by Soren Petrek
Sam walked out onto his lawn and over to his squad car. It was as close to a tank as you could get. When starting up it sounded like the green flag drop at the Indy 500. Everything close that could, fled. The raw power made him smile as he tore off in the direction of town. Sam punched it on a lonely stretch of road and the car roared like a tractor pulling full throttle at a county fair. He pretty much had to hold the steering wheel straight. It had what he called ‘Armstrong’ steering, no power anything. Sometimes it was a wrestling match, but it was just how he liked it. It was a car you avoided flooring in a turn. It was truly a beast, announcing that the man behind the wheel was no Barney Fife.
Being in no particular hurry, Sam thought he’d meander around a little and check on the general status of things in Patience. Sam did a lot of cruising just to keep track of what was going on and who was doing what. He liked to drive and hated sitting in an office. Since his days as a beat cop and a detective in Detroit he hated being cooped up doing paper work. This way he could say “Howdy” to the people on a daily basis, whether they were normal, borderline, or downright nuts.
When his other life went to hell in Michigan, he came back home to find some peace. There was little in the way of crime in Patience and that was all right by him. He’d seen enough lunatic violent crime to last several lifetimes: too many murder investigations, rapes, and arson. Every type of violence men and women can do to each other. Patience had its own set of unique situations and Sam handled each as they came. His constituents either loved him or were terrified of him.
Sam loved the quiet clean streets and countryside of Patience. Everything seemed in its place and reminded him of the simpler times of his youth. Nothing was simple in adult life. He remembered how hectic and disorganized things had been chasing murderers around Detroit, the politics, the dirty cops and the sense of helplessness that fouled everything in the high crime areas. Patience was as far away from that as you could get. He intended to keep it that way.
As he drove by the city park, Sam noticed a gray Dodge parked alongside the road. He’d seen it there and a few other places children frequented around town. He’d been patient and watched for a pattern to develop.
“Damn it,” Sam muttered to himself. “No second chance this time.”
He pulled the squad a ways up the road and unbelted his pistol, leaving it under the front seat. Few of his duties in Patience required a firearm. Besides, if he was correct, the perpetrator he expected to encounter would be little trouble. He walked quickly and quietly up to a clump of trees and brush next to an area where the younger children played in the park. Sam saw a couple of kids on swing sets and a merry-go-round playing happily, while their mothers or sitters watched them, glancing up regularly from their books or papers.
As he neared the bushes he pulled a tiny digital camera from his pocket and crept forward. Eight years in Special Forces had taught him stealth, and he liked to sneak up on bad guys. Nothing like when the hero walks right up, plain as day, courageous and exposed. No damn way. You sneak up on the bad guy and take his ass out. Then you stand up and are the hero. All you have to do is be shot at once to know that’s true.
As Sam got closer, he saw a middle-aged man crouched in the bushes watching the children intently. From time to time he would reach down into his pants. It looked like he was going to take some time with that, so Sam took about twenty pictures: hand in pants, hand out of pants, licking his lips, mumbling to himself, an all-together sickening display. Not wanting to spoil the moment, Sam crept back to his car to make sure that the pictures were saved for later reference. He then walked back into the bushes plain as day making as much noise as possible. Whistling tunelessly Sam walked right up to the man, who was quickly trying to organize the front of his pants. As the man spun around he quickly said, “Good morning sheriff, my little dog ran…”
Sam hated people who preyed on kids in any way. While he considered the implications of just grabbing his gun and blasting the pervert, he came up with something more fun with less potential for litigation. Sam just smiled and without breaking stride kicked him casually in the crotch. Then he balled up his big hand and clubbed him on top of the head.
“Morning Deacon. Fine morning, isn’t it?” Sam boomed as he stood over the groaning man. “Great day for a move, wouldn’t you say? I’ve noticed you seem restless lately and there’s nothing better for a twitchy foot than seeing what else the fine world has to offer.”
Deacon Robert Jones looked up at Sam and unwisely tried to speak. At that point Sam just put his size thirteen extra wide down on the unfortunate man’s head and applied a little pressure.
“Now, don’t try to thank me. Helping people is my business and my advice is always helpful. You’ve lived in the state for many years. You need a change of scenery. That’s just what the doctor ordered. I promise to keep in touch. We can take pictures and send them to each other, just like these.” Sam moved his foot just enough for the man to see the pictures on the screen of the digital camera. “Like ‘em?” Sam yelled. “I thought you might. Now I’ll keep these as a reminder of your great ecumenical service to our community, but they’re special to me so I’ll just keep them myself. Now, if you decide to hang around, say, more than twenty four hours, I’ll share them with everyone so they can all enjoy your smiling face and line up to thank you in person.”
Sam looked down for a response. As the man nodded repeatedly, he reached down with one hand and pulled him to his feet, brushed him off and adjusted his clothing. Nothing like a reasonable response to a problem, Sam thought. Catch a guy red-handed, beat him some, then threaten him with a promise of a catastrophe that he knows will happen, and often times people will see things your way.
“I’m sick, Sheriff,” the Deacon croaked as he cowered in front of Sam, blubbering his woes. Sam wanted to slap some back bone into him but realized this man of the cloth probably would never have any.
“The best medicine is the open road. You should see a doctor when you get there. Send me his name. I’m sure I’ll hear from you within the month.” Sam smiled and flicked open a slender stiletto and began to clean his fingernails with the tip.
“Of course, of course, as soon as possible,” the man said.
Sam pointed out of the bushes with the knife and followed the man out as he limped and sort of hopped a little bit. Sam waved as the Deacon dropped into his car and he slid into the squad. Sam considered that while the man had committed a lewd act, it was a petty offense. He had no confirmed reports of similar conduct on the part of the Deacon, just his own suspicions. The people of Patience might question the sudden move but Sam was sure the Deacon could conjure up a sick relative somewhere. People didn’t want the truth about this one, better to toss the rotten apple out of the barrel and get on with life. Knowing that one of your spiritual leaders peeks at little kids while engaging in solitary sin can be disconcerting.
Once Sam knew where the man landed, he’d inform local law enforcement to keep an eye on him. Charging him with a petty misdemeanor wouldn’t stop him, but the fear of knowing the police were keeping an eye on him would.
Sam sat in the car and listened to his stomach rumble. He decided crime fighting could be done on a full stomach just as well as an empty one. He pulled out into traffic and headed downtown.
Sam stopped off at the local diner, Sheila’s, and pulled up to the curb. He’d been going to the diner since he was a kid. Every table, chair, cup and saucer was original, worn but clean and serviceable. The linoleum had faded to an almost pastel color. There were small diners like Sheila’s all over the country. The décor went with the familiar smells of people, grease and home cooking. He walked in it was to a mixed chorus of “Hey Sheriff,” “Hey Sam,” “Hey Boy,” “Son,” “Sammy.” They all knew him and only called him sheriff on official business.
“Howdy y’all,” he said.
Sam loved those words. They were wonderfully collective and suited every occasion. He’d always been harassed for his co
untry choice of words up north. Conversation in the south was often accomplished with a few choice words and sometimes not even that.
He walked over to the lunch counter, clapped a few people on the back and lowered himself onto a stool. Carl Smith nodded in his direction, and Sam nodded back. That tiny nod was universal. It said, “I see you, I acknowledge your presence, and you deserve at least the expenditure of one calorie of my energy resources to move my neck ½ an inch.” Farmers like Smith were the backbone of the community. They had been working the land for years before Sam was born. Sam had met Carl’s wife Alma some years ago. She didn’t have squat to say either. He’d gotten a glance though. He often wondered if these people just sat at home and nodded and glanced at one another after the chores were done. Then he remembered that they raised fourteen kids. They must have been damn good at nodding and glancing.
Sheila Trempford walked out of the kitchen and over to where Sam was sitting. She didn’t glance at all; she beamed. Everyone knew she had the hots for Sam. She liked Sam’s rugged good looks, blue-green eyes, a little rough around the edges.
For his part, Sam wasn’t looking for a girlfriend, and certainly not somebody he liked as much as Sheila. He couldn’t bear to screw up their friendship.
Sam looked over at Sheila and liked everything he saw. She had gentle country good looks, a nimble mind and a smile for everyone. It wasn’t the cooking that made the place so popular. People swore that being around Sheila just made the food taste better.
Sheila walked over to Sam, her apron tied behind her back in a way that accentuated her curves. Some people can pull the apron thing off and some can’t, Sam thought as he tried to think of some smart-alec thing to say.
“Potatoes or Oatmeal?” she asked, knowing Sam was pretty predictable.
“First things first. Today I’m with the health department and I have to say, you do look healthy!”
“A man dedicated to public service, passably good-looking, and generous with his compliments! What else could you want?” Sheila bantered back.
“More coffee,” somebody said.
“Jack Wilson, you drink so damn much of my coffee that you should just call ahead and get it in a bucket and take it all at once and spare me the daily hours of seeing your sorry face in here licking it up drop by drop.”
That had done it. There was a huge laugh around the lunch counter, Jack Wilson the loudest.
When Sam had stopped laughing and shaking his head he said, “Potatoes would be great.”
A few minutes later a mixing bowl of potatoes appeared in front of him, along with a pepper grinder and butter. Sam added the butter, some pepper and a healthy dose of Tabasco.
Sheila came around the counter and slid in next to him.
“Anything exciting today, Sammy?” she asked.
“I have to go out to see Carl Koots, problem with his neighbor.”
“Carl the chicken fucker?” Mike Vance, the school janitor, asked sitting two seats down the counter.
“Now, there’s no proof he ever fucked a chicken,” Sam said earnestly. His little voice said “I can’t believe that I used the words chicken fucker” in a serious conversation.” There were a few things about rural living that fell into the absurd category. At least the lack of barnyard animals in big cities kept the practice of bestiality indoors.
“Well, that’s not what I heard,” Vance stated resolutely as if that settled the discussion. Sam closed his eyes and shook his head like he was the only sane man in a community of crazies.
“People, it’s 2001. Who cares whether a man has a thing for chickens or not? Maybe he’s a recluse who somebody decided years ago enjoyed all aspects of chicken husbandry, from courtship to mating to eating. Shouldn’t our town have everything a town needs? You know a doctor, a banker, a lawyer and the celebrated position of chicken fucker?” Sam said sarcastically.
Sheila was pinching her leg and biting her lip to keep from laughing. She was shaking and her eyes were absolutely on fire. Sam looked at her and was instantly affected. There is nothing funnier than trying not to laugh with somebody else. Especially a pretty girl, he thought. They’d almost made it when somebody started crowing like a rooster. Sam and Sheila lost it together. Life was good.
After breakfast and a cruise through town, Sam pulled onto a grown over gravel road and drove up to a small, well-kept log home. He noticed a large garden and a couple of chicken barns. He glanced into one and was turning to walk to the house when a voice said, “I bet you’re wondering if I think I can fuck them all.”
An older man stepped up to Sam. He stood ram-rod straight, his face weathered from the outdoors. There was no old age stoop, only a balanced readiness to the man’s body. He was lean, and moved well for a man his age, but he was no spring chicken. Sam looked into Carl’s eyes and didn’t dare crack a smile.
“No sir.” The look on the man’s face made Sam feel small. That’s when he noticed the American flag fluttering in the wind next to a small garden out back.
“Sometimes I run around here without clothes on and once some clown in a delivery truck saw me carrying a chicken. Now if I was going to have relations with some animal it wouldn’t be a chicken. They’d just squawk about it.”
The older man smiled and they both laughed.
“Young man, I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks about me, except for a very few men. Now you look familiar.”
“I’m Sam Trunce.”
“John’s boy?”
“Yes sir.”
“He should have brought you around.”
“Dad visits you?”
“He better, I saved his ass in France. He talks about you though.”
“Sorry, I didn’t realize that he knew you. He keeps quiet about the people he knew in the wars.”
“Three wars, hard to believe, one was enough for me. There are few soldiers like John Trunce. Forty years airborne!” Carl said with pride. “Now, what can I do for you, Sheriff?”
“Well, Mr. Koots, I understand there’s some kind of fence dispute, with your neighbor, Mr. Dupree.”
“You mean the goat fondler?”
“Well, I guess if people call you chicken fucker, you’re not going to like it much.”
“Well, he may not be a real goat fondler but he’s pissing me off just the same.”
Great, then let’s sink the bastard, Sam thought as he nodded in response to Koot’s statement.
“I had words with him over it. He got his cattle back in when I fired a few rounds into the air. He understood that.”
“Well, he kind of mentioned it, Mr. Koots. You seem calm now, let’s go see Mr. Dupree and see if we can get this thing under control.”
Both men walked over to the squad and Sam drove the short distance over to the next farm. The house was an old clapboard with a fresh coat of paint. There was a nice garden, a barn, a pen with cattle and a small flower garden with a little headstone. The American flag fluttered in the breeze right next to it. As Koots exited the car he immediately noticed the flag.
“Sam, how old is this guy?”
“I think he’s about your age, sir.”
Koots nodded and followed Sam up to the front door. Sam knocked and it was quickly answered by an older man, standing tall and straight. He looked right past Sam and addressed Koots.
“You gonna shoot? Because I will shoot back.”
It wasn’t a threat or delivered in a macho boasting way, it was a statement of fact.
“No, sir.”
“Then I suppose you men want to come in?”
“If we could, Mr. Dupree,” Sam’s Southern manners told him not to come right to the point. Men of this generation would get to the point in good time. These were Southern gentlemen and manners were expected. Sam liked it that way. It gave a little more order to a world where there was enough confusion, enough meanness.
Dupree moved aside and Koots and Sam walked into the entry way. The home was neatly kept. There was a smell of freshly baked cookies
in the air and a clean, homemade rug under their feet, and a little dog curled up in the corner. It was a place where haste and hurry were left at the door.
Dupree showed them through the entry way into the sitting room. As he walked into the room Koots passed an upright cabinet with medals, pictures, and a few maps displayed on top.
“Were you with the 101st at Bastonne, Mr. Dupree?” Koots asked.
“Nobody remembers that. Yah, I was there.” Dupree said in a faraway wistful voice.
“Me too,” Koots said quietly.
“What! I didn’t know you were Airborne.”
Without hesitation, the men walked towards each other, embraced, and met like old friends who started talking a mile a minute.
Sam’s jaw hit the floor. These men had just traveled through time. They weren’t pushing eighty anymore, they were fire-eating Airborne Rangers again.
Sam sighed a little in relief. Apparently neither man had any carnal designs on the goat and chicken populations of Patience County. If they did, Sam was certain that they would restrict their activities to the animals they raised for breeding purposes. Sam laughed out loud at his own bad pun, thinking how dangerous random rumors could be regardless of how far-fetched.
Sam said, “I’ll leave you guys to work it out then.”
Neither man seemed to notice at all, so Sam just walked quietly out the door and over to his car. People are amazing, he thought. Not only had he brought two neighbors together, but he was sure these guys would be best of friends. Even though he hadn’t really done much, it made him feel damn good to see it. The exchange had been just the thing to see the sunny side of things.
Sam jumped back into the squad and headed to the Sheriff’s station for his routine check in. His office was housed in an old concrete building on the far end of town from the shops and business offices. He passed friends on the street, making the required head nod or finger wave. He and his buddies often joked about it when they passed a farmer on a tractor and got the single digit lifted off the steering wheel salute. He smiled when he pulled up to the squat ugly concrete and cinder block building that looked more like an errant fortification than a city office. Rommel would have approved, Sam thought as he got out of the vehicle. There were places where the walls were three feet thick and rebar reinforced.
