His brown hair remained cut short as it had been during his time in the military. His flesh showed almost no visible signs of his tours overseas. A light scar adorned his right arm as a result of the Mosul firefight, but that was all. He had been scarred much worse on the back of his right leg during a mountain hike.
He turned on the television and let it run as he changed clothes. Occasionally, he would stop to flip around the cable news channels. The latest channel he stopped on featured a panel discussing the Rally for Rights.
Carl shook his head. The Rally for Rights events had been happening for a couple decades across the country. While they were intended to give voice to the disenfranchised, Carl felt the rallies had grown less than productive. The rallies had, of late, degenerated into shouting matches and sometimes mild violence. At times it was a tossup between the police throwing people in jail, or else them backing off and riots breaking out. Some pundits and politicians openly denounced the rallies, with some labeling the Rally for Rights crowds as agitators.
But Carl knew the crowds possessed small pockets of people who desired actual change. Carl vowed to be there for them.
Now that he was fully dressed, Carl took another look at himself in the mirror. Fear stared back at him. This would be his first big speech in front of a major crowd. It wasn’t like the small speeches he had given in front of his high school, military social clubs or social gatherings. He was about to address total strangers. He probably could have gotten away with a small talk, but the lessons of the military still rang in his ears. His motto then, as it was now, was to ‘do it big.’ Leaving a good impression was his goal.
At last he was nearly fully dressed. He pulled his green shirt taut as he took one more look at his monitor. Funny. He was about to give a speech on self-reliance, yet he had to rely on this technology to see and talk to his dad miles away.
Then he glanced at the bag lying in the bottom of his closet. He had re-stuffed that bag only yesterday. The small strap-on bag was a grim reminder that he did not take the modern conveniences of this world for granted…and that he never would.
Tara held the smart phone up to her face, its video camera turned on so it would stream. “Hey, peeps!” She brushed back a lock of her red hair with her free hand. The rattling of the vehicle against the street made talking a tad difficult.
“Hope you’re all staying awesome. I’m getting ready for a couple of days out in the woods and I’m hoping this time I’ll bag my first deer.” Tara grinned. “Go me, huh?” Then she turned to the driver. “Mike, you want to be on screen?”
Michael, who was behind the car’s steering wheel, shook his head. “No. No, that’s all you, Tara.”
Tara chuckled as she returned her attention to her phone. “Camera shy. Anyway, that’s my driver, Michael.”
Michael flashed her a slight glare, but otherwise the young man kept his attention on the highway before them.
“I’m just funning with him,” Tara said.
“So, I’m looking forward to a great weekend, hoping my aim’s better after some range time. Hopefully I can stream a little while I’m in the woods, but if not, I’ll be streaming Monday. I plan to show you some deer pics, which I’m sure is going to make the libs angry.” Tara smiled mischievously, then spoke in a mockingly somber tone.
“Oh, how could you shoot that poor deer? Don’t you know animals have feelings? How’d you like it if an animal hunted you with a gun?” She shook her head. “Well, it’s called food, friends. That’s what the good Lord put the animals on this Earth for. Oh, sorry. I should have said Gaia. That’s for all the liberals who don’t believe in God. I want to be inclusive.”
Michael pumped the brakes, slowing the car. “I should really cut this short or I’m going to launch into a major rant and I so want to relax. I’ve been looking forward to this weekend ever since last Tuesday.” Tara leaned closer to the screen and smiled. “So, see you later, peeps, and enjoy your weekend! Bye!”
Tara then switched off the phone’s camera. “Boy, that’s one hell of a lot of self-restraint you’re showing there. I had to go through a whole monologue on Senator Worley’s speech on refugees just to get us out the door yesterday” Michael said.
“Well, he definitely pissed me off.” Tara laughed. “Thank you, Virginia for re-electing him! You know, if everyone voted like the Shenandoah Valley did, he’d have been tossed out on his ass twelve years ago!”
“Tara…” Michael said.
“Our state is becoming infested with D.C. liberals. They’re ruining an awesome state. Please, move somewhere else!”
“Tara…” Michael repeated.
Tara turned to him. “What?”
“Do you want to hunt deer or liberals?”
Tara smirked. “Can I get a license for that?”
Michael turned and gave Tara one of those looks. Tara recognized it. It was a “Now, Tara,” look, the one that told her she was going off the deep end again. She shrank back in her seat. “Okay. I get it. I’m supposed to have fun this weekend. You’re a saint for putting up with me.”
Michael nodded. “Well, it’s hardly an ordeal. You’re very smart. Very…opinionated. And we do agree on a lot. You’re also the only woman I know who likes jelly and pickled sandwiches on rye.” He licked his lips. “Plus, you also look very cute in camo gear.”
Tara looked down at her green camouflage pants and jacket. “Thanks,” she said with a giggle.
Michael looked to his left. They were passing a small two-story hotel. “Say, you think maybe we should just forget the hunting trip and check into a hotel?” He glanced at Tara. “If you need to relax, I think a little impromptu vacation might do better than a hunting trip.”
Tara’s cheeks burned, but she tried not to show her embarrassment. “Oh? Well, what’s wrong with going out into the woods? Out all alone…” She put emphasis on the word “alone.” “…with nobody around. Nobody for miles.”
Michael grinned. “Damn. I think you made hunting sound dirtier than a quickie at a hotel.”
Tara slapped Michael’s arm. “Quickie! No way in Hell was it going to be a quickie!”
Michael then stopped at a red light. Laughing, Tara raised her phone again. “I definitely should just put this away.”
“Definitely,” Michael said.
At last, Tara would unplug from her online world of combating liberals and rejoin Michael’s world of hunting and fishing, a place free of politicians and activists, free of Tara’s Facebook page where she streamed her videos and posted them to attract more and more conservative fans.
“Right after I check my Facebook,” Tara quickly added.
Michael rolled his eyes. “And here we go.” So much for Michael’s hopes.
“Hey. The Rally for Rights is hosting a rally in Glendale Park.” Tara read off the notification on her Facebook page. “And it’s streaming right now.”
“Tara, no,” Michael said sternly. He knew what she was thinking. He was not going to spend the next couple of hours with political speeches being fed through Tara’s phone.
“Well, let’s just see whose speaking,” Tara said. “Good God, I bet Preston Wilson’s up. Can’t stand him.”
“Okay, Tara, give me the phone.”
Michael quickly tried snatching the phone, but Tara tucked it under her arm. Then she slid it under her shirt. “Michael!” Tara cried to him.
“You need to detox,” Michael put his hands back around the wheel. “I mean, seriously. Get your head out of that political stuff and just relax.”
Tara clutched the phone inside her jacket. “Okay, okay.” Then she looked down. “But just one look at the rally.”
Michael came to an abrupt halt at the nearest intersection. Then he turned into a large parking lot near a strip mall and parked in the outermost lane. After unbuckling himself, Michael reached for Tara’s jacket.
“Okay, c’mon. Give me the phone.”
“No!” Tara said, with a laugh.
“Give me th
e phone.” Michael then grabbed Tara’s stomach and started tickling her.
“Ha ha…Dammit, I’m going to kill you!” Tara shouted through her laughter.
Michael’s lips then grazed Tara’s. Tara’s mirth quickly morphed into passion. “If you want my phone, Michael Wells, you’ll have to take it from me,” she whispered.
Michael nibbled on Tara’s ear. “If that’s what it takes.” He then unzipped Tara’s jacket and felt around her upper torso for the phone.
Tara chuckled as Michael’s touches became more intimate in nature. Even after her phone dropped out of her lap and onto the floor under the dashboard, Michael didn’t let go of her.
Nor did Tara wish him to do so.
Chapter Three
Carl pressed the phone against his right ear as he drove down Westlake Boulevard. “Not to worry, Mister Mathers.” The voice on the other end of the call belonged to Janet Rogers, one of the rally’s managers. “Preston always goes over his time, so you don’t have to worry about being late.”
“Great.” Carl tried to hide the sarcasm from his voice.
He had read on his phone that there was a chance of rain in the downtown area, but so far, he had been treated to just a few clouds. So, the chances of the rally being cancelled were zilch. Not that he should have expected it anyway. There was no avoiding it. He would have to face the fire.
As the road curved slightly, he got an idea of what that fire entailed. A group of young people had gathered on the sidewalk outside of Glendale Park. Some of them held up paper signs with slogans like Don’t Tread on Me, Leftism Kills, and Rally for Reds. These were the counter protestors to the people attending the Rally for Rights. These people were popularly called “right wing” in the media, and Carl didn’t doubt that some of their slogans matched up with politically conservative views. However, some of the signs also were demeaning and vulgar. Carl suspected that trolls and demagogues were truly behind the counter protestors. They had disrupted Rally for Rights events in other states, with the videos on YouTube to show their handiwork.
Damn. Just what I didn’t need. Carl would have enough trouble calming his nerves in front of the actual Rally for Rights crowd. Now he faced the possibility of these people disrupting the event. What would he do? Try stopping the counter protestors? Carl knew he could not simply step away and let people get hurt. On the other hand, he dreaded the idea that his words might inflame the crowd. This wasn’t like checking the comments on one of his YouTube videos to find just a bunch of angry trolls. Out in the real world, someone could throw a punch and hit a real person.
He turned right and slowed as he reached a U-turn. He’d park in the lot to the rear of the park. It would afford him a clearer path to get out of the park than the larger front parking lot where a lot of protestors were likely to gather.
It took a few minutes to jog from the lot to the actual setting of Glendale Park. It was a nice place. Ordinarily, it would be used by college students to relax, eat, or play music on the concrete stage. Today, hundreds of young people had gathered in front of the stage, listening to the man behind a wooden podium.
As Carl approached the stage, the voice sounded more and more familiar. Once he reached the outskirts of the crowd, he recognized the young man at the podium.
“And so, what did we get from decades of droning the African continent? The problems of terrorism haven’t gone way. All you’ve done is manufacture more of them. It’s like if you blow away a home or a car and maybe take out one or two members of Al-Qaeda or ISIS, you get three or four new ones in their place. Our military is like an assembly line for terrorists. Maybe if we understood that the resources of the Middle East, of Africa, and of Asia aren’t ours, maybe a poor farmer in the desert wouldn’t be motivated to grab a rifle and join the latest…” Here, the speaker made air quotes, “’terrorist army’ to come after us. Here’s a revelation to the warmongers in Washington. When you treat innocent people like animals, they’re going to come back and bite you like one.”
In other words, nothing unexpected from Preston Wilson. The crowd seemed to be eating out of the palm of Preston’s hand. For his part, Preston played the audience like an orchestra conductor. The way he moved his hands, gesturing as he spoke, was natural and smooth, even as he used harsh rhetoric that, as far as Carl was concerned, would not enrich these young people.
Young people. Carl almost laughed. He was approaching thirty-one. He was about to speak to a crowd that over half of which ranged from eighteen to twenty-one. And he worried about his father aging in spurts, while he realized he was getting older as well.
Carl scratched his ear. He never liked the idea of following Preston’s speech. The pair couldn’t be more dissimilar in their backgrounds and attitudes. Preston came from wealth, Carl came from a farm. Preston went to college, while Carl never progressed further than high school. Preston was openly politically liberal, as was his family, and espoused such views at these rallies. Carl came from a conservative family, and while Carl was a registered independent and eschewed partisan appeals, he was a big believer in self-reliance and self-sufficiency, regarding government dependence as not only a prison, but a danger.
Carl believed his presence at these rallies was tolerated largely because he did not care for the current political structure and often spoke out against it, even if he didn’t push all the buttons in the crowd. On the other hand, following Preston might be a good thing. As one of the last speakers, Carl had an opportunity to leave a lasting impression. If he went first, Preston simply would blow him away with his performance.
Carl turned to the steps leading to the back of the stage. Janet, at the top of the stage, approached him and extended her hand. “Mister Carl Mathers!” The young bespectacled woman took his hand and shook it, quite firmly.
Carl was impressed. Janet was a good foot and a half shorter than Carl, yet her handshake felt as if it could compete with Carl’s in any casual setting. Yet, that probably wasn’t a surprise. Janet Rogers was not just one of the voices at the Rally for Rights, she also communicated with the media and secured speakers, or “talent” as she once called them in a slip of the tongue. Carl suspected Janet had other ambitions beyond these rallies, perhaps desiring a career in the entertainment business, and that working the rallies just was a stepping stone. As Janet had agreed to put Carl up on stage, he didn’t care about her motives.
“Ready and able,” Carl said, not sure if he had sounded at all convincing.
“Perfect.” Janet either possessed full confidence in Carl’s abilities, or she just was faking it.
“I saw the protestors coming in.” Carl looked around the stage, spotting just two uniformed policemen. “You think you have the security to handle it?”
Janet readjusted her glasses. “We’ve contacted the police about it. We think we’re in good hands. There’s been no specific threats toward our event.”
Janet backed away, permitting Carl enough room to ascend the steps and join her on the stage’s back area. From here, the audience easily was visible. All those faces. All those eyes staring back up here. Carl clamped his mouth shut and turned away. He suddenly felt a little ill.
Unbelievable. How could speaking his mind to this crowd reduce him to a puddle of nerves? He had faced death, held death, and slept with it lurking nearby. Serving overseas, he imagined he had seen everything, every challenge that could present itself to a human being. He thought of all the military officials, both in history and in present life, who had spoken from a podium with no effort or fear.
On stage, Preston was giving his final words to the crowd. “So, everyone, my friends, this is where real change starts. This is where we say no to the toxic aggression that turns us against the world instead of working with it. This is where we stop with the cowboy act overseas and behave like honest brokers, ready to talk to the world instead of bombing it. This is where we throw imperialism into the ash heap of history along with racism, bigotry, intolerance, and inequality, and show the worl
d community that we’re a part of it, not dominating it. Thank you all!”
The crowd broke out in prolonged applause. Preston then left the podium. Janet gave Carl one last smile before walking out to the podium.
Extra sweat poured down his head. So, I’ll be up soon.
Preston slowed down as he approached Carl. “Hey.” Preston smiled, though for Carl it always seemed too slight and too self-satisfied, as if Preston felt he was the smartest guy in the room. “Ready for your big premiere, Sergeant Major Commander? I made sure to put them in good spirits for you.”
If you think railing against the West puts people in a good mood. Carl didn’t voice that sentiment, though. He also didn’t care for Preston’s mockery of his rank, which was simply Sargent, not that Preston cared to get it right. Besides, he still was trying to quell the butterflies in his stomach. Instead, he said, “Thanks, Preston.”
“Hey, here’s an idea. Janet said she’s got enough Internet speed that we could have a little video chat. Maybe even a debate. Won’t take long. Maybe twenty minutes? We could hold it on stage.” Preston pointed to the stage.
Carl frowned. Was Preston trying to trap him? Did Preston think Carl was just a slow-witted jarhead who wouldn’t be able to parry Preston’s political arguments? Carl wouldn’t put it past him. He had met Preston when he started attending these rallies, and he never got the sense that Preston thought much of him. Carl could detect the smarminess whenever Preston talked to him, especially when the subject of the military and foreign policy came up.
Additionally, Carl had to factor in Preston’s ego. Preston loved the spotlight, and “winning” a debate with a supposed right-wing Marine only would add to his stature in the eyes of his fans.
Silent Interruption (Book 1): Silent Interruption Page 2
