred is going to get prayed over.”

  “Yeah.” She shook her head. “I don’t believe it.”

  Neither woman could hear what was said. When Fred’s knees hit the lawn, the women stared at each other. As he walked back to the shade where they sat Thelma jumped to her feet.

  “Where are you going?” Sally pulled her arm.

  “To get prayed for. I’m going to ask him to pray that Jason will forget all about Monkey Island. Anybody that can get your husband to pray has got the anointing for sure.”

  ***

  Fred had to readjust his sales route the following month because headquarters wanted him to attend a seminar in Dallas. Risk management was unfamiliar to many in his profession and everyone seated in the audience. But the instructor for the daylong class proved to be enlightening from his opening to his closing remarks.

  “Risk. How would you define it?” He pointed to an attendee.

  “Taking chances.”

  “How about you?”

  A chief executive officer scratched his head. “Running a business?”

  “Good. And you, sir?” He pointed to Fred.

  “I don’t know about anyone else but my life has been just one risk after another it seems.”

  “That’s it!” the presenter danced a little jig. “Think about it. What if your mom falls or is in a car wreck while you’re still inside of her? There’s a chance you end up stillborn or are born premature and die hours or days or weeks later. Let’s say you’re just an average baby, pretty safe as long as a crib keeps you in line. But then you start to crawl, then walk. You’re big enough to step outside into a world filled with risks.” His eyes bulged.

  A few laughed nervously at his imitation of a mad scientist. Others stared at one another.

  “My job is to get you to think risk management six days a week, eight to twelve hours a day depending on how many you work. Take the rest of the time off or else you are at risk for a…” He motioned for answers.

  “Ulcer.”

  “Heart attack.”

  “Going crazy.” One of the two ladies in attendance said. “As a wife and mother and business owner I never get any time off.”

  The instructor walked to her side. “God bless you. Now here’s someone headed for an early grave. Who can help her out?”

  Fred cleared his throat. “She needs to delegate.”

  “Define your terms.”

  “You know. Find someone to run her business so she only has to be at her business one or two days a week.”

  “But that takes money to hire a manager.” The woman turned toward Fred.

  “At least you’ll live longer. So what if you’re poorer?”

  As the day wore on, the instructor taught rudimentary principles of how to define risk for an individual, a family, a community, a nation, a small business, or large corporation. For the last two hours he taught them how to use risk management for their professions.

  “Any insurance agents here today?”

  Eight hands were raised.

  “Good. From this day onward when you sit down with prospects, define the risks that they face. Tell a husband or wife how devastating their death would be to the survival of those they leave behind. If they balk, pull out actuarial tables and give them the lowdown. Say, ‘you see sir, according to the table; men of your race typically live 63.7 years. But because you work in construction we have to factor in possible death due to accident. You live in a large city with a higher rate of auto accident fatalities. No offense but that beer belly you carry around also puts you at risk of earlier death.’ If he still doesn’t buy it, tell him how much life insurance you carry. People like dealing with those who practice what they preach.” He paused. “Now if you’re selling insurance covering a business, point out the danger from earthquake, flood, fire, labor strife, vandalism, tornadoes, forest fires, you name it, based on where the business is located.”

  By the end of the seminar Fred’s notebook was full. His horizons seemed limitless when he called home from his hotel room that evening. “Honey, it was incredible. After what I learned today, there’s no stopping me. As soon as I meet with my manager again, I’m going to ask him to move me into selling insurance to businesses. You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “That I can travel closer to home from now on.”

  Sally cried. “I sure hope so. We miss you too much.”

  Fred dreamed that he was with her later that night. The next afternoon he was four hours south of Dallas when a strange sight lifted his foot from the accelerator. On the shoulder sat the biggest motorcycle he had ever seen. It was missing the front wheel. A half mile later he saw its rider rolling the flat tire along the edge of the shoulder. Summer was in full force in Texas and the man stumbled among the heat waves radiating off of the pavement. Still feeling invincible from his newfound knowledge and reckoning such a needy soul as a small risk, Fred stopped thirty yards ahead of him.

  “Need a lift?”

  The man responded by pushing the misshapen tire faster until it bumped into Fred.

  “Sorry, man.” He held up blistered hands. “It’s so hot I couldn’t stop it before it hit you.”

  Fred helped him to load the chrome-rimmed wheel into the trunk. “That’s okay. Let’s get you to a gas station.”

  The cross that dangled from the rear view mirror returned to its pendulum like motion as Fred pulled into the traffic.

  “You selling fire insurance?” The rider fished an unfiltered Camel from his vest pocket and lit it.

  Fred turned so that one eye was on the road and the other on his passenger. “Not yet. But I’m planning on going into it. How’d you know?”

  The rider poked the cross. “This.”

  “Huh? I think you pegged me wrong. I sell life insurance but want to move over to insuring businesses.”

  “Oh. You remind me of a holy Joe I knew in the war. I thought you stopped just so you can preach to me and sell me some fire insurance to keep me out of hell.”

  “O
h. Where were you during the war?”

  “England mostly. We flew B-17s over Germany. Like I was saying, you remind me of Zach Malinsky. He was a waist gunner. Real holy Joe, always quoting the Bible. But some Messerschmidt pilot shot him up. He bled to death before we could him back to England. You in the war?”

  “Yeah. I was on a transport ship in the Pacific.”

  “Navy boy, huh? Good gig?”

  “Sometimes. What did you do?”

  “I was a co-pilot.”

  “So where were you headed when you got the flat? San Antonio?”

  He dragged deeply on his cigarette. “Maybe. Depends on what it’s like down that way.”

  “You from Dallas?”

  “Nah. San Bernardino. Didn’t you see my colors?”

  “Colors?”

  “On my vest.” He turned so Fred could see the logo emblazoned on his back. A leather helmeted skull grinned at him. “I’m part of the Pissed Off Bastards of San Bernardino.”

  “California? What are you doing way over here in Texas?”

  “Don’t you listen to your radio?” He tapped the dial on the dash that was numbered 530 to 1600. “North Korea invaded South Korea. It won’t be very long before they start calling us veterans back to go over there to save the gooks, just like we had to save the French and Brits.”

  “You serious?”

  “Serious as a heart attack.”

  Fear gripped Fred’s stomach, the kind that had whenever Captain Uley had ordered a zigzag course to avoid being torpedoed. “So what’s it like being in a motorcycle gang?”

  “Club, man. We’re not gangsters. We’re a club.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It was okay at first. We were mostly veterans and understood each other. But then we split. Some of the guys broke away and formed a new club they call the Hell’s Angels. Now that there’s another war going all that doesn’t matter much anymore. I got to find a place to lay low. You travel a lot?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Any suggestions on where I can hide out?”

  Fred’s chin quivered. “You running from the law?”

  “Let me guess. You read about how we took over Hollister and Riverside for a few days. Why’s everybody so upset? Some of the rowdiest people weren’t even from our club. The Market Street Commandos and the Booze Fighters were there too. Look, I’m just an average guy. I got an old lady and two kids. I just don’t want to fight another war is all. One’s enough.”

  “Why not?”

  “You kidding? They’d probably stick me in a B-29 this time around. Sure, it’s bigger and faster than the 17s I flew but the jets they got now can shoot down bombers like shooting fish in a barrel. No thank you. I watched way too many B-17s get blown to hell or go down in flames. You know what the worst part was?”

  “No.”

  “Counting the number of parachutes that got out of those planes. I never counted ten chutes getting out of planes going down.”

  Fred’s throat tightened. “But what if your wife gets the letter for you to report? What are you going to do then?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But you’ll be AWOL.”

  “Not if she never tells me.”

  “Huh?”

  “This is between you and me, one vet to another.” He shoved his hand in front of Fred’s face. Its blisters caused him to shake it lightly. “Okay. If you rat me out now, maybe one of my brothers from the club will come looking for you. Or I might just look you up after I get out of Leavenworth. Comprende?”

  Fred gulped as he redefined the risk of offering strangers with flat tires rides. “Yeah. I’m no dirty rat like Cagney says.”

  “I took off without telling my wife where I’m going. She’s going to take the kids back to her folks’ farm in Kansas. Since she’s leaving no forwarding address, it’ll take the military a while to track her down and send the letter to Kansas. But I told her I won’t be in touch with her until the war is over. That way we’re both off the hook.”

  Fred whistled. “I bet you’re even going by a fake name.”

  “Nah. Then the military could throw the book at me for evading a return to duty. If I keep my real name and play dumb when they finally catch up to me, what are they going to do?”

  “But like you said, they will find you eventually.”

  He crushed his cigarette in the ash tray. “Yeah, I know. But maybe not for a year. If I’m real lucky, maybe even two years. World War II only lasted three and a half years for us. I figure this one won’t be any longer.”

  Dubbed a “hangaround” by the biker, Fred felt obligated to wait while the flat was repaired. His new acquaintance explained that to become a prospect would require a vote of the entire gang. Full membership could be bestowed only after Fred proved himself worthy during probation. The biker laughed when Fred said Sally would only allow his peripheral status of a hangaround to the Pissed Off Bastards of Berdoo.

  As Fred dropped him off to reattach the repaired tire, he handed him a $20 bill.

  “What’s this for?”

  “An evangelist told me I need to do two things if I’m going to live by faith: love God and love my neighbor as myself. You look pretty hungry.”

  The nameless biker smiled. “I knew you were a holy Joe.”

  ***

  For Ron Ohayashi, life had been a series of moves; as if perpetual motion would bring him justice he had been denied. Born in California’s fertile San Joaquin Valley, he had worked on his parents’ farm from age five to seventeen.

  Then on November 12, 1941 the FBI stormed into Little Tokyo in Los Angeles and detained fifteen Japanese-American community leaders and businessmen.

  "We teach the fundamental principles of America and the high ideals of American democracy. We want to live here in peace and harmony. Our people are 100% loyal to America." That Central Japanese Association’s statement went unheeded. The fires at Pearl Harbor had barely been doused before local law enforcement and the FBI had rounded up 1,291 leaders of the Japanese-American community.

  In February 1942 FDR’s executive order banished Ron and 120,000 other Japanese-Americans to ten facilities that the President called “concentration camps.” Most of the imprisoned were U.S. citizens or legal permanent resident aliens. When the young men of the camps were offered a chance to enlist in the Army, Ron volunteered. He spent most of his enlistment in Burma as part of the Military Intelligence Service interrogating captured Japanese soldiers, duty that saved thousands of Allied soldiers’ lives.

  After the war he and his family returned to their farm south of Stockton to try and “pick up where we left off.” Strangers chased them from their land, fruit trees, house, and barn that they no longer owned. Such scenes with evil triumphing over good played out for almost every returning internee.

  Ron’s family sought refuge in the Florida panhandle, where the farmland was reasonable enough for them to start over. He first met Fred in the parking lot of a VFW hall after one of his speeches on life insurance.

  “Mr. Rhinehardt, may I speak with you please?”

  “Sure.” Fred tossed his briefcase through his Pontiac’s open window.

  “Would you be so kind as to come to our home? My grandfather and father need some term life insurance that you spoke of.”

  “Okay. I’ll follow you there.”

  “If I may burden you further.” Ron bowed. “I walked here. May I ride with you?”

  “Hop in. I have to be up in Montgomery by tonight. Let’s get moving.”

  Fred’s questions made Ron reveal his family’s wartime imprisonment. Fred shook his head after listening to the saga. “That’s a shame. You all got shafted six ways to Sunday.”

  “It could have been worse.”

  “Huh?”

  “What if my parents had remained in Japan instead of coming to California? Then I would have been taught that the Emperor was God. Instead of fighting for America, I would have probably died as a kamikaze pilot or as a soldier in a banz
ai charge on some island.”

  Severed heads, arms, and legs and a burning Zero on his ship’s deck flashed into Fred’s mind. His hands shook the steering wheel so hard that the car swerved onto the shoulder. Tears flowed as the car rolled to a stop.

  “Are you all right?”

  He wiped the tears from his cheeks with his shirt sleeve. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

  “There’s a store up ahead. Perhaps a soda will help calm you down?”

  Fred drove three hundred yards and parked in front of a small grocery.

  “Once again I must ask you a favor.” Ron handed him a dollar. “The proprietor does not like Japanese-Americans. He fought in the Pacific and still hates Japanese.”

  Fred sighed. Inside the store he found his and Ron’s favorite bottled pop. As he placed them on the checkout counter, the burly tattooed owner nodded toward Fred’s car.

  “Who’s the slant eye out there?”

  Fred grabbed the change and bag with the two bottles. “A war hero! What he did during the war just might have saved your sorry butt.”

  Ron served as interpreter as Fred explained the value of term life insurance to his grandfather, father, two uncles, and six cousins. When the males of the clan balked at the sales pitch, Ron’s grandmother brought out a cardboard box in which she had squirreled away proceeds from her produce stand for five years.

  “I buy for.” Her English carried such a heavy accent that Ron translated the offer.

  “It’s her inheritance for the women of our family,” he said.

  She bowed and refilled Fred’s tiny tea cup. Two hours and a lunch later, Fred had completed the policies. By the time he was headed north to Montgomery, some of his favorite radio shows were beaming through his dashboard radio.

  “Dun...da...dun...dun.” The music faded. “The story you are about to hear is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent.”

  A half hour later he heard, “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? Ha ha ha…The Shadow knows.”

  As he pulled up to a VFW hall in Alabama’s capital city, the William Tell Overture let him know that the Lone Ranger and Tonto were about to give outlaws and hooligans justice ex-Texas Ranger style. As he drove north after his presentation, he caught part of a baseball game and then the last half of an Inner Sanctum Mystery. A creepy voice wished him, “Pleasant dreams?” as he pulled up to a motel. These days Fred chose his lodgings based on which motel had the tallest television antennas. Judging by the fifty-foot height of this one halfway between Montgomery and Birmingham, he calculated that he should be able to pull in stations from both cities.