30

Chapter 30

The next morning, I woke up and had some Corn Flakes and OJ. My coffee pot had recently gone the way of the Do Do, its final words being a flagrant combination of spewing and coughing that emanated from the heating coil. As an alternative, I had taken to drinking V8, but Bufford had downed the last can a few nights ago after he vowed to stop drinking alcohol for some reason. Traumatic times affect us in strange ways and I shrugged his decision off, assuming it was merely a coping mechanism of sorts, a way he could feel a semblance of management of His World in the wake of being fired, hunted by the police, living in a borrowed house, and having to wear a big purple dog suit to work. Either way, I was out of V8 and planned to acquire more at the Stop N Shop during my reconnaissance tour that day. Going to my closet, I announced to no one in particular that today would be a "smiley face T-shirt, khaki shorts and tennis shoes" day. Then I got dressed and brushed my teeth. I would need to add tooth paste to the shopping list...and deodorant. Approaching the front door, the police taser and tear gas canister flashed in my periphery. The pockets of my shorts were overly large. Why not. (I was given to impetuities, anyway). And I was taking my OJ along, too, which I'd poured into a large insulated mug emblazoned with the CosmoTech logo, apparently left behind at some point by Bufford. The corporate world is always imprinting itself upon our lives without our explicit permission. From clicky pens to insulated mugs, we are often unwary billboards, much like the Goodyear blimp as it hovers and purrs innocently above sports events. It's not the blimp's fault. It is an unwilling participant in all this, too, shrink wrapped with tasty tid-bits of purchasing suggestions. The blimp just wants to see the Rams and Vikings play, that's all. The next thing you know, it's encouraging 13,529 sports fans and another million watching on TV to try Desenex. As things went that morning, I was passively endorsing a defunct computer business partaking in dubious practices. One chooses their hills to die on, though, and I was thirsty and every other mug was dirty. Corporate America 1, little people 0. I'm making too much of this, but the OJ tasted like plastic.

I stepped outside and peered up in the sky, adjusting to the harsh morning sun and the already sweltering heat. The first stop of the morning would be the Colonel's work shed. Walking across the yard, I reached the recently repaired side of the shed and continued around to the front. No sign of movement. I called a few times, but there was no reply. This was unusual, since it was way past 7:30. I headed to the back door of the house instead and knocked lightly. After a few seconds, there was the unmistakeable sound of Colonel BB's advancement across the linoleum. The door opened. The Colonel stooped a bit, scanning the horizon behind me, and pulled me in by the Smiley face T-shirt. I followed him into the kitchen.
"Sit down, boy. You had breakfast yet?"
"Yeah. Got a bowl of cereal and some orange juice. I'm good. Did you know nothing rhymes with the word 'orange'? Communist plot, perhaps? But I've got my best men on that one."
The Colonel just looked at me, clearly not intending to respond. Small talk is lost on some people.
"What are you doing here, Brody?" A cut to the chase.
"Well, we're neighbors, you've recently been through a life-altering event or two, and I just haven't seen you for a while. I guess I'm checking in to see how you're doing."
"Right kind of you."
A long silence. Then, just when I thought that maybe he thought it was my turn to talk again, he continued.
"I don't know what I did to the Whole Wide World, Brody. Maybe I pissed on it one night in the dark without knowing or sumpthin' and it's lookin' for some revenge. But it ain't that easy anymore."
"What's not easy?"
"There's just too much goin' on. Everything's movin' faster 'n I like it, to be downright honest. Bills, taxes, Uncle Sam still askin' questions, avoidin' givin' any answers, suits always comin' around, that damned ole freeway cuttin' in on my breathin'. I can't breathe good anymore, Brody. Seems there's just a big hole where things that mattered used to be, you know?"
I hadn't really planned on the Colonel opening up so much and with such a degree of honesty, so I was a bit taken aback. In the last 30 seconds, he'd said more to me than in the last 8 years I'd known him. I let the moment steep a while, mostly because I didn't know how to respond, and sipped a little on my OJ.
"I know, man. 'That which doesn't kill you...', right?" (I always go to Neitzche in times like this).
"Hmmph." I thought I heard a thin smile in his voice, faintly bubbling through to the top of his sadness. More silence, but a bit more comfortable than the earlier stretch. I pushed back my chair and made to leave.
With marked alarm, he said, "Don't know why you gotta rush off and all. If you're not in too big of a hurry to get outta my smelly ole house, I could use your help with somethin'."
I paused and looked the Colonel in the eyes. What else could I say but "OK. What can I do for you?"
"C'mon. Bring yer juice," and he led the way down the hall.