If there’s one thing that sets apart those who grow up in the country from those who come of age in the urban jungles, it’s the strong family bonds that form as we struggle together to tame the harsh, unforgiving prairie.

And if you believe that one, I’ve got some prime farm land in the Yukon that you can have at a good price.

Despite what you may have seen on the Waltons, we rural folk dealt with the same stresses and strains that any other families did, it’s just that all the writers and TV people live in the city and, like members of parliament, rarely venture out to find out what’s really going on.

Up until my sixteenth birthday, all these stresses and strains were just rumours about what was going on with other families. Things like how only couples seemed to be going to the parties at Mr. and Mrs. Winters’ house. And how everybody ran into the bushes and hid that time when Constable La` France dropped by to return Mr. Winters’ wallet which some good neighbour had found. And I’m not even gonna mention why all the sheep were scared of old Mr. Flannery.

Those things aside, life was pretty serene on our little farm outside Mosquito Flats. That is, until my grandparents got divorced. After thirty-nine years of marriage, Grandma decided to fulfill her dream of living a quiet life on the coast. Grandpa just couldn’t bring himself to leave his beloved fields of dust, grasshoppers, and occasional grain.

Gramps mostly kept to himself after that. When he wasn’t working the fields, he was spending hours fishing out of his little wooden boat on the waters of nearby Lake Sukumunder. He rarely came home with anything other than a nasty sunburn, but it kept him busy.

One night it all changed. I was sitting on the porch digesting my supper, and waiting for my buddy Waldo, who already had his driver’s license, to pick me up for a night of cruising the lively street that was our town. My parents had suggested I spend some time with Gramps, but he seemed to be keeping to his room that night. I figured it would be easy to sneak out, as he would likely sleep until dawn.

“Eddie!”

I looked behind me to see Gramps standing there with his car keys in hand. The scent of Old Spice strong enough that the geese flying overhead began to veer west to avoid it. By the look on his face, I could tell that he was up to something; that he had a definite plan for the evening. In proper historical perspective, I guess you could say that his was the night that Grandpa snapped, but that’s of little importance now. All I could think of, was running.

Just then, Waldo pulled into the yard in his Mom’s old pickup truck. Waldo, who had a particular talent for sizing up a situation at a glance, took a look at the sixty year old “swinging single” standing on the porch with his frightened grandson He slammed his truck into reverse.

While Waldo’s mind may have been adept to making quick judgment calls, it was not much for recall. He neglected to remember how we had thrown out the reverse gear the previous weekend, trying to pull our buddy Larry out of a mud-filled ditch. Not that Larry showed any gratitude or anything.

“Shut that truck off boy!” Gramps bellowed at Waldo. “We’re goin’ out!”

Knowing there was no escape, Waldo reluctantly hopped out of the truck and followed us to Grandpa’s slick new Dodge Newport. On the way, Waldo leaned over and whispered in my ear.

“First chance I get, I’m ditching this scene!” he said supportively. I was relieved that Waldo was there to back me up in my time of need.

“When you do, just try to imaging Jenny Bodacia getting a hold of that picture of you in your elf costume from Halloween a few years ago,” I said, as a way of letting him know I appreciated his support.

“You boys ride up front with me.” Gramps said as he climbed in, “There’s lots of room.”

“Actually sir,” Waldo interjected, “I read somewheres that the safest place for a passenger to be, in a accident, is layin’ down on the floor of the back seat, outta th’ view of…”

‘Crissakes boy, we ain’t gonna be gettin’ in no accidents! Now get in!”

As we pulled out of the lane, Gramps rolled down the electric windows and mashed down the throttle. We barreled off into the prairie twilight; three rebels without a hope. Waldo reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a cigarette and began to light it up.

“What in the blazes is that?” Gramps asked Waldo, with a stern look in his eyes.

“Uh…” Waldo replied.

“I haven’t seen one of those old army surplus lighters in ages!” He grinned, pulling out his own pack and accepted a light from Waldo. “Eddie here doesn’t smoke, but I’m sure he doesn’t mind us lighting up in the car.”

“Of course not Gramps.” I replied, becoming uncomfortably aware of the pack in my jacket pocket that I had been waiting for hours to get at. “The smell doesn’t bother me a bit!” I said, playfully grinding my heel into Waldo’s foot.

As we approached the outskirts of town, Gramps popped in a tape and turned the volume up full. The speaker in the dash was crackling with obvious pain.

“Listen to that sound boys!” Gramps boasted, “They don’t make speakers like that anymore!”

“They haven’t made eight-tracks in years either!” Waldo commented, a split second before I elbowed him in the ribs.

“Had to have it specially installed,” Gramps went on, “at a shop in the city last year.”

“Not to be a bother Gramps, but do you really think Hagwood Hardy was meant to be played so loud?”

“Maybe you’re right, boy,” he mused; then shouted, “Get me that Floyd Kramer tape outta the glove box!” As I complied to Grandpa’s request, I had a flash of brilliance. I knew how to get out of this one!

“Hey Gramps,” I piped up, “do you wanna have a real wild time tonight?”

“Oh, believe you me boy, that’s exactly what I’m counting on. And with three wild, single fellas like us on the prowl, what else could we want?”

“Well,” I said hopefully, “Horsepuck Ridge has three streets, a bingo hall, and it’s only seventy miles away!”

I thought that the very least I could try and do was to use the lure of the big city to steer Gramps away from where we would be seen. Even if none of our friends saw us, old Mrs. Argus (the town gossip) would find out and have the story humming down the party lines to the far corners of the township. Then on Monday morning, it would be all over school that Waldo and I had spent the night out partying it up with my grandfather. Not that I have anything against my grandfather, but let’s face it — when you’re in your teens, it’s just not acceptable to be seen enjoying your family’s company.

“Nonsense!” Gramps retorted. “I been living in this town for over fifty years, and I’m tellin’ ya’, there’s more fun things to do here than you can shake a stick at!” Barring the fact that I had no idea what that saying meant, I knew I was finished. Monday morning I was a goner.

We rumbled into town with the crowd, hanging out in front of Foon Yuk’s Chop Suey House, staring at us in amusement. Unfortunately, Foon Yuk’s was the only restaurant in town and everybody who was too young to get into The Stubblejumper Saloon hung out there. That included everyone we went to school with. It might not have been so bad if Gramps hadn’t dropped the car into neutral, and revved the snot out of his big V8, and yelled “Yahoo!”

“This place looks like it’s got some action!” Gramps smiled as he cranked the wheel and gunned the throttle, sending gravel flying as he turned back up the street and pulled up beside Foon’s. I remember wishing at the time that Gramps had still kept his old .44 in the glove compartment. I was unsure as to whether I would’ve used it to force him to drive away at gunpoint or do the honourable thing and end my suffering right then and there. Waldo, on the other hand, seemed rather amused with the old fellow’s antics.

“I sure like the way you drive, Mr. Putnum!” He grinned, “Think you could teach me a few tricks someday?”

“You’re too young to learn how to drive like I do.” Grandpa cautioned him as he slapped it in park, “Ya ain’t been around enough to have seen the Judge passed out!”

“Judge Draco drinks?” I asked with a note of incredulity in my voice. Gramps was quick to shoot me one of his stern looks.

“Shush up boy! Do you want the whole town to know?”

“Well, what’s the big deal?” I asked, “If the county Judge is a drunk, why should it be kept hidden?” Gramps just rolled his eyes and looked at me over the roof of the car.

“Think, Eddie. If the Judge is a drunk, and nobody knows about it but you, don’t you think that that information could come in just a little bit handy someday?”

“Ya oughta listen to yer grampa Eddie.” Waldo commented as we approached the crowd outside Foon’s door. Gramps was obviously flattered.

“Your friend here’s a bright boy, son.” Gramps said, slapping Waldo on the back. “You could learn a few things from him.” Sure I could, I thought. We took a table at the back of the dining room. In the past ten years I had learned many things from Waldo. Like how to hunt rabbits using only gasoline and a match, how to hotwire a tractor and get into the slowest high speed chase in county history, and how much antacid you can feed to a cow before it explodes. That’s was the role model my grandfather just had advised me to follow.

Foon peered out from the kitchen and yelled to our table. “Awight you two!” He said, to me and Waldo, “If you gonna stay here, you gotta eat! And no more cat jokes in fronta other customer you hear?” Funny thing, about Foon. When you were alone with him, he would laugh himself silly at jokes that referred to the absence of stray cats in the vicinity of his restaurant, but if you brought it up in front of other people, he would start yelling at you in Chinese and disappear into the kitchen. For the next few minutes, he would stare at you through the little round window in the door, pointing at you and making chopping motions with a cleaver. What Foon may have lacked in English skills, he made up for with a wonderful gift for pantomime.

After Foon got over his suspicions of us, Gramps ordered a platter of egg rolls and some cokes. When the cokes arrived, Grandpa used his to wash down some of his medicine. What Gramps needed the medicine for, he never said. I assume it must’ve been a rather rare condition, since the medicine was a special kind that had to be imported from Scotland.

Waldo was getting restless. He had hoped for a more fun-filled evening, and despite how well he was getting on with my grandfather, he was anxious to get going. “So, what are we gonna do after we leave this dump?” He asked.

“I heard that you liddle shit!” Foon yelled from the kitchen. Foon had especially good hearing, which comes in handy when you’re stalking stray cats.

His question was answered when Chuck Wytrash strutted through the front door. Chuck was our town’s self-proclaimed “stud”, and local expert on hooliganism. “Hey look everybody,” he pointed in our direction, “Putnum and Hinkley have an old geezer baby sitting them tonight!”

Seconds before his brain engaged, Waldo opened his mouth. “Hey Chuckie! Will you tell your mom to stop callin’ me every night? I told her I already have a date for next weekend!”

In the commotion that followed, it was difficult to see exactly what was going on, but I think it was safe to say that Chuck was getting the upper hand on Waldo, before being dropped to the floor by an errant egg roll that came from roughly Grandpa’s direction.

“From the way that boy went down, I’d have to say the old Chinaman’s cookin’ them things a little too long.” Gramps commented as he poured a little more medicine into a glass. He handed it to Waldo, who was trying to mold his windpipe back to it’s original shape. “Here, boy. This’ll help you forget th’ pain.”

Gramps strolled up to the window and looked over the dimly lit street. “Who’s Duster is that?” He asked.

“What’s it to ya old man?” Replied Chuck, noting that gramps had finished all the egg rolls, and was now unarmed.

Grandpa ignored the comment and asked, “What ya got in it, boy?”

“Three forty, four barrel with a full race cam, four speed, and a posi rear end.” Chuck beamed. He had carefully invested every cent his father had to spare in the car, and according to him, it was the fastest thing on wheels anywhere in the county.

“That’s a good idea son,” Gramps nodded, still looking out at the car. “keeping with a small engine ’till ya learn how to handle a real car.”

Chuck was fuming. Nobody had ever dared to talk that way about his car. “You saying you got something better, old man?”

Gramps just smiled, then walked over to the counter to pay the bill. “Well son, I’ll be down on Horsecart Road if ya wanna find out. Come on boys. We got places to go!”

Waldo and I followed him outside, with Chuck close behind. I was quietly wondering what had caused my grandfather to lose his mind and challenge the fastest car in the county to a race, especially when all he had to back it up was his four door rolling battleship.

“Gramps,” I pleaded as we got into the car, “you don’t have to do this. We can just go home and forget about it!”

“And wimp out?” He asked, with a trace of disdain in his voice. “That boy needs to be taken down a peg, and it don’t look like anyone else is willin’ to do it!”

Horsecart Road was the only road nearby that was wide enough for two cars to race side by side. As we turned onto it a little over a mile south of town, Chuck, with his gang of fellow malcontents riding shotgun, was right behind us. Gramps eased the car to a stop, letting Chuck pull up alongside him.

“So old man, wadda ya’ willing to go for huh? Pink slips?”

“Sorry boy, I don’t gamble. I just do it for fun!” Gramps stated.

“Whatever.” Chuck replied, “Count of three?”

“I’m ready. Belt up boys!” Gramps seemed unusually calm for a old guy in a big car who was about to be humiliated, along with his grandson. We sat waiting as one of Chuck’s minions counted down.

“Three…two…one…GO.”

As I expected, Chuck quickly jumped ahead of us, spraying gravel and dust all over to the point that we could hardly see the road. Much to my surprise however, Gramps was only four lengths behind as we neared the quarter mile mark at the bottom of the hill. It was then that Gramps demonstrated that the eight track player wasn’t the only special option that he had ordered for the car, and I found out just why that big car was so adept at pulling heavy farm equipment around.

“I think it’s time I put the pedal right to the floor and showed this little punk just what a four forty six pack was made for,” Gramps yelled. When I questioned him later, he explained how my Uncle Ed (who was a Sergeant in the RCMP) had been able to obtain a police pursuit engine for it, back when Gramps had ordered the car.

The engine made a sharp howling sound as Gramps smashed the pedal all the way to the floor, and even though we were already nearing the hundred mile per hour mark, the back tires kicked up a cloud of gravel behind us as we flew past Chuck’s, now pitiful looking, Duster.

“See ya later, punk!” Gramps yelled out the window. We reached the crest of the hill. On the other side, something was waiting which would make the evening even more eventful than it already was.

When Constable Serge La`France was first assigned to the Moose Tail RCMP detachment which patrolled the Mosquito Flats area, he had hoped it would be a quiet place which would make his first assignment after graduating from the academy an uneventful one. In most respects it had — until he looked up and saw four headlights bearing down from the top of the hill at a high rate of speed.

Many people would have panicked in that situation, but you have to remember that Serge was a highly trained professional police officer. He held his cool as Gramps and Chuck each veered halfway into the ditch, letting him slip between the two cars. In further testament to the constable’s great skill, I must note here that he accomplished this while (from what I could see briefly as the headlights illuminated him) he kept his eyes closed and made crossing motions over his chest.

Grampa crossed back onto the road, but Chuck had had enough. He chose to turn off and head down another road towards the east. “I think we better slow down Gramps!” I said, while helping Waldo pry his fingers off the dashboard.

Grandpa looked up at his rear view mirror. “Don’t think that’s a good idea son!” he said. I looked over my shoulder and saw what he meant. The flashing red and blue lights indicated that Constable La`France had regained his composure, and was now looking to extract some justice for our momentary disregard of the Highway Traffic Act. “Don’t sweat it boys!” Grandpa grinned, “I got an idea.”

Great. That was how we got into this mess in the first place.

With the constable still far behind us, Gramps roared around a curve. The road led into the woods near the west shore of Lake Sukumunder. When La`France’s lights were no longer visible, Grampa shut off his lights, then started to pump the emergency brake.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“God’s sake boy, don’t you know anything?” He replied, “This way, there’s no brake lights to give your position away!” When we had slowed down enough, Gramps pulled off into a driveway, and steered in behind an old shed in the back yard. Seconds later, we heard the siren blaring as La`France roared by heading east, oblivious to our hiding place. Grandpa pulled out a cigarette, offered one to Waldo, then got out of the car. “Think we’ll rest here a bit, till things cool down some.”

I’d just got out of the car when the yard light flicked on, then a shadowy figure appeared onto the back porch, holding what appeared to be a shotgun. “Who the hell’s back there?” The voice bellowed.

“Put that blasted old thing away before you hurt someone, ya’ old coot!” Gramps yelled back.

“That you Putnum?” The voice replied. As he flipped on the porch light, it became apparent who’s yard we had driven into. My blood froze as I pictured us all in solitary confinement.

“Come on Draco,” Gramps retorted, calmly taking another drag on his cigarette. “who else would come visit a miserable old son-of-a-bitch like you?”

“I thought it looked like your car tearing in here.” The judge chucked, “You still tormenting the Mounties at your age?” I was stunned by the judge’s good natured attitude towards our little high-speed chase. This is the same judge that had sentenced Waldo’s older brother Bart to two weeks at hard labour, after he interrupted the judge to protest a parking ticket — who was busy in his chambers trying to watch the Stanley Cup finals.

“Just teaching the boys a thing or two.” Gramps said as he walked up to the porch, shaking the judge’s hand. Even at this point, I had no Idea that it was Gramps who had pulled a wounded Sgt. Draco off the beach at Dieppe in 1942, and carried him out to a landing craft to be rescued.

That was one of the many stories we heard that night while sitting on that back porch listening to Judge Draco, and Gramps droning on about old times. Grandpa’s affliction seemed to be less rare than I had first thought, as it seems that the judge also kept a rather large supply of Scottish medicine around.

As the sky began to brighten in the east, Waldo was at the wheel, Gramps was asleep in the back seat, and we were heading home. “Ya’ know what?” Waldo yawned then said, “Your grandpa’s pretty cool!”

“Told ya so.” I answered, trying hard to stay asleep. After we got home, I wanted to sleep till noon the next day, but Gramps had me up at six to help him feed the cows. And just as I had thought, the word got out about our little adventure with Grandpa.

Sure enough, I had to hear all about it at school. I took it like a man at first, but after a while it started to get to me. My patience was beginning to wear thin. I mean really, when your schoolmates have a party and invite your grandfather, isn’t it only fair they invite you too?

I would think so.

Copyright © 1999-2008 Troy More
All rights reserved.

Author’s 1999 bio:

Troy More a.k.a. wyzaz is a Canadian author who  writes humour, science fiction, and alternate histories. He is the author of several plays, a hundred or so newspaper columns, as well as humour and science fiction series in magazines from Toronto to Kuala Lumpur. Along with illustrator Maritza Campos, he also publishes the single panel cartoon “True Romance” — soon to go into syndication. Troy is an op on several IRC channels, including #Authors and #Brisbane (where he’s pictured on their gallery pages); he is channel manager for #science_fiction and Managing Editor for Planet 3 ‘zine. Troy is also the new editor of “Undercurrents” — the Undernet’s newsmagazine.

Grandpa’s Night Out is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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By most accounts, the drive-in theatre on Highway 17 should have been a peaceful, relaxing place to take the family for a night of reasonably priced entertainment. The only downfall that kept it from being so was its location, almost exactly halfway between our hometown of Mosquito Flats, and the town of Sodbuster Junction, whose inhabitants where the natural enemies of our people. Where this rivalry began has been lost to the mists of time, perhaps it was at a softball tournament, or a school basketball game, but whatever the reason, it was our duty to despise them.

Sodbuster Junction lies thirty miles west of Mosquito Flats, along the banks of Catfish Creek. From what I understood, the town was first settled by a group of lying, thieving scoundrels who had set out to find a land where lazy, dishonest and good for nothing people could live with others of their kind. The fact that they had fresh running water flowing through their town tended to make the inhabitants think they were better than us others from what they called, “That dustbowl back east”. Our town on the other hand, was one filled with good, honest, hardworking people, who cared about their fellow man, and wouldn’t for a minute think of pointing out that nearby Lake Sukumunder was full of trophy-sized fish, while you could fish all day in Catfish Creek, and be lucky to come home with anything larger than the occasional leech that would attach itself to your bait. Indeed, humbleness was kind of a trademark of our great town.

Our differences hardly seemed to matter, as both towns went about their business, and the inhabitants rarely crossed paths. Only on summer weekends did the rivalries flare up. That’s when the drive-in theatre on Highway 17, the only paved road in the area, showed the most recent movies every Friday, and Saturday evening. It was there that differences showed up. They would be driving Chevys, purchased at the GM dealer in Catfish Creek. We would show up in Fords, bought at Bentley’s Garage in Mosquito Flats. There were not only the material differences, but those of intellect as well. I can remember sitting at the wheel of my father’s truck, laughing as a carload of dishonest Sodbusters were getting busted at the ticket booth in front of us, with a trunk load of other hooligans who were trying to sneak in.

“What’s going on up there?” came a voice from behind me.

“Shut up Waldo!” I snapped, “We’re almost up to the booth!” If there’s one good thing I could say about the Mosquito Flats Combined School, it’s that it breeds the kind of intellect that recognizes how ticket takers at a drive-in don’t realize that you can stack three people horizontally behind the seat of a Ford pickup truck.

Once inside the drive-in, we would choose a spot that was amongst others of our kind, separated by a row of empty stalls known as “no man’s land”. Fortunately, the owner of this establishment, a certain Mr. Bruebaker, had found the good sense to set up two lines, one at each end of the concession stand, and two sets of bathrooms, so as to keep the rival factions apart, and his establishment in one piece.

The drive-in was situated on land owned by the railroad, outside of any municipal jurisdiction, so neither side could claim it as their legitimate territory, though we did have a slight advantage. You see, the drive-in sat on the east side of Highway 17, still under the jurisdiction of the Moose Tail RCMP, who were responsible for law enforcement in the Mosquito Flats area. This meant that it was “our” cops that patrolled it. We used this to our advantage every chance we could. Like most Friday nights, near the end of the first show, Constable La`France had cruised in, and almost immediately, for what reason I don’t know, proceeded to where we were parked.

“I take it you boys got no booze, yes?” He would usually ask.

“Of course not Sir.” I’d reply.

“Burp!” Waldo would say, as sort of an unintentional way of inviting the officer to search our vehicle.

After a thorough search of the truck, Constable La`France inevitably found a six pack of what we referred to as “decoy beer” behind the seat.

“Well, what do we have here, eh?” Was the inevitable question.

“It’s called beer in English” Waldo would reply to remind the officer to write out a ticket for possession of alcohol by a minor. I would have to come up with an original excuse to get out of this one.

“It’s my Dad’s beer, Constable La` France! He must have forgotten to take it into the house after he bought it yesterday.” Whew! That was close. I was good at coming up with flawless excuses at the drop of a hat.

“I see.” Replied the constable as he set the confiscated bottles into the trunk of his cruiser, “Amazing how it stay so cold in there after all dis time.” Then all of us would concur that it was indeed a near-miraculous thing, but go figure.

“You have no more booze in the truck yes?” was always his parting question. It’s at this point that we would reassure him that due to his diligent investigating, he had rooted out all of our well hidden stash. Only our strong moral conciseness led us to confess that if we had a vehicle that had a really good hiding spot, like for instance a console such as the one in the blue Chevy that was parked second from the end of row three, we would be hiding lots of open liquor in it. Stumpy Edwards, who accompanied us on most of our drive-in adventures, would then go on to explain to Serge how his cousin Ben, who owned a Chevy, spent many an hour laughing at cops who couldn’t find all the well-hidden booze contained in their vehicles. This tendency to make a laughing stock of the police, was apparently a trait shared by most Chevy owners.

After that, we wouldn’t see Constable La`France, who had by then forgotten all about writing the ticket, for the better part of an hour, as he disappeared among the crowd on the other side, toolbox in hand. By the time he returned, we had finished all the beer from the air cleaner housing, and had started on the rum and coke from the windshield washer tank. Come to think of it, if you were to question any RCMP officer today that had ever been stationed on the prairies, most of them would swear to you that Ford trucks always had two washer fluid tanks. One for the left side of the window, the other for the right.

Later on in the evening, Waldo and I were in the line up at the concession stand, when Waldo noticed a peculiar sight that left him momentarily confused. Although he spent most of his time this way, and was probably better at operating in a confused state than any of my other friends, this was an altogether new kind of confusion. Apparently, some girl nearby was smiling at him.

“You see that Eddie?” he whispered excitedly. “She’s lookin’ at me!”

“Yeah right!” I chuckled. “You probably got your fly open again!” It was my Solomn duty as Waldo’s best buddy, to keep him rooted as firmly in reality as possible.

“I checked it, and it’s still closed!”

“Well don’t be so obvious when you’re checking it!” I scolded him. There are literally tens of ways to make a girl think twice about approaching you, and I imagined that rubbing your hand up and down the general area of your zipper was one of them.

“She’s givin’ me that there, ‘come hither’ look!”

“Well, what are you waiting for dickhead?” I encouraged him, “Go hither!” Apparently from what followed, Waldo thought that “to hither” meant to stumble twice on his way over to her, then start talking in gibberish.

The girl seemed actually kind of pretty, and myself and the other two, who had by this time had left the washer fluid tank unguarded and come over to watch the spectacle, took to the job of sizing her up. She looked about sixteen and a half, Stumpy figured, and by the way her hair glistened in the light of the full moon, he said he was ninety percent sure her parents had a water softener.

Jimmy Dickson had a deeper insight into Waldo’s new friend. Jimmy by the way, was our group’s expert on all matters pertaining to girls, romance, and sex. All those hours spent in the bathroom reading his older brother’s Playboys, and his mother’s Cosmopolitans had not been lost on him. He knew not only what women looked like when they were naked, but what they really wanted in a man as well. “She jus’ wants him to build up her failing self-esteem,” he volunteered. “By the way she dresses, I’d say she’s asking for attention that she’s not getting at home.”

“Hmm..” I replied, without the least hint of sarcasm, “Jeans, and a t-shirt. That’s a cry for help if I ever saw it!”

By the time Stumpy and I had finished harassing Jimmy about his Freudian insights, Waldo had vanished. At a time like this there is always much confusion as to which path to follow. You could either go look for your friend, who was now under the dangerous influence of both alcohol, and hormones, making him an easy target for trouble, or go back to the truck and drink his remaining share of the washer fluid tank. Considering the friendship that Waldo and I had shared over the past decade or so, there was only one clear choice.

“Want the last couple of ounces Eddie?” Stumpy asked as the second show was finishing.

“Sure.” I replied. After all, a friendship that had endured as long as mine and Waldo’s can survive such indiscretions as drinking his share of the booze.

As the bright floodlights came on overhead to indicate the end of the show, Waldo stumbled out of nowhere, wearing what the rest of us were to later agree was the stupidest grin we had ever seen, even from Waldo. When he was just about up to our truck, a horn honked, and Waldo turned to wave at the smiling face that stared out at him from the window of a grey, four door Bel-Aire.

Wait a minute. Was that a Chevy he was waving at?

The ride home was pretty silent that night. Waldo had his chin parked on the dashboard, staring up at the stars with that big, stupid grin that made the rest of us cringe. All except for Jimmy, who was passed out with his head slumped against the side window, drooling in a way that you don’t want to think about when you’re eating. I looked over at Stumpy, and the two of us gave our unspoken concurrence that there was only one thing that could be done, and regardless of how difficult it was, we had to do it.

“Yo, Waldo,” I said.

“We gotta talk,” Stumpy added.

“‘Bout what?” Waldo asked, his eyes still glazed and looking skyward.

“About her.”

“Ya’ mean Tiffany?” he grinned. Tiffany? This was worse than we thought. To our knowledge, only preppies, and Catholics named their children Tiffany, and our town had neither of them. Stumpy took the initiative, and tried to explain things to Waldo.

“Me an’ Eddie been thinking some, and … well, we’d appreciate it if you didn’t see her anymore.” he said, with a note of sympathy in his voice.

“Are you outta’ yer damn mind?” Waldo was taking this better than we had thought. “We all been planning fer th’ day one of us would meet a girl!” Yep, Waldo was taking this very well. “An’ now that I gone and done it first, you guys is gettin’ all jealous”

“Look man,” I said in as understanding a voice as I could muster, “we’re glad you met someone, and believe me, we all want you to be happy, but you gotta understand that a girl from that town can’t be no good!”

Waldo was unimpressed. “Aw, you guys don’t believe all them ol’ wives’ tales, do you?” But it was true. After all, what would a girl from Sodbuster Junction want with one of us? It could only be part of a vile conspiracy on the part of all citizens of that town to mess with our heads, and lead us astray. “I think you guys is all paranoid!” he added.

And that was that. For the all of next week, Waldo made himself scarce. None of us had heard from him by Friday afternoon, so Stumpy, Jimmy and I had just assumed he was been busy working at his father’s fertilizer plant, and went around to pick him up for our usual Friday night trip to the drive-in. When we got there, Waldo’s mother, Irma Hinkley, informed us that Waldo had left earlier that afternoon with a girl driving a green Chevy pick-up truck.

It was worse than we could ever imagine. Waldo, our lifelong friend, companion, and champion cow tipper had been lured away by the enemy. The way this shameless harlot had posed as an innocent young girl to kidnap one of our own was more than just devious, more than just dirty, and under-handed.

It was indeed an act of war.

The three of us returned solemnly to my place where we instantly put in place a battle plan that, although unrehearsed, was nonetheless instinctive to anyone whose friend was now trapped in the jaws of a ruthless adversary. Jimmy got on the phone and talked to some other guys around town who, though we didn’t normally hang out with them, instantly volunteered for service as they learned the state of emergency that had arisen. During times of crisis, all schoolyard cliques were cast aside for the greater good of the community.

Within half an hour, our front yard had become the marshalling ground for a group of nearly a dozen young men who had come forth to defend the honour and reputation of our town, and bring home Waldo, who by now was being talked of as a fallen hero. My grandfather, long known for his distaste for the Sodbusters, offered us the use of his Dodge Newport, reasoning that someone entering that town in a Ford would be too easy of a target. It was also the only vehicle handy that could fit a dozen people in relative comfort.

“Go get the bastards!” Gramps yelled in encouragement as we rumbled off down the lane. I’m sure I caught sight of a tear in his eye, for this was indeed a solemn occasion. For the first time since the end of the Korean War, the young men of Dustplain township were going into hostile territory, facing an enemy that greatly outnumbered them. Then again, he could have been laughing hysterically, but who’s to know?

Half an hour later, we were pulling up the main street of Sodbuster Junction. At first I thought we had been drastically mistaken in our opinions of these neighbours of ours, but soon realized that that was exactly what they wanted me to think. The unspoken, yet deeply embedded evils that ran through this alien society had been carefully hidden behind a facade of a quiet, gentle little farming town. All along the main drag we saw numerous examples of the deception. A church here, a Salvation Army there, over in the park a small band played as dozens of townsfolk pretended to sit quietly, enjoying the music. These may not be good people, but I had to give them credit for their ability to put on a show.

We had expected to be set upon, and beaten, or tortured the minute we entered the town, but the citizens who milled about the street slyly acted as if we were just another car passing through, and pretended not to notice us. Near the first intersection, a Chevy Caprice driven by a suspicious-looking couple in their early nineties approached us from the opposite direction. As they passed, both of them smiled at us, and the little old lady in the passenger seat did her best to give us a feeble wave with her shaky little hand.

“Seem friendly enough.” Jimmy commented.

“It’s just an act.” I retorted. My companions too, had underestimated these people. “They know we’re here now. That was just their first line of defense, posed as a friendly old couple”

“Dirty bastards!” said Bobby Thurmun from the back seat.

“Yeah,” agreed Stumpy, “I don’t care how old she is. If she tries to pull that crap on me again, I’m gonna kick her ass!”

“I’ll back you up man!” offered Danny Best in a show of solidarity with Stumpy. The team, or should I say, the strike force, was beginning to work together as a unit. This was good, because phase two of the battle plan was about to go into action. One of us was gonna have to go out on a limb and ask some questions. We decided to pull the car over and have some of the guys pretend to work under the hood, while a few of us poked our head in the Chinese cafe and made a few inquiries. Not that these shrewd operators were likely to give up anything we could use, but it was Waldo’s only hope, and we knew it, so I pulled the car over and popped the hood. I got out of the car and pretended to fiddle with the carburetor, with a few of the guys covering my back, while Jimmy led his squad over to the cafe.

We had been parked for only half a minute or so, when two large, burly men pulled up behind us in a big Chevy 4X4. This was it I thought, the old spies had ratted us out, and now the town death squad had come by to do horrible things to us that even in our worst nightmares we hadn’t dreamt of. I thought about making a break for it, but realized that these men were not about to approach us without perhaps dozens more backing them up, well hidden as they may be.

As the two men strode up to the front of our car, we all stifled a shudder of fear, and put on a brave face.

“Hi boys!” Said the first burly death squad member. “We noticed your hood up, and thought you might need some help.”

“Yeah,” Said the second one, “My brother and I here own a garage around the corner. we’re closed right now, but if you need some assistance, we’d be happy to lend you some tools and advice if it’s needed.”

I gave the others a sideways glance to be sure that they were ready for possible combat. “That’s okay, I was just checking my oil,” I said.

“Good idea son,” the first man commented. “You can never check it often enough. Glad to see a young man like you who’s so conscientious with his vehicle”

“You boys from out of town?” the second one asked. The temptation to lie was there, but I couldn’t handle these games any longer. It was time to tell the truth and stand our ground. Maybe one day they would build a statue out at Lake Sukumunder in our memory. Besides, these men surely knew who we were anyway.

“We’re from Mosquito Flats,” I said. Fast as lightning, the men raised their hands from their sides and lunged at us.

“Well, what do you know?” the first man said as he shook my hand. “Welcome to Sodbuster Junction!”

“We don’t often see many people from your parts,” the second man added as he shook hands with the other guys.

“We gotta get going home for supper,” the first man explained, “but if you ever have car trouble out here, you just take this card and give me a call. My home number’s on the back.”

“Sure will,” I said. And with that the two men walked back to there vehicle, waving as they drove off.

“Can you believe these people?” I asked the rest of the group, “Look at the way they play with us! It’s like a cat who bats around its prey before crushing it in his jaws!”

“Yeah,” Danny agreed. “They aren’t just mean and devious, these people is dang cruel!”

“Took all I had not to kick that guy’s ass when he tried to shake my hand!” Stumpy fumed. I must say it gave us all a little more confidence, having Stumpy along. In a situation like this, you need a guy who isn’t afraid to almost kick someone’s ass.

Jimmy and his squad, whom we were beginning to fear were missing in action, returned with a piece of paper in Jimmy’s hands. “They’re gonna ambush us!” Jimmy yelled. “I went and asked someone if they knew a sixteen year old brunette with a green Chevy pick-up truck, and someone drew me this map!”

“Luring us into a trap!” Stumpy cried. “These people have no shame!”

“We still gotta go get Waldo,” I said. “I know it’s dangerous, but we can’t just leave him here with these sadists.”

The rest of the group agreed, and in minutes we had parked the car in the back lane of what we had been led to believe was Tiffany’s house.

Music and laughter abounded from the back yard of Tiffany’s home. Upon further investigation, we were able to determine that some kind of garden party was going on.

“There he is!” whispered Danny, who was peering through the hedgerow. “Muh god, He’s wearing a tie!”

“If they brain washed him, and turned him into a pansy, I’m gonna kick someone’s ass!” Stumpy added.

We watched closely as people milled around near the hedgerow, just inches away from us. Just when it looked hopeless, as there was too many for us to fight off at once, we got a lucky break. Waldo had wandered away from Tiffany, and had excused himself to take care of some business behind a bush in the back of the yard.

“Now!” I said, and our elite commando force leapt into action, scurrying down the hedgerow to the back of the garden. In a sweeping move that not even the best choreographers in Hollywood could re-create, Jimmy and Danny bound over the back fence, scooped up Waldo on their shoulders, just as he was doing up his zipper, and bolted out the back gate towards the waiting car.

“What’n hell are you doing?” Waldo cried out.

“Quiet you idiot,” Stumpy scolded. “We’re here to rescue you!”

“I don’t wants t’ be rescued!” he said ungratefully. “Tiffany…Help!!!”

Poor guy was brainwashed.

Within an hour, we had Waldo safely back in his driveway. On the way home, we tried to clear his mind of the brainwashing by forcing him to drink a small bottle of whiskey, which he agreed to drink after six guys sat on him, Danny held his jaw open, and Stumpy threatened to kick his ass. This was all part of the plan to help him as you will see.

Waldo’s father, seeing him in a wobbly, bruised state, and smelling of cheap whiskey, naturally sent him upstairs, then demanded an explanation from us. We explained how we had gotten an anonymous call that tipped us off to the fact that Waldo was in a bar in Sodbuster Junction, drunk as a skunk, and trying to fight with the local cops. As his closest friends, it was our duty to go rescue him.

Mr. Hinkley thanked us for our help, and suggested that Waldo would be busy for a few weeks, and we might not see him around much. That was okay; in fact, it was part of the plan. That was just about enough time for him to get over the brainwashing, we hoped.

It was a proud, but solemn bunch that returned that night. The war was not over by a long shot, but we had won the battle. Our friend was safe.

What Waldo did for those couple of weeks I’m not sure, but I think it must’ve been something to do with school work, as he demonstrated his knowledge of physics to me during a phone call a week later.

According to his calculations, if my house were just half a mile closer to his, he could pick me off my front porch with high powered rifle, without ever leaving his room. Funny the things you can learn when you have the time to sit down and think a lot.

###

Copyright © 1999-2007 Troy More
All rights reserved.

Author’s 1999 Bio:

Troy More a.k.a. wyzaz writes humour, science fiction, and alternate histories. He is the author of several plays, a hundred or so newspaper columns, as well as humour and science fiction series in magazines from Toronto to Kuala Lumpur. Along with illustrator Maritza Campos, he also publishes the single panel cartoon “True Romance” — soon to go into syndication. Troy is an op on several IRC channels, including #Authors and #Brisbane (where he’s pictured on their gallery pages); he is channel manager for #science_fiction and Managing Editor for Planet 3 ‘zine. Troy is also the new editor of “Undercurrents” — the Undernet’s newsmagazine.

The War is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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