by Soren Petrek
Lisa Coleman, the receptionist, greeted Sam as he walked in the door.
“What are people doing to each other today?” It was the same thing Sam asked her every day, always hoping for the same answer.
“Nothing new today, but your mother called to remind you about Sunday dinner.”
“Thanks Lisa, she always does.”
The informal, Patience County Traveling Pot Luck, had been a tradition dating back to the civil war. Many of the same families still attended. Sam’s father showed up after he started dating Sam’s mother. At their third pot luck together, Sam’s parents snuck off together down to a nearby swimming hole. Skinny dipping remained one of his parent’s favorite activities together. Sam’s uncles hadn’t liked that very much and Sam’s father hadn’t bothered to put his clothes back on when he took Sam’s three uncles on. The young men fought to a standstill and an understanding. After that, Sam’s uncles kept all other suitors away. That skinny paratrooper was tough as hell and he was their brother now. The fight was still laughed and joked about.
There were always lots of people and a huge feed moving from house to house among their friends and family. By the end of the week at least a dozen people had reminded him of where it was. They were there when he left Patience and there when he came back.
Sam rambled back through the neatly organized sheriff’s station, with its offices in the front and few jail cells in the back. There was little need to hold people at the station, as the courthouse had a separate detention facility for those offenders serving county jail time or waiting to appear in court. That arrangement allowed Sam and his deputies to attend to their duties and not have to take care of prisoners. He didn’t think most people needed to be held anyway. If they were violent and had to be held, the courthouse was best. If not, Sam could always provide them with many good reasons to leave his county, very few of which were in any handbook anywhere. Sam checked his messages and the duty roster. Satisfied, he headed back out the door.
“I hereby declare the world safe for democracy,” Sam announced.
“It is until you get back in that squad, sheriff,” Lisa joked.
Sam jumped back into his car and drove a few blocks over to TJ’s Auto to gas up. TJ was a close friend of Sam’s father John and had been with him in Vietnam in a unit that saw more than its share of combat. After the war, TJ kind of drifted around and got into stupid trouble, drinking and fighting. He was a tough kid from East L.A., and had been born into one of the tougher gangs. He often joked he’d been in combat all his life. He did some jail time, dried up for a while and then repeated the pattern. John had heard about TJ’s troubles and went to find him. John knew that TJ just lacked a sense of purpose, having come from less than nothing before the war, some inner city slum. When the war was over he had nowhere to go and nothing to do. That was a perfect recipe to get any man in trouble. TJ was a natural mechanic and had learned about engines as a child in the shop of a decent man in his neighborhood who he still called his uncle. The man was long dead, but when TJ was temporarily stumped or couldn’t figure something out, he’d say “I bet ol’ Uncle Gary would have figured it out already.” Sam had driven all manner of vehicles in the military and in police life, from the most rugged military Humvees to luxury cars that cost in the hundreds of thousands of dollars, but he liked his squad the best. It was a 1990 Ford Crown Victoria, one of the old interceptors. TJ had taken one purchased at an auction in another county and altered it some. It was capable of producing over 800 horsepower on a modified frame and could go at least 160 mph as long as you didn’t want to turn. It had bullet proof everything and had solid rubber tires. It drank gas like a dragster and could be geared low enough to tow a river barge if need be. The engine was air, water, and oil cooled, turbo charged with ram air injection. It was downright silly and that’s why Sam loved it.
When he pulled in TJ gave him a wry grin and shook his head almost imperceptibly.
“Fill ‘er up,” Sam sang out as he jumped out of the vehicle and clapped TJ on the back, “with the special juice.”
“Special juice my ass, Sam. I told you before racing fuel is for racing.”
“Then let’s go racing,” Sam winked. He knew TJ was the man to see. When TJ drove one of his antique honeys, everybody looked.
“I’d feel safer in the jungle with the enemy than on the back of a bicycle with you,” TJ said smiling and wagging a finger at Sam.
“You have a point.”
It wasn’t that Sam was a bad driver, but in the last four years he had sunk the squad twice and on two separate occasions had landed in a cornfield in pursuit of a suspect. It was times like these that made him glad that TJ was his friend. The squad had a distinctive throttle sound when it kicked down. On a still night the sound carried. No other car was like it. When people heard it they knew that Sam was on patrol. It was one of those echoes in the night, like a train off in the distance. People told him they liked hearing the squad, knowing he was on the job.
The squad had a normal, bench-style front seat and two separate seats in the back. One for a normal sized passenger and one that looked like it was made for a giant.
There were so many dents in the squad that TJ just replaced the shell every so often, so that from the outside it looked at least halfway normal. Its color was mostly black and tan. The lights on top were bolted to the heavy duty frame and needed to be replaced constantly. Sam had cleaned Patience County up when he returned. Nobody seemed to care about the repair bills.
TJ hopped into the car and drove it around back where the stash of high octane racing fuel was kept. Sam walked to the front of the station and onto the small porch where two ancient men intermittently played checkers and ribbed one another mercilessly. They were the same two men who had been there when Sam left at eighteen and they were still there when he came home at forty two. They looked the same, spoke the same and still called him boy, unless it was ‘official’. Then they called him Sheriff. They were both a little crazy and convinced that the Catholics in town were trying to get them. They never offered an explanation as to their religious persecution and Sam wisely didn’t ask, but he never ignored them. They saw everything and seemed to have crystal clear recall for details concerning people ‘not from around here’.
“Howdy, gents,” Sam said.
“Boy,” was the simultaneous reply.
Sam walked into the shop and the old wooden floor creaked as he walked over to the cooler to get an IBC Root Beer and a bag of cheese puffs. They had been his favorite snack since childhood, when he rode his bike to town or cut through the woods with Nathan avoiding his chores. Another man had owned the filling station then, but it never seemed to change. The interior had the same slanted greasy floor, dirty cracked display cases and tired old Snap-on-Tool calendars on the walls it had thirty years ago. Sam put a couple of dollars on the counter and walked out back to where TJ was fueling the squad.
TJ finished topping off the tank and Sam jumped in and fired up the engine. The engine sounded like a spitfire starting up. Sam smiled and TJ said, “Sunday dinner at your parents.”
It was Sam’s turn for the wry smile and incredulous shake of his head. TJ laughed right out loud. It was always fun to hear TJ’s explosion of mirth and glee. He was a relatively new conscript to Sunday pot luck, having only been around for twenty years or so.
Sam drove the rumbling squad into Nathan Harper’s rutted dirt driveway and came to a stop next to a barn that had once been red. He climbed out and took an appreciative sniff of the air. Nathan’s garden was bursting with growth. Large tomatoes were forming on his vines, which had been staked recently, and fragrant tiny grapes were developing among shiny leaves clinging to the arbor that arched by the barn door.
Sam saw that Nathan’s big farm truck was gone, more than likely making deliveries or hauling packages of the home grown specialty organic products Nathan shipped to restaurants all over the region.
To make sure, Sam walked over to the front door, s
tuck his head inside and called out. Not hearing a response, Sam figured there was nobody home. Sam and Nathan had free reign in each other’s homes. They were closer than brothers and didn’t bother with asking each other permission for much of anything. Sam walked over to one of Nathan’s barns where the makeshift weight room was set up.
Sam ducked into the barn just as a couple of mice scurried across the floor in search of some discarded grain sack or other morsel. There was dirt and dust everywhere except on the heavy bench press, squat rack and pull up bar. It was an old fashioned weight pit. No frills. Over in the corner was some of the equipment Nathan used. One was a welded barbell made of a four inch thick iron bar connected to enormous old-fashioned steel tractor wheels. They were heavy enough so that the bar bent considerably under their weight. Nathan was much too broad for a conventional Olympic bar. It didn’t much matter, as he couldn’t fit enough weight on one any way. Sam used on old Olympic weight set they’d trained with for years.
Nathan’s bench presses were done with massive iron barbells that an old time blacksmith made for him in exchange for some chickens and that venom Nathan called moonshine. Sam tried to lift one of the bells just off the floor. He could do it, but it would take two good men to get one into the back of a pickup. Sam was gone when they were made, but the story was that the old smith, applying the wisdom of his years, used a skid-steer loader to deliver them.
Sam’s workout was basic, squats, bench presses, and pull-ups; that was it. Nathan and Sam believed in exercise in moderation. It was easier to make themselves do it. Sam’s real physical talent was his ability to move with loose, fluid ferocity, born of countless hours of running through the woods, swimming in creeks and spending most of his younger years exploring the wild areas near his home. Sam would still often take off for hours into the woods alone, climbing trees, running and just rambling about. When he was young his parents once saw him outside lying face down on the ground with his arms outstretched like he was hugging the earth. Sam could always rejuvenate himself by spending time alone anywhere in the wild. Sometimes old man Trunce would say, “Sam’s gone walkabout again,” for like an aborigine, he had the same uncanny sense of direction and the same wanderlust.
The Trunces and the Harpers were great friends. Nathan, like his father, was a botanist. His father had a PhD. but Nathan was a farmer. While his father taught at the university, Nathan was interested in the practical side of the science. By the time he was in his teens he had spent long hours working with his father doing sophisticated research. When he went to university, he tested out of all but the highest level courses. Nathan spent about eighteen months taking all of the required courses and graduated. He did so more to please his father than himself. Dr. Harper was an academic, and while he didn’t insist that his son obtain a degree, he was openly proud when he did. Nathan graduated with honors and had the pick of any graduate school of his choice, but he chose farming as his continuing education. Dr. Harper was a decent farmer and a respected scientist, but Nathan could grow things by wiggling his toes in the soil. It was Nathan, who the other farmers called when they had questions. They generally said “could you ask Dr. Harper and Nathan to call around?” Nathan and Dr. Harper both read every journal of importance that came out in the field of botany and conducted all manner of research at the university and at the farm. Nathan was always included in the credits of every paper published. He was a natural organic farmer, and had great interest in natural forms of pest and weed control, crop rotation, and the combination of species to deter insects and disease. Nathan wanted to be able to help feed the world without poisoning it.
Nathan’s father had been in John Trunce’s ranger unit in Vietnam as a young officer. He had joined the military in an effort to attempt to control his destiny, as he saw many of his African American friends and relatives drafted into the general infantry and told where to go. As many of the men who ended up in elite units, Joseph Harper wanted to be surrounded by the best and brightest. He thought his ability to survive the war would be improved. Many black men at the time, regardless of their aptitude, ended up in combat units. Joseph’s deferral for college was over; he’d graduated and he thought it would be best to go in as an officer and to try to save some lives if he could. Joseph lived with his family in rural Mississippi and most of the young men from the poorest areas of the state seemed to be going off to war. Not only did he not feel different from these young men simply because he was intellectually and physically gifted, they were his family and community and he had to stick with them. To survive poverty, people in families and long standing friendships rely on one another to get along. There was a common struggle and suffering, at least where Joseph grew up. While everyone was proud of Joseph, they were even prouder when he enlisted and went to Officer Training School. Joseph had some ideas about defending his country, freedom and the flag, but for him it was more personal. His friends and cousins had to go, so he had to go. The idea that somebody else might have to fight if he stayed didn’t sit well with him. His personal faith and sense of duty to others just wouldn’t allow it. Besides, Joseph told his family and friends, since he was an All- American running back at the University of Mississippi, he could outrun anything the enemy threw at him. He had a shot at professional football and a stellar academic career, but left them behind to fulfill his responsibilities as he saw them.
Joseph joined the army, excelled, and went to Officer Training School where he excelled again and ended up in Airborne Ranger Training. It was there where he first encountered Colonel John Trunce. Colonel Trunce was the C.O., and headed up the regiment of paratroopers that Joseph was assigned to. Colonel Trunce was already a combat veteran of World War Two and Korea, and had been in country in Vietnam from the beginning of US involvement.
As a young lieutenant, Joseph made the wise decision of listening to his non-commissioned officers and the other members of his platoon who had combat experience. They knew right away that he came from a background much like their own. He worked with the men as a team and soon they came to trust him and respect his courage. Joseph saved many of their lives more than once and they came to follow his command without question. He protected his men and accomplished his missions. Joseph soon became a Captain and carried on his leadership style. His colonel soon took notice and drew Joseph into his circle of confidence, trusting his judgment and his intellect. Joseph was never a ‘yes man’ and would put his two cents in regardless. If he disagreed with the orders he didn’t complain, he followed them.
John Trunce was a soldier’s soldier and, contrary to higher command directives, fought alongside his men whenever he was able. Colonels weren’t supposed to be in combat with their troops: they were too valuable to lose. That’s how it happened, that John Trunce and Joseph ended up behind enemy lines for two weeks on their own. They lived on grubs, mined from under fallen logs, and learned which ones tasted the best. They killed the enemy, and brought the war to the Viet Cong. They were cautious, disappearing like smoke after each stealth attack. They learned by doing and became experts at jungle warfare, and because they were fast learners, they stayed alive for those two hellish weeks. John Trunce had been trained by both the South Vietnamese and by Japanese Veterans of WW II. He was a jungle fighter of the highest skill and Joseph trusted him completely. Each developed a sense for what the other man was thinking and knew what he would do or not do. When they were finally able to cross back over enemy lines and rejoin their troops, John Trunce made sure Joseph became a major and was at his right hand. Joseph couldn’t leave his colonel and did three tours of duty with him. When John Trunce went stateside, he took his major with him all the way to Patience County. It was as good a place as any. Joseph went to graduate school in St. Louis and earned a PhD. while John Trunce trained troops at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri and went about the life of a career regular army soldier. John had long been eligible for retirement, and when his wife Kathy finally put her foot down, he left the military. John supplemented his pension
as a consultant to defense contractors and trained troops for friendly foreign governments. John developed many military ties throughout the world in those years.
Joseph completed his PhD. In Botany and went to Africa to do field study in Kenya among the Masai people. Joseph had thought that being black would be enough to fit in. While it didn’t seem to hurt, it became clear to him that he was treated as an outsider simply because he wasn’t a member of the tribe. The Masai were fierce warriors and had never been conquered. Throughout history, the area’s European and British invaders wisely went around the warrior nation.
As a botanist, Joseph worked with the local farmers, established irrigation, and did research. He loved working and living in such a different and challenging environment. His research facility was near the Masai camp where the local chief and his enormous extended family lived. Joseph picked up the language fairly rapidly, as the farmers who were important to his work spoke both Swahili and some English. Soon Joseph began to attend ceremonies and celebrations at the Masai camp and was treated as an honored guest. On one of these occasions, Joseph walked into camp and saw the most beautiful woman he had ever seen walk past him, accompanied by a large teenage boy, oddly holding her hand. Joseph thought it must be a Masai custom, or maybe just a show of affection. Not being stupid, he didn’t go to the first warrior and ask him who the woman was. He didn’t want to start an incident or be stabbed with a seven foot spear. He came to find out that the woman’s name was Ua. She was one of the chief’s daughters and had recently lost her husband to disease. The chief became increasingly aware of Joseph’s efforts to help his people and decided that he needed an interpreter to learn more Swahili and the tribe’s customs and traditions. To Joseph’s eternal joy the chief gave that task to the same beautiful woman he’d seen in camp. Around the same time, the chief became more and more comfortable with Joseph. He began to send young women over to Joseph’s tent when he stayed in camp. Joseph firmly sent them away, explaining that in his country, the girls were too young and that men and women had a courtship and marriage. The Masai understood the courtship and marriage part, but only if the woman was to be your wife. The chief thought Joseph a little odd to turn away these fine young women, but understood at least that all people are not the same, especially when they are not Masai.
