The Weak Are Meat

            Have you watched “Cloud Atlas”? The movie, based on the novel by David Mitchell, left me scratching my head. After the second viewing I had a better idea of what was going on but still wondered how many themes and sub-themes I’d missed.

            I did come away with two themes. First, the actions of individuals, though small and seemingly inconsequential, matter. That theme is important because of the second theme: the weak are meat, and the strong do eat.

            The weak are meat, and the strong do eat.

            Wow! That sounded a bell in my psyche that is still resonating. It struck me as one of the clearest, most concise summaries of the history of human interaction that I’ve ever heard.

            The weak are meat and the strong do eat.

            That’s why we spend our lives trying to lift ourselves above the masses. We spend our lives trying to lift ourselves above the rank-and-file because we know that ordinary people, the masses, the weak must forever toil in the fields, the factories and the bedrooms of the strong, and when they call, we must go and die in their wars.

            The weak are meat and the strong do eat.

            Some 2500 years ago a notable thing happened. In the ancient city state of Athens, ordinary people realized that the only way for the weak to become strong is for them to unite. They realized that they could rule themselves. It was revolutionary! Ordinary people could choose one of their own to sit as head of the government. It was the birth of democracy.

            It had a short life of a couple of hundred years. The strong don’t like to share power so, after a time, the strong took over and democracy perished. There was probably a really good reason for it. Perhaps there was the threat of terrorism. The strong may have said, ‘we’re strong and we can take care of this emergency, and when this threat is eliminated, we’ll give democracy back to the people.’ They didn’t, of course. They never do, and democracy died. It lay dead for more than two thousand years. Then another group of ordinary people saw how destructive the power of the privileged few could be and they decided that the people should rule themselves, and so democracy was set as a foundational principle of the United States of America.

            You and I were taught that those in authority over us actually care about the people. We were taught that they care about us and will protect us from our enemies. That might have been so, once upon a time, but I don’t believe it’s true any longer. We have trustingly followed the Judas goats – our political, social and religious leaders – into the pen, and we are just about ready for the slaughter. We hear the insistent bleating of a few, but we ‘pooh-pooh’ the nuts and ‘conspiracy theorists’. ‘That can’t happen in America!’ we say.

            It is happening in America. Democracy, it seems, has a short shelf life. After only two hundred years, American democracy is dying. It may already be dead. Since September 11, 2001, our constitutional rights and guarantees have steadily been stripped away under the guise that the strong are protecting us from terrorism.

            I grew up during the Cold War. I remember the Cuban Missile Crisis. In those days there was the real possibility that nuclear missiles could fall upon American cities, but the government didn’t take that as an opportunity to strip away our constitutional rights. Or maybe back then we still had politicians who cared about the constitution and the people.

            I have come to believe that the most insidious and deadly terrorist threat facing America today is the threat posed by the faceless powerbrokers who sit behind the scenes and by the smiling politicians that they carry around in their pockets. I’m not afraid of outside extremists. I am afraid of those men and women who crave absolute power and who will not stop until they have taken away every last one of my freedoms.

            I wonder if I’ll go to jail for that. Back when we had free speech and the free exchange of ideas, that thought would never have come to mind, but there aren’t any guarantees any longer. Democracy, that rare and beautiful flower, is dying. You and I are watching it die.

            I hope you won’t take this as a rant against the current administration. It isn’t. It’s a rant against every administration because it doesn’t matter who sits in the main seat. He has no power. He’s led to believe that he does by the fawning flatterers, but he is being worked like a marionette to secure the agendas of the strong. He may not even realize it, but he is. It’s my position that John Kennedy was the last president who understood that the people had to be protected from the power elites, and that is what got him killed.

            So what will we do, you and I? Will we sit quietly, sip our lattes and turn a blind eye to the wave of tyranny and oppression that is already drowning freedom and liberty in America? The fate of our children and of their children hangs in the balance.

            These are uncertain times, but amidst the uncertainties of life, this much is certain: the weak are meat and the strong do eat.

The Deaf Cannot Hear

            I wrote this more than a year ago after my first ‘cardiac event’. I don’t know why I didn’t post it then. I’m sure there was a good reason which I don’t remember. Anyway, something recently reminded me of this, so here it is.

             Some of you know I was recently in the hospital because of a minor heart attack, or ‘cardiac event’. I’ve looked at that experience to see what, if anything, there might be to take away from it.
            The first thing that comes to mind is this: the deaf cannot hear and the blind cannot see.
            Okay, two things here: one, this is not a new revelation. Two, if it seems so obvious that the deaf cannot hear and the blind cannot see that it isn’t worth mentioning, well, you may be right. And you may be wrong.
            This first struck me when the cardiologist came to see me. There was some question as to whether or not I had actually had a heart attack. It was quickly evident to me that he wasn’t conversing with me. He was talking at me, telling me that they thought I’d had a heart attack and that a heart catheterization would reveal the truth. He wasn’t hearing what I was saying when I asked if he was proposing that I put myself in a possibly life threatening position just to verify someone’s opinion. To him I was the ignorant and contrary commoner whose ignorance simply needed to be trampled. To me he was a pompous, know-it-all ass. Looking back, I think it’s likely that neither of us heard the other.
            There were other times during my stay when other doctors and nurses didn’t hear what I was asking or saying. To be fair, I’ll admit that there must have been times when I didn’t hear what they were saying to me, either.
            As I lay waiting (and waiting and waiting and waiting) to go for the catheterization, I was able to calm my mind and get into that semi-dream state where your body and mind are relaxed as if asleep but your mind is active. This thing of hearing but not hearing played across the stage of my mind, and it occurred to me how terribly lonely and frustrating must have been the lives of the prophets who were compelled by the divine to address a people who could neither see what the prophets were showing them nor hear what they were telling them. Yes, the people saw something, heard something, but they neither saw what they should have seen nor heard what they should have heard. In some cases, they heard the opposite of what was being said, which led them to persecute the prophet.
            I want to think that some of this deafness is accidental or that it is somehow beyond our control, but I don’t really believe that to be the case. We willfully refuse to see that which comes into conflict with one or more of the layers of our preconceptions. We refuse to hear that which picks at the threads of the tapestry we have woven for ourselves and which we call ‘the truth’.
            Obviously this subject begs a number of questions which, perhaps, you’ll ponder. For my part, I don’t have the energy to address them and, frankly, I’m a little overwhelmed by the mystery of seeing but not seeing and hearing but not hearing. We always assume that we hear and understand what’s being said to us, but honesty demands that we acknowledge that there must be times when we don’t hear or see and when we don’t understand. And here’s the kicker: we are so skillful at self-deception, so dedicated to guarding the layers of our preconceptions that we may not know when it’s happening. Personally, I find that unsettling.

Good People

            Do you ever think about the question of good and evil? I do, often. I think about other things, too, like putting food on the table and keeping a roof over our heads, but the questions that create a dialog in my mind are the questions which seem to have no final answer, like the question of good and evil.

            The issue came up when a man with contacts in the film industry offered to write the screen version of What Rough Beast and to offer it to his contacts. Is that cool or what? I was absolutely blown away by the possibilities. But I backed away.

            What? Why?

            He felt strongly that we should change the premise. He wanted to insert a cause: a natural plague or manmade chemical disaster which disrupted the mental processes of most people and made them violently paranoid. He wanted to turn What Rough Beast into another zombie movie. Well, that’s been done, as you well know.

            Don’t get me wrong. I like some zombie/crazies movies. I’ve seen Will Smith in I Am Legend a half a dozen times. Will Smith is a great actor. With some adjustments here and there, Will Smith could play Jonathan Taylor in What Rough Beast. And I like the Resident Evil films. Milla Jovovich, the star, is strong and vulnerable at the same time. Michelle Rodriguez was in the first film and they brought her back for the most recent episode. I think Michelle Rodriguez is a terrific actress. I don’t know why Michelle Rodriguez hasn’t been given a leading role. (I named Will Smith and Michelle Rodriguez three times (now four) because I’ve read that three mentions in a blog will trigger something and maybe Will Smith or Michelle Rodriguez (five) will notice that I wrote about them, and getting noticed is part of the game.) Anyway, the point is, I enjoy that type of movie, but I didn’t want to see What Rough Beast turned into just another zombie movie.

            You see, here’s the thing: the only monsters I write about are the ones we see in our mirrors every morning. They’re attractive and polished and, oh, so very well-intentioned. They see poverty, pain and injustice in the world and they’re going to do something about it – some day. What is that old adage about the road to perdition being paved with good intentions?

            Someone who read What Rough Beast asked if I really had such a low view of humanity. That’s a good question. I believe people live with internal contradictions. We’re capable of notable acts of kindness and equally notable acts of brutality. So long as the world respects us, we are civil, even genteel, but if the world threatens us, it’s Katie, bar the door. Have you watched the TV series, Doomsday Preppers? The people are pleasant and civil – the family next door – but they’re armed to the teeth and if there is a cataclysmic event, don’t show up on their doorsteps because they will shoot you. We don’t need an outside cause. We only need a trigger, something that threatens our persons, our families or our survival. That’s the premise for What Rough Beast.

            You may wonder if this has anything to do with the philosophical question of good and evil. It’s a simple observation that ordinary (good) people are capable of dreadful (evil) acts, and these are the people (you and I) that I write about.

What I learned

I sincerely thank all of you who read, and those who commented on, the novella, “Bruce and Crazy Jane”, which I posted online. As I said at the outset, it was basically a first draft and now, to continue to involve you in the creative process, here is what I learned from the experience and from your comments.

1) The foreword, where the teen aged girl goes to interview her grandfather in the nursing home, is gone. It created problems with voice (the one telling the story) and it created expectations which weren’t fulfilled – the  old man is supposed to be speaking to his granddaughter, but there is no place in the story where he actually speaks to her or where she speaks to him. It wasn’t a strong enough to element to make me adjust the story to give her places to speak. I don't know at this point whether the granddaughter will come into the picture at all. I have an idea of a new introductory chapter that involves her, but it's a totally different context for her and I'm not sure how it will play out. My vision for the entire story has shifted and firmed up considerably. I’ll get to that below.

2) According to your comments, the first chapter has too much introductory material and takes too long to get to the story. My intent, of course, was to introduce Billy McCaskill and put him in his historical context, but some of you thought that took too long, so the first chapter will be edited to cut out some of that material. If any of the excised material has value, it will appear somewhere else in the story.

3) There is not much chance that the title, “Memories and Other Afflictions”, will remain. It’s a working title and it’s common for a book to go through one or more working titles before the ‘right’ one is found. I don’t know what the title will be, but right now I’m leaning toward “Beautiful Lies”.

My vision: In my mind I see Billy McCaskill’s story spanning the past seven decades of American history. I see Billy, that simple, unassuming southern boy we just met, as being an eye-witness to some of that history. I see a work of 1000-1500 pages. Yeah, that would be a monstrous book, but I see the story being told in small segments – one novella at a time. A part of me sees Billy as a dark character, a user and a manipulator who uses people to advance his own agenda (which is so unlike any real people we know), but I’m not sure how dark he will be when the stories tell themselves. I mean, he obviously has a soft spot for the weak and the poor, so he can’t be all bad.

Okay. Those are my thoughts at this point. I would be glad to read your comments in regards to this or to any part of the story.

Once again, thanks for reading. That’s why writers write.

New Novel Chapter Twelve

Okay, my friends, here is the twelfth and final chapter of my novella. In my next blog, I'll share what I learned from this experience. I do hope you'll take a minute and let me know what you thought about the story, even if you didn't like it.

Thanks for reading.

MEMORIES

AND OTHER AFFLICTIONS

 

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF

WILLIAM NATHAN MCCASKILL

 

a novel by Chris Sherrill

copyright 2012 by Chris Sherrill

 

BOOK ONE

BRUCE AND CRAZY JANE

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

 

            Amanda and I continued to date. Kate and I continued to see each other. There was no emotional attachment with either. I didn’t know what Amanda’s agenda was. She never mentioned marriage. She did talk a lot about going off to college in the fall. Kate kept seeing me because she liked me and liked being with me. Ours was a physical relationship. We talked some but we got together for sex.

 

           In May I went back to work for Garvin Williams at his farm. I got Gwen a job, but she found a job with the Pinckney Daily Record (which came out three times a week). Writing was her passion so she didn’t even consider working at the truck farm even though it would have paid twice as much as the newspaper. Mr. Williams asked me to consider taking a permanent job with him, and I promised I would.

            That month I also took flowers and set them on Jane’s grave.

            In June both Jake and Charlotte got married, Jake to Ann Marie Gordon, who’d been his girl friend since grade school and Charlotte to Bill Chambers who she’d known in high school but only dated for a year or so. And I graduated high school. Some of the other kids headed off to Myrtle Beach for a week. Still at the bottom of most ladders, I wasn’t invited.

            “What’re your plans, Billy,” mama asked.

            We were sitting at the table after Sunday dinner.

            “Mama, he just graduated,” dad said.

            “It’s never too early to plan ahead. Fact is he should have made a decision long ago.”

            “I’m not going to college, mama.”

            “Billy, I sure wish you’d reconsider. It’s not too late to get in.”

            “I’m not college material.”

            “Of course you are. You’re plenty capable. You just have to bear down and study hard.”

            “That’s the rub, mama. I’m tired of books and papers and writing assignments.”

            She blew a little snort through her nose.

            “I love you, mama.”

            “Don’t you try to manipulate me with words like that, Billy McCaskill. Those words are too important to use glibly.”

            I looked her in the eyes.

            “I love you, mama.”

            “You are an absolute rascal sometimes.”

---*---

            The next Saturday mama asked me to bring home a gallon of blackberries from the farm. I worked a fourteen hour day and was thinking about seeing Kate that night, and I forgot. Sex or blackberries, which would you remember? I promised to get her blackberries Sunday afternoon.

            After Sunday dinner I drove to the Tilton place. I remembered a huge blackberry thicket one hundred yards or so from the house and figured it wouldn’t have been raided since it was so far from the road and on private property. Picking blackberries is a labor of love. It was hot, but I wore a heavy long-sleeved shirt to protect my arms from the briars. I was right; the fruit hadn’t been picked so there were lots of ripe, juicy berries on the fringe of the thicket. Why is it that the biggest, most tempting berries are deeper inside the thicket? I picked a half a gallon then sat down to eat a few berries and enjoy the serenity.

            After clear cutting, the timber company had planted trees everywhere except in three or four locations where they’d left the blackberry thickets. Why? Blackberry thickets were of no value to a timber company. I noticed that I was sitting on sloping ground. I stood and looked all around. I was on the rim of a bowl seventy feet in diameter. I remembered that all of the thickets were in bowl-shaped depressions, ancient sink holes. That’s why the timber company had left them.

            As I raised a blackberry to my mouth I noticed a drop of blood on my hand from where a briar had scratched me. I rubbed the blood onto my pants. Mama would fuss at me for that. I froze. Nah. Nah. Couldn’t be. What was it dad had said? Tom Tilton had scratches all over his face and arms. Nah. You haven’t figured it out, Billy. Don’t be a fool.

            What the hell? There’s nobody watching if you make a fool of yourself.

            All sides being equally uninviting, I started where I was. The thicket resisted me, the long, thick stems of the wild plants lashing out at me. It took more than an hour to beat down a twenty foot path into the thicket, and I had the scratches that were my reward. Even my ears had bloody scratches. In the very center was a depression, the heart of the sink hole, four feet across and a foot deeper than the surrounding bowl. Nothing grew there. I found a stick and probed the hole. I didn’t know if it had any solidity or was just a deep, leaf filled hole that might swallow me. It was soft, suggesting that the leaf accumulation was quite deep.

            But there were hard spots, rocks? I began to shovel the leaf litter with the stick. How deep should I go? Was there any point in this?

            The stick struck something solid, too long and narrow to be a rock. I shoveled, found the edge of the thing and wedged up a long bone. Shit! No, probably an animal bone. I dug with more vigor. What is that? They look like ribs, but even still they could be animal bones. I leaned over and shoveled the litter by hand. And there it was.

            I hurried home and told dad what I’d found. The family stood around silently while I dialed the Sheriff’s office. The man who answered was reluctant to disturb the Sheriff.

            “It’s Sunday,” he said. “I can’t disturb the Sheriff on his day off. What’s this about?”

            “Tell the Sheriff that it’s Billy McCaskill and that I found Sam Good.”

            “Who?”

            “Just tell him. He’ll understand.”

            The Sheriff didn’t make me wait long.

            “McCaskill, if this is your idea of a joke I’ll have your skin.”

            “No joke, Sheriff. I found him.”

            “Alive?”

            “I found his skeleton.”

            “Skeleton? What makes you so all fired certain it’s Sam Good?”

            “Trust me, Sheriff. Meet me at Tom Tilton’s place. I’ll show you everything.”

            “Tom Tilton’s?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Tom Tilton’s?”

            “You might want to have someone bring bush axes and shovels.”

            “McCaskill…”

            “Trust me, Sheriff. You won’t be disappointed.”

            Mama had sat silently at the kitchen table the whole time, her gaze off in the distance. As I started to leave, I kissed her cheek and noticed an odd look between mama and dad. Mama took his hand and pressed it to her cheek and dad leaned over and kissed her on top of the head. I assumed those were apologies of some sort.

            Dad rode with me. He’d called Jake who met us there with Ann Marie. The Sheriff was prompt. He was followed by another squad car and a pickup with three men. He got out of his car, adjusted his gun belt and hat, and came toward me with an angry look on his face.

            “Alright, McCaskill, this had better be good. Where is it?”

            I took them to the thicket. The Sheriff went in with me; there was barely room for two.

            “Okay, it looks like a human skeleton, but what makes you so sure it’s Sam Good?”

            “This,” I said.

            I brushed back some leaf litter.

            “What is it?”

            “I believe it’s his locket. It’s right where his pants pocket would have been.”

            “McCaskill, if you’re right…”

            “Yes, sir, Sheriff.”

            We went back out. Someone had already laid out a sheet on which the bones would be placed. The Sheriff squatted above the sheet. Everyone waited silently as he gingerly worked the edge of his pocket knife along the rusted edges of the locket and slowly wedged them apart.

            “Well I’ll be damned,” he breathed.

            Everyone leaned in to see the faded, weathered little photo and the tiny nugget.

---*---

            The next several days are something of a blur. I was the man of the hour. Newspapers and radio stations from all over the state interviewed me, as did television stations from Charlotte and Columbia. It was quite a story: an innocent man vilified for twenty years and the guilty man never brought to justice. Every interviewer asked if I had any idea where Sam Good might have found the nugget. Why ask me? So many treasure hunters descended on the Tilton place either to dig for the cash or to pan the creeks for gold that the timber company had to put up chain link fence and the Sheriff’s office had to send by regular patrols.

            The Sheriff reopened the Good/Tilton case and, though there might not have been enough evidence to convict him before a jury of his peers, Tom Tilton was found guilty in the court of public opinion. Sam Good was exonerated.

            On the day of Sam Good’s funeral the church was packed and a huge crowd stood outside. Dad and I were ushered in to find that they had saved a place for us on the front pew. Sam’s remains were buried beside his wife and Jane. After the service dad and I started toward the pickup.

            “Excuse me, Mr. McCaskill.”

            “Afternoon, Elam.”

            “Yes, sir, we, uh, don’t want to take up your time, but some of us sure would like to say ‘thank you’ to Mr. Billy for what he done.”

            A large crowd stood quietly behind him.

            “What did I do?”

            “You give an innocent man back his name, Mr. Billy, an’ you was a friend to poor Jane when even her own folk shunted her. We ashamed o’ that, but we wanna say thank you.”

            He seemed not to know what to do with his hand. A white man didn’t have to shake a black man’s hand back then and a black man seldom presumed to offer his first. I extended my hand and Elam took it firmly. I shook a lot of black hands that day since nearly every man and woman there came up to thank me for clearing Sam’s name and for being a friend to Jane.

            I was just a kid, but as the folks came up one by one I began to see what was going on. We humans are automatically inclined to believe everything is about us, but this wasn’t about me. In restoring the reputation of one black man, the reputation of the black community had been lifted, even if just a little. They were thanking me for that, but they were also apologizing, in a way, to Jane and her family for shunning them, and that was something they needed for themselves.

---*---

            Cyrus McGilroy paid to have the nugget assayed. It was forty percent gold. Some people had the decency to go by and apologize to him. Most of his visitors, however, came to beg him to tell where Sam had found the nugget. Cyrus finally had to put a sign in his drive forbidding trespassers. He had a stroke and died a few months later.

---*---

            I liked being in the limelight. I liked being at the top of the pecking order. Some of my classmates called and acted like they’d been on my side all along. They should’ve stood up at the time.

            Amy Gooden called and went on and on about how she had read all the newspaper accounts and seen my interviews on television and how impressed she was with my bearing and how happy she was with my sudden fame. She said there was going to be a party at Buster McQuiston’s parents’ lake house, and she’d sure like for me to take her. Men like to have pretty women on their arms. I guess women like to be seen on the arms of men at the top of the ladder. I told her I was seeing someone. She hinted that I wouldn’t be sorry if I took her. I don’t know if it was lust or curiosity that won. I took her. She hung on me like a Christmas ornament and after the party she let me take her.

            “You’ll call me, won’t you?” she asked.

            I was walking her to her door.

            “Of course I’ll call.”

            I didn’t call. To hell with her. She screwed me and I screwed her back. That’s what it’s about sometimes.

            It took a month or so for the hoopla to die down. I asked the Sheriff for the locket. Even though it was a critical piece of evidence, there would be no trial and he gave it to me. I told him where he could find it, if it was ever needed. Late one night I buried it under Jane’s headstone. I don’t know why I felt that she should have it.

            In July, I announced my future plans. Mama hid her disappointment when I said I was going to join the Army. She turned it to find the most appealing facet.

            “Maybe you’ll be ready, in four years, to pursue that college degree. I understand the GI Bill will pay a lot of that for servicemen.”

            I hugged her.

            “A lot can change in four years,” I conceded.

            In late August, Amanda and I said our good-byes since she was preparing to head off to college. I thought maybe she’d finally let me have sex with her, but our final date was quite low-key, two friends moving on and wishing each other well. Like I said, I didn’t understand her motivation in dating me.

            I finished the summer at the truck farm. In early September, I said good-bye to Kate.

            “I sure am going to miss you, Billy McCaskill.”

            “I’m going to miss you, too.”

            “When you come home on leave, you’ll come see me, won’t you?”

            “You’ll find yourself a real boyfriend, or a husband, before long.”

            She smiled and cupped my cheek. “Come see me when you come home.”

---*---

            On September 10^th, 1954, one week after my eighteenth birthday, I joined the Army and became a Military Policeman. I learned about police procedure and also learned a lawman’s most valuable skills: patience, tact and finesse. I did some more boxing and saw a little of the world. And I met the woman who would become my wife, my first wife. It didn’t end well, but that’s a story for another day.

 

END – BOOK ONE

New novel chapter eleven

Here is chapter eleven.

This is a novella, and we're just about to the end of it, so let me say 'thank you' to those who have read and made comments. I didn't post most of the comments since they were from folks I know and they felt personal. I did contact them directly and personally, and here I'm saying a public thank you.

Let me remind you of the disclaimer I posted very early in this process. If you don't remember it, scroll down to the foreword.

Enjoy.

MEMORIES

AND OTHER AFFLICTIONS

 THE LIFE AND TIMES OF

WILLIAM NATHAN MCCASKILL

 

A novel by Chris Sherrill

Copyright 2012 Chris Sherrill

 

Chapter Eleven

            I was still angry with God. It was a condition I would know at various times in my life, but it was helpful to get my feelings out even though I didn’t get an answer and it didn’t make the issue go away. Mom’s words were helpful; her acceptance was more helpful. The sharpest edge of the anger slowly began to be blunted.

            There were consequences I never could have foreseen. Word gets out and begins to be twisted from the first moment. Two weeks before school started, on the first day of football practice, Amy Gooden marched up to me with her posse and slapped my face.
            “I can’t believe I was dating a boy who was screwing a nigger. You make me feel dirty.”
            “You are dirty,” I said.
            Her eyes got as big as saucers.
            “You’re dirty if you believed a lie without even trying to learn the truth.”
            “What is the truth?”
            “The truth is I never had sex with that girl. We were friends.”
            Her eyes narrowed. I never looked away. A little crowd was gathering around us.
            “You think I’m stupid? Whites aren’t friends with niggers. You had to be screwing her.”
            “You’re wrong, but you know what, I don’t even care.”
            I turned to walk away.
            “Don’t you turn your back and walk away from me, Billy McCaskill!”
            I kept on walking. I heard whispered ‘nigger lover’ but I didn’t look to see who it was. I was turning the other cheek. Mama would be proud.
            The first week of practice was conditioning. I was in better condition than most so it was a good tune-up. In the showers after practice, I found myself alone and still heard the whispers. It was getting harder and harder to turn the other cheek. The second week we put on pads and started running plays. I was tight end on offensive and right linebacker on defense. I figured it was my imagination that the coach was running all his plays at me. It wasn’t my imagination that the other boys were piling on, and I felt more than one unsigned punch in the pile.
            I swallowed it. It was against my nature, but I had taxed my poor mama enough, so I swallowed it. But enough is enough. I was coming out of the shower when Buster McQuiston, the quarterback, looked at me with a stupid grin. Buster was solid but not the biggest boy on the squad. He was the biggest talker.
            “Say, McCaskill, some of the boys were wondering what it’s like to split a black oak.”
            “Couldn’t say,” I replied, drying my hair.
            “Turn around here and let us see if that thing has turned black yet.”
            “You might not want to be paying quite so much attention to my dick, Buster. You know how people talk.”
            “You son of a bitch.”
            I turned to see Buster and five others squaring up, six feet away.
            “I’m going to say this one time just for the record,” I said. “I never had sex with that girl. Now, that can be the end of it, or we can dance, one at a time or all at once, your choice. Just keep in mind that if you gang up and beat my ass, you’d better kill me because I will find you and beat your asses one by one.”
            Sometimes you get yourself into a mess of shit and don’t know how to step out of it. That’s what was going on with my teammates. They didn’t want to fight me but they didn’t want to let me back them down. It’s that pecking order thing again.
            The coach busted through the door.
            “What’s going on here?” he roared.
            “Nothing, Coach,” Buster said.
            The boys began to drift away to their lockers. The coach looked around.
            “McCaskill, get dressed and come to my office.”
            Five minutes later I was in front of his desk.
            “Don’t need trouble makers on my team, McCaskill,” he announced.
            “I haven’t caused trouble, Coach.”
            “What was that in there a minute ago?”
            “I don’t know, Coach. All I saw was a bunch of guys getting dressed to go home.”
            “Don’t smart mouth me, McCaskill.”
            “Didn’t intended it that way at all, Coach.”
            He studied me with hard eyes.
            “You think you’re some big shot because you’re screwing some nigger whore?”
            I was suddenly so angry that it made me shake to hold it in.
            “Your information is incorrect, sir,” I said through gritted teeth.
            “I know what I’ve heard,” he grunted.
            “What you heard was a lie, and frankly I’m tired of being falsely accused.”
            “You’re a haughty bastard. Somebody’s liable to take you down a notch.”
            “Yes, sir. Any time.”
            He looked at me hard.
            “Was that comment aimed at me?”
            “No, sir. Was your comment aimed at me?”
            “Get out of my office, McCaskill.”
            I guess the coach decided the notch take down would be done by my teammates, but you get to be rough in football; that’s what I liked about it. The punch or knee you take in a pileup will be returned with interest in the next, and the next.
            Buster McQuiston continued to make little snide comments. I let them pass. Early in our first game, he called a quarterback option to my side. The defensive lineman opposite me was a big guy. I let him beat me. He slammed Buster to the ground.
            “Damn, McCaskill,” he spat. “Can’t you hold your damned block?”
            “I’ll hold my damned block when you hold your damned tongue.”
            The crap began to subside, and I didn’t even have to get in a fight.

---*---

            The year passed without another incident. The boys, coaches and teachers interacted with me as necessary. The girls barely acknowledged me. I was pushed to the bottom of the social ladder. I survived. I still had their respect. People still moved out of my way in the hall. And after awhile, I didn’t care anymore because I started dating a girl from another school.

            Amanda Talmadge lived in the next county over, across the river. In late autumn, her family began to attend Ebenezer and she sent me signals and before Christmas, we were dating. Mom and dad liked the fact that I was dating a girl from church. Amanda was a paradox. In public she was the modest, obedient daughter. In private she was hungry for physical contact. We made out for hours at a time in my car. I never got past third base, or second. I get confused. I never hit a home run with her, but there was a lot of heavy petting.
            After dropping her off about midnight, I got into the habit of stopping at Smith’s Truck Stop on 65 on my way home. I think it was the only 24 hour establishment in the county at the time. Highway 65 was a busy north/south corridor, and it was the only truck stop for twenty-five miles in either direction, so there were always truckers there gassing up their rigs, eating and drinking coffee. There was also this good looking waitress who had a really nice smile and very nice body. All the truckers hit on her.
            I remember the first time we met. She came to my table and smiled.
            “What can I get you? Oh, my name’s Kate.”
            She pointed at the little name tag above her right breast.
            “Hello, Kate.” I pointed at the same spot on my chest. “My name’s… Oh my god. I’ve lost my name.”
            She laughed. She had a nice laugh.
            “Well, ohmygod, what can I get you?”
            The next time I stopped by, she smiled and said, “ohmygod is back.”
            The men at the counter looked quizzically between us while we laughed.
            “What’ll you have, Billy?”
            “How did you know my name?”
            “I asked,” she said. “Carl, the owner, knows your family. Seems like everybody around here knows everybody else.”
            I came to look forward to stopping and seeing Kate. She always smiled when I came in and asked about school and things. I came to find out that her husband had been killed in Korea in 1952 and that she had a ten year old son.
            “You don’t look old enough to have a ten year old,” I said.
            She blushed just a little. “Flattery will get you everywhere, young sir.”
            “No, really.”
            “Thank you. What’ll you have?”

---*---

            In February Amanda’s folks decided they didn’t like Ebenezer and went elsewhere. I kept dating Amanda and stopping at the diner to see Kate. In early March I was there when a guy came in and started hassling Kate. I didn’t like it, but she wasn’t my girlfriend or anything so I just sat at the counter and drank my Coke.

            “Leave me alone, Mark.”
            “You can’t break up with me, Kate. I won’t let you.”
            Carl, the owner came around the corner.
            “I’ve told you not to bring your domestic problems in here!”
            “Back off, fat man,” Mark barked.
            Carl stopped and looked defeated.
            “You’re going to get me fired. Get out of here and leave me alone. I told you I don’t want to see you again, and that’s that.”
            “Bitch!” he said and slapped her.
            “I’m calling the cops,” Carl said hurrying to the phone.
            I was up by that point.
            “It don’t take much of a man to hit a woman, Mark.”
            He looked at me hard. “Do I know you, punk? I don’t know you. Stay outta this unless you want me to teach you to respect your elders.”
            “Mark, he didn’t mean anything. He’s just a kid. Leave him out of it.”
            “Why’re you taking up for him? He the one you leaving me for? You leaving me for a snotty nosed punk?”
            He raised his hand to slap her. I stepped between them.
            “Take it outside!” Carl called coming around the counter with a baseball bat. “I won’t have you brawling in my place!”
            “Outside, punk.”
            Sometimes you have to fight. I followed him out. Two other guys who were standing up against a car saw us and came forward. Shit. Now I had three.
            “Billy, walk away. It’s not your fight,” Kate said.
            As I turned to say something to her Mark cold-cocked me, flush on the jaw, made me bite my tongue. My knees wobbled for a moment. Mark had already started crowing but he stopped when I didn’t go down. The calm cold took over me.
            “You beat up women and hit men when they aren’t looking. You’re a real man, Mark. Step on up and let’s dance. You fellows can come on in any time.”
            Mark rushed me, a tackling move. I danced back and snapped his head back with a solid left jab then got in a quick right to the side of his head and another left to his face. The man on my right rushed me. I got in a solid left that snapped his head to the side then shunted him aside and turned in time to address the more timid advance of the third man. I quick cut of his eyes alerted me that Mark was back in the game. He caught me with two glancing blows, but his swing pulled him into me and I knocked his arms down and battered his face with a quick combination. He stepped back spitting blood. The second guy grabbed me from behind and pinned my arms. If he’d had enough sense to get me in a full Nelson I would’ve been in serious trouble.
            “Hold him,” said the third guy.
            He came toward me with a self-satisfied grin. When he was close enough I kicked him in the balls. When you’re fighting for your life there’s only one rule: win.
            Mark was back now but standing out of my kicking range. His eyes flicked to the side. In another instant I heard a ‘twack’ and the guy holding me grunted and let go. I glanced back to see Kate standing over him with Carl’s baseball bat. Mark started backing up.
            “I know where you live, bitch.”
            “We’re not quite done here, Mark,” I said.
            I took a quick look at the man Kate had hit. He was half-sitting on the ground holding his back and looking up at Kate who stood over him and held the bat like she was waiting for the next pitch. I approached the third man who was still holding his balls.
            “Are you in or out?” I asked.
            “Out. Out.”
            I pushed him out of the way. Mark stopped retreating.
            “Okay, look, man, you win, okay?”
            His eyes said he was lying; he had another trick. When I was just outside arm’s reach, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a switch blade. But his eyes were uncertain. The cold calm made me take another step closer.
            “You know, Mark, if I kill you now, it’ll be self-defense.”
            I lunged forward quickly and put a solid left against his mouth. He lunged with the knife but I was already out of his reach. He lunged again. I skipped back out of the way.
            “Your timing is all off, Mark.”
            He lunged. I moved.
            “See?”
            I feinted forward, drawing another wild slash, then stepped in and put another left in his mouth. He staggered back. I put a hard right to his jaw. I was about to step in for the kill but caught myself. Don’t get over eager, I told myself, and about that time he slashed wildly. But those hadn’t been my words. Those had been Bob Smith’s words; Bob Smith who was another of God’s neglected lambs. I became instantly furious and flew into Mark with vicious combinations. He waved the knife and nicked my left forearm, but he had no strength or will. I knocked the knife out of his hand and beat him, beat him. I followed him to the ground, straddling him and beating him.
            Hands on my shoulders and a frightened cry brought me back. A police siren was coming up the road.
            “Billy! Billy! Stop, Billy, you’ll kill him. Stop, Billy.”
            I stopped. Mark lay under me utterly defeated. The cold calm left. I leaned forward.
            “Can you hear me, Mark?”
            There was a weak nod.
            “Never, ever bother this woman again. Do you understand?”
            He nodded.
            When I stood, Kate was right there, hands on my waist, looking into my face with a look of mixed awe and fear. I checked the other two; they were both sitting.
            The police car slid to a halt on the gravel. Another siren was coming from the other direction. Sheriff Hooper stepped out, his hand on his sidearm.
            “What’s going on here? McCaskill, is that you?”
            “Yes, sir, Sheriff.”
            “Damn, son, I’m getting to know you better than some of my deputies. What’ve you gotten yourself into this time?”
            His tone was almost of amusement. Kate looked at up me quizzically. The other car, a Highway Patrol car, came up and the trooper checked the casualties. Carl hurried to the Sheriff and was telling him what had happened. The entire diner had emptied to watch the brawl, and others were confirming that I had stepped in to defend Kate and had been assaulted by three. I sat on the bottom step of the diner. Kate sat beside me and washed my face and the cut on my arm.
            “My mama’s gonna whip my ass,” I mused.
            Kate threw her head back laughing.
            “What?”
            She put her hand on my forearm while she regained control of herself.
            “You just beat the shit out of three men, one with a knife, and you’re worried about your mama whipping your ass. That’s hilarious.”
            “It wouldn’t be so funny if it was your ass.”
            She laughed again and hugged me.
            “Oh. Sorry. I got carried away. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
            “No. No, I, uh, I liked it.”
            She smiled. “That’s good to know.”
            “And I didn’t whip three men. You took care of one. Thank you.”
            She smiled widely.
            “You’re welcome.”
            When the Sheriff had finished questioning me, he looked at my injuries.
            “Might want to get those tended to,” he said.
            “Actually, I’m being tended to now.
            He gave a ‘humph’ and walked away. He arrested the three. It was two in the morning when they finished up.
            “Can I drive you home?” Kate said. “Carl gave me the rest of the night off.”
            “I’m okay. I can drive home.”
            She looked down.
            “I actually meant, uh, my home.”
            She put her hand on my chest.
            “I could rinse the blood out of your shirt, and someone should bandage those cuts.”
            “Why don’t I follow you?”
            Twenty minutes later I was inside the kitchen of her clean, tidy little house.
            “My son’s asleep. You don’t mind, do you?”
            “Why should I?”
            She smiled uncertainly.
            “If we’re quiet, we won’t wake him.”
            I was pretty sure of the message but this was a first for me so I wasn’t positive.
            I sat on the kitchen table. Kate unbuttoned my bloody shirt, took it off and put it in water to soak, then got a basin of warm water and, moving up between my knees, washed my face again, very tenderly. She put bandages on my arm and a little cut on the side of my cheek. She moved in close to me, her face in front of mine, her hand resting softly on my stomach. She smelled like the diner, but that wasn’t disagreeable.
            “You, tonight, that was so…gallant.”
            I put my hands on her waist. She didn’t pull away. She rested her forehead against mine.
            “I’ve never been rescued by a knight in shining armor.”
            “Giddy up.”
            She laughed out loud then caught herself.
            “I mustn’t wake Tim.”
            “Too late.”
            She turned to see her tousle-haired boy in the doorway rubbing his eyes.
            “Go back to bed, Tim. Everything’s fine.”
            “Mama…”
            “Let me see to him, okay. It won’t take a minute. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
            She was back in only a few minutes, stepped up to me, put her arms over my shoulders and her hands on the back of my head.
            “We’ll have to be quiet, okay? What?”
            She took my face in her hands and lifted it.
            “This is harder than squaring off against those men. You are really, really sexy, and I… My hands are in my lap for a reason.”
            She laughed.
            “So, what’s the problem?”
            “I can’t, not with your son in the next room.”
            She sighed and pursed her lips.
            “I’m really screwing up, aren’t I?”
            She kissed me on the forehead and stepped back. I stood.
            “I’ve screwed up everything else, but could I have one hug?”
            She seemed tentative as I took her in my arms. I do love the feel of a female body against me. She relaxed and pressed herself up against me.
            “Are you sure?” she whispered.
            I nodded, got my shirt and she walked me to the door. I sighed and went out to my car. I started it up and turned on the headlights. Kate came at a fast walk down from her house. She opened the door and got in.
            “He’s fast asleep. Take me somewhere…private.”