“Jacks to open, trips to win, no wild cards,” Scarpelli said, while shuffling the deck like a pro. “That means you can’t open unless you have a pair of jacks, or better. You don’t win unless you have three of a kind, or better. Understand, Jack?”
A nod of the head, and Scarpelli dealt the cards. Neither could open, so both players had to ante another twenty-five dollars. Scarpelli shuffled and dealt, again neither had openers, another ante. Third round, same thing. Fourth round and Trotter was looking at a pair of Cowboys. “I’ll open for twenty-five,” he tossed his opening bet onto the pile of cash on the table.
Scarpelli added his ante to the kitty, and both men drew three cards. Trotter did his best to keep a straight face when he saw the King of diamonds looking back at him. “I’ll wager fifty.” He threw a fifty-dollar bill onto the table.
The kid from the Bronx smiled, “I’ll see your fifty, and raise you fifty,” and tossed a Ben Franklin onto the growing pile of bills. The farm boy from Iowa tossed in another fifty.
“What do you got?”
“Three Kings,” Trotter said in a triumphant voice, and proudly fanned them on the table.
“Nice hand, Jack. But I got trips, too. Count them.” And he proceeded to toss one, two, three—Aces! On top of Trotter’s kings.
“Sum bitch!” Trotter spit out in disgust, “I thought for sure I had it.”
“Tough break, Jack. Shit like that happens.” Scarpelli then reached with both hands to scoop the four hundred dollar pot. A shit-eating grin plastered his face, stretched from ear to ear.
That’s when the Ace of Spades that somehow found a home in Tony Scarpelli’s long sleeve shirt fell out, landing face up on top of the other three bullets.
He quickly glanced at Trotter, hoping the big man didn’t see the fourth Ace, and he would be able to conceal it. However, the snarled, wide-eyed expression on the corporal’s face told the PFC otherwise.
“You fucking cheat!” Trotter said in a low growl. His huge left fist slammed down on Scarpelli’s hand with a loud thud; bones could be heard shattering. Followed by his huge right fist landing with an even louder thud on Scarpelli’s lower jaw; sending the cheater, and his chair, flying backwards. His chair twisted sideways, causing him to fall on to the arm of the chair, fracturing three ribs.
Trotter collected the kitty, went to his room and waited. He knew he fucked up. Forty-five minutes later, the expected knock at his door. “Jack, it’s Scott. You have to open the door.” Trotter complied, and Corporal Scott Baker came in. Four more MPs waited in the hall.
“Seems there was a bit of trouble at the Rec center tonight. Scarpelli said you beat him up. Is this true…Jack?” Baker needed verification.
He and Trotter were good friends; they went through MP school together, and then ended up together at Pendleton. Since Baker was married, the tall lanky kid from Indiana had off base housing for his wife and their six-year-old son. Trotter had visited them many times with fresh meat for a cook out. Once he even took Scotty Junior for a day at the San Diego zoo, the youngster was the brother he never had. Baker and Trotter spent many shifts working together. They were close.
“The little bastard cheated me at poker. Yeah…I guess I did hit him,” Trotter admitted.
“They sent me to take you in. I hate to do it, but I have to,” Baker apologized to his friend. “I won’t need the cuffs…right, Jack?”
“No Scotty, those won’t be necessary. I’ll go peacefully.” Trotter appreciated the dignity his friend offered.
The court martial lasted all of ten minutes. Colonel Contacos was the officer in charge of the trial. Trotter pleaded innocent and spoke his piece.
Then the semi-retired and gray haired older man, who resembled a larger version of General Eisenhower, had his turn to speak. “Lance Corporal Jack Trotter, the Marine Corps invested their time and money in you to defend our nation; not to viciously attack a fellow Marine. Being an MP above all else. The Corps sanctioned you to uphold the laws; not break them! This court finds you guilty of assault and battery. Furthermore, this court orders you to pay restitution in the amount of six hundred dollars, and you are to be dishonorably discharged from the United States Marine Corps. Effective immediately. The MPs will escort you to collect your belongings and show you to the front gate. Court dismissed.”
The now ex-marine could not recall a worse day in his life. After paying the fines, he had a grand total of one hundred and sixty-five dollars to his name. Jack’s theory was why save money; he had no heirs. He spent his money as fast as he earned it, never saving a dime.
Then Jack’s day, along with his finances, went from bad to worse, when he had twenty-nine dollars less. He purchased a Grey Hound bus ticket.
One way.
To Elderton, Iowa!
Chapter Eight
“The green, green grass of home.”
Porter Wagoner
Jack thought his bus was never going to arrive in Elderton. In every small town between San Diego and Iowa, the bus stopped at a Greyhound Depot. Some of the depots were nothing more than a donut shop where a few passengers got off, and a few boarded. A car could travel the seventeen hundred mile trip in roughly twenty hours, driving non-stop, and directly to Elderton. Not Trotter’s bus; it zigzagged north and south on its eastward course. Traveling through New Mexico, Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Kansas, and Nebraska, before crossing the state line into Iowa. Trotter rode twenty-eight hundred miles on that hot, stuffy Greyhound for three days, minus six hours.
His small hometown hadn’t changed any since he left for basic training four years ago. Jack saw the same faces, same cars and same buildings on Main Street; as if Elderton held billing in a sci-fi movie locked in time. He grabbed his duffle bag and went into Woolworths for a good old fashioned, hand dipped vanilla ice cream cone. The only difference in the store was the clerk who took his order. Rebecca, he imagined, had finished college and started her nursing career. Funny, hers is just beginning, but mine has just ended. He finished the cone, and walked out of the store.
A mile and a half outside of town, a familiar looking red Ford station wagon pulled over to pick up the hitch-hiking Marine. “Hey, Jack!” Doc Wilson exclaimed as Trotter placed his big green sack in the back seat.
“Hi, Doc,” Jack said, pulling the passenger door shut behind him.
“Are you home on leave?” The aging and very bald doctor inquired as he checked the rear view mirror and pulled out. Still practicing medicine, and still sharp as a tack.
“No, sir.” The word ‘sir’ was automatic in Jack’s conversation now, especially when addressing an older gentleman. Just one of the many good habits he learned in the Corps. “I’m out of the Marines.”
Then he told the little white lie he came up with on the never-ending bus trip home. “My enlistment was up. My recruiter gave me the option of signing a four-year, or a six-year hitch. I took the four years.”
Not wanting to discuss his short-lived military career, Jack quickly changed the subject. “You’re looking well, Doc, but how’s my old man doing?”
Doc Wilson shook his head. “The stubborn old fool has one foot in the grave. He won’t give up those God damned cancer sticks. I’m actually on my way there right now with a full bottle of oxygen for him. I’m expecting to go there one of these days and find him dead. All day long, he does nothing but sit in his chair watching TV. I don’t think he even gets up to go to the bathroom anymore. Seems like he lost his will to live. Two months is about all I think he’s got left, if he’s lucky. Emphysema is not reversible. Probably a good thing you came home when you did,” he explained.
“Yeah…I suppose so.” Trotter sullenly agreed.
The doctor brought up the Marines again. “Did you see any action in Nam?”
The date was August 20, 1967. The U.S. military had over a quarter million soldiers involved in one of the most controversial wars ever fought. Jack had no idea how big a favor Scarpelli did for him. Their battalion was the next unit design
ated to enter combat in the jungles of Vietnam and Cambodia, half a world away, departing three months after Jack’s trial. Half of the young men came home in body bags; their dog tags attached to their big toes. Corporal Baker was one of the luckier Marines; he came home alive, but at the cost of leaving his right leg behind in a MASH unit.
Tony Scarpelli’s ribs healed just in time for the PFC to leave with his unit. His Uncle Vito, a short and obese man with the same heavy New York Italian accent, had nothing but praise in his eulogy honoring his decapitated nephew. “Private First Class Anthony Scarpelli was one of the finest young men I ever had the pleasure to know. I consider it my privilege to be his uncle. Tony would do anything for anybody. It’s such a shame he was taken from us gathered here today, so early in his young life. May he forever rest in peace.”
The last thing Scarpelli saw was his muddy combat boot coming down on a trip wire, which released a pent up bamboo tree with a parachute wire tied to it while the other end was secured to a bigger tree. Released with such an unbelievable amount of force and energy, the fine wire severed the young PFC’s head in a heartbeat. A simple and crude, but very lethal booby trap.
“No, sir, I was stationed at Pendleton all my time. I would have gone though, if I was activated.”
Driving past Ray’s farm, Trotter noticed that the perfectly straight rows of corn were plentiful. Both twins were in the adjacent field harvesting oats. Daniel was driving a brand new John Deere tractor pulling the harvester. R J was behind the wheel of a huge box van, catching the oats as they flew from the chute. Apparently, their farm was doing very well.
Going past his father’s farm revealed a different sight. Only a fourth of the fields contained plants; the rest laid fallow, nothing more than hay fields. Doc Wilson informed Jack that Dale had died two years ago from sugar diabetes. Moreover, Thomas could not keep any good hired help, let alone do any farming his self. He did however lease some of his fields to neighboring farmers, and then eventually sold off his equipment. “I don’t know how he manages to pay the taxes, and buy food.”
The now very rusted old Ford pickup sat in the driveway when they pulled in. Jack grabbed his bag and the oxygen tank; the two men went inside. The smell of must and urine filled their noses. He set the tank and duffle bag down. Thomas was asleep in his easy chair while John Wayne led a posse through the desert on the very loud, black and white television set. An overflowing ashtray sat on a small table next to the old man along with a pack of Luckies and his Zippo lighter. Oxygen tubes ran up Thomas’s chest and branched off to his nostrils. Jack immediately opened all the windows. The field latrines don’t smell as bad as this house.
Doc Wilson explained the pressure gauges on the tank. “When this gauge drops to point five pounds per square inch, it needs to be switched to the full tank.” He also showed Jack how to make the exchange.
“This one has about a day left in it. I was going to change them out today, but since you’re here now, it can wait till it’s completely empty.” Trotter nodded.
“Glad to see you home, Jack.” The doctor said, as he headed for his station wagon.
Jack walked him out. “Thanks for the lift.”
He went back inside, took the steps upstairs and looked in his mother’s room. Everything was virtually untouched since the last time he was there. Except Emily had made the bed. Foul air was also noticeable on this floor, so he opened all the windows in every room. He even propped the attic door open, and put the attic windows up. A small draft could be felt as the foul warm air rose up and drifted out the attic windows.
A half-quart of spoiled milk and a half of a loaf of moldy bread were the only food items in the fridge, along with a carton of Lucky Strikes. In the freezer, three frozen TV dinners had an inch of ice coating them. The refrigerator even had a dank and nasty odor in it.
Hungry, but thoroughly disgusted with the condition of the house, he took the pickup and drove to the Acme super market, where he spent twenty dollars on the basic food groups, a bottle of cleaning solution, and aerosol air fresheners. Burger King was the next stop for burgers, fries, and two Cokes before heading back home.
The brakes squealed as he brought the beat old pickup to a stop in the driveway. Thomas was sitting at the table when Jack brought the fast food and groceries into the kitchen.
“I kinda figured you were home when I saw your name on that big army bag,” Thomas said in a weak voice, between puffs on his cigarette, and his coughing.
“Doc Wilson gave me a ride here. He brought a full tank of oxygen for you,” his son said, then asked, “How in the Hell can you stand the stench in here?”
“What stench? I guess I’m used to it. I don’t smell anything.” The old man spit a glob of yellow phlegm into a very used and full hanky. The shirt he wore had dry, crusty mucus built up on the front; apparently, not all of the nasty shit he hawked up made it to the handkerchief. Cigarette ashes also added to his shirt’s disgusting appearance.
“Here’s some food. I’m going to eat mine outside. In the fresh air.” Jack gave his father two burgers, a bag of French fries, and a soda; he then went out on the porch to devour his. Thomas stayed put, snuffed out his smoke for later, and enjoyed his supper.
Ten minutes later, Jack tossed everything out of the refrigerator, except for the Luckies. He gave the smelly icebox a quick cleaning with disinfectant, and then put the groceries away. With two aerosol cans spraying pine scent simultaneously, he went from room to room until they both were empty.
“Where in the Hell are you going with my chair?” Thomas asked in a very irritated tone as Jack dragged the old man’s recliner past him and out through the front door.
“To the burn pile. And you’ll be next if you don’t get your goat smelling ass in the tub!” his son threatened. Dusk settled in as Thomas watched the flames rise outside, his beloved old comfortable recliner reducing to metal springs and ashes.
Jack came back in, went straight upstairs to the bathroom and began preparing a tub of water for the old man. He found a box of his mother’s scented soap beads that must have been a Christmas present many years ago, for they had hardened. His huge powerful hands crushed the crystallized lump back to powder, which he stirred into the tepid water. Amazingly, the soap still made suds and even smelled good.
Thomas heard the water running and knew what was coming. He also knew his son would carry him up the steps if need be. When Jack came back down to get him, there was no arguing or fussing; he let his son help him up the steps and into the tub.
“Sit in there and soak. Use as much soap as you want. Here, I bought a whole bunch.” Jack handed a brand new cake of Ivory soap to Thomas.
His urine-drenched blue jeans, the phlegm covered plaid shirt, underwear, and disgusting handkerchief, all joined the recliner in the fire pit. Jack tossed a tin can full of kerosene on the fire to build the flames back up.
Forty-five minutes went by. “I don’t think I’m going to get any cleaner,” Thomas told his son when Jack checked in on him.
“Pull the plug.” Jack helped him out of the tub and offered a towel. “Here, you can dry yourself off. Your clean underwear and T-shirt are on top of the hamper.”
Jack’s very first issue of Iron Man magazine held his attention while he sat on his bed, waiting for the old man to dry off and dress. He heard when the bathroom door opened. “When’s the last time you slept in your bed and not in your chair?”
“I don’t know, couple of years ago, maybe.”
“You look like you need a good night’s sleep, I’ll tuck you in.”
Again, Thomas knew not to argue. Although he would never admit it, that bath did feel damned good. In addition, when he realized he no longer had a chair to sleep in; the bed sounded like an excellent idea.
Jack stretched out on his bed, but he was too tired to sleep. Snoring sounds from his father’s room also helped hamper his sleep. It was a warm and cloudless August evening, the full moon shined brightly through the drapes flapping in hi
s window. Jack slipped into his sweat pants, went outside, sat on the front porch steps, and pondered what tomorrow would bring. Again, the sky seemed so vast, as he watched a shooting star streak brilliantly but briefly overhead. The moon looked extremely large, squatting low in the sky, beckoning him to take a stroll. He stood, and reached inside for the sneakers he had kicked off by the door. The old familiar night sounds reached his ears. Crickets were chirping, the peepers were croaking, and the wise old barn owl hooted, as bats dined on the wing above his head. Fireflies emitted their mating call with pulses of fluorescent yellow light.
He walked aimlessly through the tall grass in the lawn, which looked like nobody had mowed all year; then past a silent chicken coop; this normally would startle the birds, but there were none. Behind the barn, right where he parked her when he left for the Marine Corp sat his esteemed Mercury. A flood of memories brought a smile to his face even though the car had four years of dust layered on it and the front left tire was flat.
That will be tomorrow’s project. Get the lead sled on the road, and look for work. I wonder if Uncle Mike still works at the grain yard. Jack let out a long and loud yawn; the night air and long bus trip made him sleepy.
Kicking his shoes off in the kitchen, he noticed the house already smelled about ninety percent better. He pulled the bed sheet over himself, and fell into a deep sleep.
The smell of bacon greeted Jack when he awoke the next morning. It took a few moments for him to remember where he was. He dressed and went down stairs.
Thomas sat at the table, sipping coffee. “Good Morning, Jack. Thanks for buying groceries; your bacon and scrambled eggs should still be warm.” He pointed his arthritic hand toward the cast iron skillet on the stove.
Jack was surprised Thomas was able to get himself out of bed, dress himself, make his way down the stairs, and actually cook breakfast. When he was in his prime, Thomas stood five eleven, and weighed in at two hundred and fifty pounds. Not quite as strong as Dale, but he could hold his own. Now, with the emphysema gnawing away at his health, he was way less than half that man. Walking twenty steps without having to stop and catch his breath now was impossible. Doc Wilson told Jack he figured Thomas had roughly fifteen percent lung function left; and as every day passed, he lost more.
Born of Greed Page 10
