Stolen Liberty: Behind the Curtain

by Thomas A. Watson

  Not by coincidence, once he did manage to fall asleep, Charlie found himself back in the dusty hell of Afghanistan, once again hauling the cold, dead body of PFC Eric Blakely. This was a recurring nightmare for Charlie, and something that he’d never discussed with his counselors at the hospital. He would talk about the nightmares he had about his own wounds, but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to talk about this one. It seemed disrespectful of the dead.

  Blakely had suffered a neck wound early on, a chunk of shrapnel from a mortar round chewing out most of his neck, and the only way Charlie could keep the head attached to the body was tying his shemagh in a tight loop. As their flight had stretched on for hours, he kept having to stop and tighten the neck scarf. Charlie remembered having to do this several times, but in the nightmare, his friend would talk to him while he worked.

  “Stop, Charlie, it hurts,” Eric would whine, his voice somehow audible despite the absence of vocal cords. Every time Charlie awoke from the nightmare, he would remember that point, but while he was in the grip of the horror, that fact never penetrated.

  “Stop it, Eric,” Charlie begged as rounds snapped past his head and the distant rumble of incoming told him more mortar rounds were incoming. “You’re dead, brother.”

  “We’re all dead, Charlie,” Eric insisted, his voice now slurred and straining. “We’re all dead.”

  When Charlie finally awoke the next morning, he was off the bed and on the floor, and he had no memory of falling out. But he knew he would have to wash the sweat-stained sheets before the mattress was ruined.

  True to form, as Charlie was drinking coffee before leaving, Randy called, and he and Cody talked to Charlie for half an hour. Before walking out the door, Charlie answered his cellphone, “I’m good, Blaster.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Kenosha, Wisconsin

  Robbie Lennox stared at the high-definition flat screen television over the bar and grimaced as the team managed to go another three and out. So far, they’d had to rely on their world class kicker to put any points up on the board. Their rivals in green didn’t seem to have the same lack of offense and kept finding new ways to score. Robbie sipped his lukewarm drink and ignored the annoying conversations coming from the table of drunks near the unused dartboard. So far, the group had left the pair alone at the bar, but Robbie picked up that one of the women had glanced their way several times from the reflection of the mirror behind the bar.

  “Why do you always want to come here and watch those losers throw another game? Man, we can do so much better than this shithole.” Jerome rolled his eyes as he glanced at the worn-out bartender, wiping away at invisible spots at the end of the bar in the Polka Dot Tap.

  The two had started coming to the corner bar two years ago when Robbie did a listing four houses down. The buyer had wanted to meet and discuss items on the inspection report that Jerome had worked up for the sale. The seller complained that Jerome had nitpicked some of the minor issues, and the buyer wanted a face-to-face meet. The buyer ended up hiring Jerome’s crew to fix most of the issues after the sale went through. Somewhere in the mountains of rules and regulations in Wisconsin’s codes on real estate, there must have been a clause that made Jerome’s repair work for the buyer a conflict of interest ethics violation, but the buyer had read over the inspection report and realized that Jerome had literally crawled all over that house finding items that would need to be addressed in the near future. Jerome and Robbie made the small bar their Sunday ritual during the football season. During the off-season, the owner let Robbie watch the retro channel. For some reason, his team still found a way to lose, even in the past.

  “This place is where your inspection business really took off, and they will let me watch the ‘Boys try to find their asses with two hands’. Call it tradition. As a bonus, nobody messes with us, and Mr. Wojciechowski keeps my glass topped off. He’s not very personable, but he never complains when we ask to watch the game.” Robbie finished off his pint and Mr. Wojciechowski ambled down and pulled another pint from the tap. The blockish man, with gnarled fists that came from a background in either masonry or beating other men into puddles of blood and urine, nodded and stepped away from the duo perched near the middle of the small brass-trimmed bar.

  “Why don’t you change the channel, you two?” a woman slurred and sauntered over to Robbie’s side.

  “What were you wanting to watch?” Jerome eyed the dishwater blonde with a chubby face and a dark green sweater two sizes too small to show off her ample chest.

  “I don’t care if it’s two dogs taking a crap, anything has to be better than watching these morons. Why don’t you put on something we can all enjoy?” She leaned in and brushed herself against Robbie. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the game yet. “Do you have plans later? I’m off tomorrow and I want to celebrate some. You interested?” the woman purred.

  Jerome coughed and choked on his drink looking at the woman. “Not to be a blocker or anything, but we do have a job tomorrow morning.”

  “Well then, we’ll just have to start this party up a little sooner, so Mr. Quiet and Handsome can make it home before bedtime. You his mommy or daddy? You don’t look related, some kind of adoption service?” She laughed at her own joke and nudged Robbie and rocked him slightly on his stool. “Come on, I don’t bite…much.”

  Robbie sighed and watched the rookie running back break a tackle and make the first down. They didn’t have enough time, even running their hurry up offense to score three touchdowns in the remaining few minutes, but he had become a sucker for the underdogs over the years. They called a timeout to stop the clock and delay the inevitable. Robbie looked away from the game and took a closer look at the intoxicated woman throwing herself at him for the first time.

  “You seem like a wild one. What’s your name, honey?” Robbie settled his brown eyes on her and waited.

  “I’m Carrie. What’s your name?” she slurred as she smiled at his attention.

  “I’m Robbie, and my friend here is Jerome. What brings you out to this fine establishment today?” Robbie glanced at her leather pants and her sweater threatening to ride up her abdomen. He didn’t recognize Carrie or her friends, but he and Jerome only came to the Polka Dot on Sundays.

  “We are going to the rally in a bit at the courthouse. We’re gonna tear some shit up!” Carrie whooped and her entourage at the back table saluted with their drinks and murmured, “Heck, yes!”

  “What the hell are you protesting? This is the first I’m hearing of it,” Jerome asked from his barstool.

  “The government. They just keep taking and taking, and we’re not lying down for it anymore. Do you guys want to join us for some fun? We could use some big guys like you to intimidate the pigs.” Carrie ran her hand up Robbie’s bicep and leered at him. “Can I ride with you on your bike?”

  “How do you know I ride?” Robbie shook his head at the woman.

  “I saw you last week when you pulled in. We were just leaving.” The dumpy woman shimmied up onto the stool and eyed Robbie like he was a slab of meat.

  “We aren’t what you would call the ‘protesting’ types. Jerome and I come here to watch the game and relax before we jump into it each week,” Robbie tried to politely rebuff her, but the woman persisted.

  “So, you are free after the game? It’s almost over. Can you?” She leaned in and whispered to Robbie, “Maybe afterward we can go to my place for some fun times.” Carrie’s breath scorched Robbie’s nose with the reek of cigarettes.

  “I can’t let you ride with me, Carrie.”

  “Why not? Don’t you like me?” she whined.

  “It’s got nothing to do with that. I can’t let anyone ride with me because I’m still not sure of myself with this new arm.” Robbie placed his left “hand” on the bar. After several surgeries and different models, the doctors at the Veterans Administration settled on his three-fingered “claw”, socketed below his left elbow and strapped in place. He had several different atta
chments, including a lifelike hand that lacked the functionality of his “claw”.

  “Aw, that’s freaky. Can you like, change it out to other things? Or, you know, take it off completely?” Carrie practically purred at the thought.

  “Okay, well, this conversation took an unexpected turn. Most women take this moment to beg off and find something better to do when I flash my hand.” Robbie finished his drink and glanced at Jerome sitting with his mouth open. “You ready to blow, buddy? We have a full week in front of us.”

  “Yeah, I’m going to need to take a mental shower after that. I thought of some things that I can’t delete from my mind.” Jerome reached for his wallet and counted out enough to cover his tab. Mr. Wojciechowski quietly moved over and took the payment and made change. Jerome, as always, left a hefty tip. Next week, Robbie would do the same for Jerome.

  “You aren’t leaving yet, are you? The game is still on,” Carrie whined.

  “What’s your deal, lady? We were minding our own business over here. What do you really want? I can smell a con a mile away, and this stinks to high heaven.” Robbie and Jerome settled and waited.

  “Like I said, we could use some muscle, and you two are pretty big guys and we want to send a message that we are not going to be pushed around.” Carrie didn’t sound as sloppy drunk as she had a minute before. Robbie glanced to Jerome, who had also noticed the shift in the woman’s speech.

  “How many people do you have right now? What’s your objective?” Robbie replied with a quick look at Carrie’s tablemates.

  “We spread out to different places around town. Mostly bars. Most of our core supporters are from the country, but we don’t have the numbers to attract attention. The farmers are the ones with the real grievances.” Carrie waved over a tiny man with hipster glasses and skinny jeans. Robbie groaned to himself in anticipation with the coming onslaught of political rhetoric.

  “I take it he is the intellectual power in your team of misfit toys? What are you, the recruiter?” Jerome asked Carrie.

  “I’m not too proud to use my feminine ways to pull in some extra numbers. It almost worked. What, did I come on too strong?” She lightly brushed at Robbie’s sleeve.

  “I told you, it didn’t smell right. Ladies don’t throw themselves at me like they used to, and yes, you did come on waaay too strong for my broken-down self. Plus, the game was on.”

  “But they were losing. Who the hell even watches them anymore?” Carrie waved at the television screen showing a beer commercial.

  “I lost a friend who admired their grit and determination. No matter how bad things get, they keep plugging away. Jerome humors me and shares in my insanity of watching them every Sunday, even if it’s a rerun and I already know the outcome. The Polka Dot Tap is just our latest place to watch, but it is close to home and comfortable.”

  “Are they going to help us?” Carrie’s friend interrupted. Robbie had forgotten he had come over to stand beside her barstool. Robbie would have ignored the man in public since he didn’t make much of an impression, except for his small stature and choice of clothes.

  “I don’t just volunteer for things anymore. What the heck is going on, just give it to me straight.” Robbie watched the pair’s expressions, and Carrie looked to her friend to step in and explain.

  “The EPA has essentially taken control of the water resources nationwide with a decision that they have jurisdiction over both surface water and groundwater. The majority of the American populace have no idea what has been happening in the rural areas, and the news outlets have never bothered to report on the implications.” The man took a second to let his announcement sink in before continuing. “All private water wells are now required to have a meter on their well and pay taxes on their consumption. Failure to install the correct monitoring device will result in fines and orders to cease all operations on the property. People in cities and municipalities were not affected because they already pay water bills.”

  “That’s ridiculous! When the hell did that happen?” Robbie slapped the surface of the bar with his hand loud enough to draw Mr. Wojciechowski’s attention.

  “Problem, Robbie?” The owner had stayed out of the conversation. Robbie had noticed that the old gentleman never got into arguments on politics or religion with his patrons, but he would have heated conversations about the Brewers management.

  “Have you heard about the EPA taking over all water in the U.S.?” Jerome asked.

  Mr. Wojciechowski wiped the bar and grunted, “I’ve heard rumblings that have gotten louder lately. Seems the Feds have started shutting people down out in the country, but nobody knows how many have been affected yet.”

  “I had several calls to work on wells out in the suburbs in the last few days. I got them in contact with some plumbers out their way, but I thought the meters were some new local code and not a federal law,” Jerome scratched his chin in thought.

  “That’s because it got passed without any fanfare. This was done at the behest of unelected officials and it affects a huge swath of the country. Nobody knows about this, and most importantly, nobody bothered to report about it in the major news sources. Internet boards have been screaming over this for weeks, how did you not hear about it?” Carrie’s friend dropped that nugget on the group.

  “Who the hell are you?” Robbie laughed and thought about Charlie. He sounded like his old buddy and fellow Ranger.

  “Dexter Fowler. I’m a blogger who has been reporting about this ruling since I got fired from my job over it.”

  “What did you do that got you fired for trying to tell the truth?”

  “I worked for the county Agricultural Extension office. When I graduated from the University of Wisconsin, I went to work for them to help other farmers. What I found out got me fired.”

  “Dexter, what have you found out, and do I need to ask Mr. Wojciechowski for some tinfoil to wrap around my head after you tell me? I hear the feds can read our minds, too,” Robbie smirked and waited for the typical conspiracy theory from a wide-eyed true believer.

  “The whole water controversy is both a money-making scheme and a land grab. Pay for your water or have your land seized. If the government takes the land, it is then sold for pennies on the dollar to one of their receivership corporations who then takes over the operations. Small farms are being consumed at an unprecedented rate and turned over to corporate friends. Can you imagine what that does to a family that has to have a decent crop just to pay the bills each season?” Dexter’s cheeks started to turn red as he worked himself up.

  Jerome cleared his throat and asked, “What proof do you have?”

  “I was able to download a few files that track the farms being confiscated by the change in ownership from an individual or family to a corporation. They are all being listed as TriCorp Holdings after the takeover. That’s how I knew something funny was going on. I used to meet with these people and help them with things like pest eradication and soil surveys. These family farms range from thousands of acres or as small as a few hundred, but they are being gobbled up if they can’t pay for the water they use. If they refuse the meter, they get shut down. The most horrible aspect of this regulation was when I found out the supply of meters ran out long before the deadline for compliance. The deadline for compliance was today.”

  Robbie rubbed at his beard and thought for a second. “So, the drought last summer…”

  “Absolutely devastated the local farming community. I wrote about what was going on, and my director got a visit from a ‘suit’ who told him to fire me or lose his own job. He took a risk and told me why I was being let go. I haven’t been able to find another job, except pouring coffee at a diner on 57th where the owner pays me off the books.”

  “So, what is your objective for your rally today? I don’t see any signs or megaphones. Who brought the gas masks for when the riot cops show up?” Jerome asked.

  “I called the local news outlets to let them know about our protest, so even if only one camera
crew shows up and broadcasts anything, I’ll consider it a win. We are going to assemble at the county courthouse and march down to the harbor. We don’t have a permit, so we will stick to the sidewalks and try to make ourselves seen and heard.”

  “If you want to get attention, why not do this during the week? The courthouse is closed on Sunday,” Robbie asked.

  “We, well, most of the supporters, have jobs. Can you believe that a lot of protests you see on the big news stories have paid protesters bussed in from out of state? We can’t afford to do something that underhanded. This is the only day we could agree to come together for this. The sports bars are open, so we spread out to recruit more before we meet up. And yes, we have another team working on making signs. Can we count on your support?” Dexter waited for Jerome and Robbie to make their decision. He didn’t pressure or go off the rails talking about crazy conspiracies. Well, the corporations taking over the farms was nothing new and had been happening for decades.

  “Tell you what, I’ll sit here and watch the news later and see if anything pops up. How do you contact the rest of your team of rising anarchists?” Robbie offered.

  Dexter gave him his number and Robbie programmed it into his phone. Cassie went back and collected the rest of his group from the back table.

  Cassie lingered for a minute, waiting for Robbie and Jerome to possibly change their minds as the small band of protesters filed out.

  “Go on, Cassie. I’m not the joining type anyway. For the record, I don’t like the taste of cigarettes, so that was a deal breaker from the word go.” Cassie shrugged and headed for the door.

  “The offer still stands, but you can keep the prosthetic on. I’m not that freaky, that was an act.”

  “Noted. Until then.” Robbie saluted her with his empty glass and watched the group file out, leaving the Polka Dot Tap empty except for Mr. Wojciechowski and his two regulars.