Pick Up the Spare
By Scott MacLeod
Nothing is what it seems as a veteran keeps a silent watch over the past, waiting for the final frame to fall so he can finally clear the lane…
Jake wasn’t over Bastogne. Probably never would be. Here forty years later he still had bad dreams. Of the friends he lost. Of the strangers he cut down. Nine of them. He saw their dead German faces on candle pins. The kind he’d knock over at Olsen’s Bowl downtown before the war. He could hear the crashing. Sound of splintering wood. The excited shouting. Shrill screams. Just like back at Olsen’s. Just like back in the forest in Belgium.
Those dead soldiers claimed to be some kind of master race, but they certainly were not bulletproof. Jake could vouch for that. And when they blew up, they splattered just like the next guy of inferior stock. Maybe their blood was pure, but it dripped from the fir trees and pooled in the trenches just like that of the mongrel Yanks.
For years Jake had been sleeping with a gun under his pillow, in case the phantoms became too real. A souvenir he’d pried from a headless Prussian boy in a foxhole. One of the Nazi ghosts who haunted his dreams.
Jake’s son would visit sometimes. He was a good boy. He’d clutter up the small apartment with gifts. Modern touches. Latest was something he called a microwave. Could heat up Jake’s soup in a minute, apparently.
Jake wasn’t sure that was a meaningful improvement.
Frieda stood still by Jake’s side.
Recently Jake felt the need to give Frieda some companions… He was ready to move up in class to bigger game.
“That dog.” His son shook his head. In the direction of the German Shepherd watching stiffly by Jake’s chair in front of the TV.
“Anyway. Couple things,” his son continued. “You can’t put metal in there. You gotta stir it halfway through. And you gotta cover the bowl with a paper towel so it doesn’t splatter everywhere.”
“Sounds like more work than doing it my way on the stovetop,” said Jake before he could stop himself. “But I appreciate the thought, I really do.”
One night a few weeks later, Jake was about to hoist himself out of his trusty chair and turn in, when the front door crashed open. It was a young kid he didn’t recognize from the neighborhood. The boy shuffled nervously. Eyes darting around the room. Checked behind him before he spoke.
“I’ve been watching you. I noticed your dog. Never barks. Never moves. Not much of a watchdog.”
True enough, Frieda never took a step or made a sound. Not in more than three decades. In her day she was a valued member of the platoon. Sniffing out land mines. Jake took her home after his hitch ended. When she passed on in the '50s Jake had her stuffed by an Arkansas farm boy and amateur taxidermist from his unit. She’d been a faithful if stationary companion. He’d move her to the window sometimes to give her a change of scenery. The robber must have seen her there.
Recently Jake felt the need to give Frieda some companions, as reward for her steadfast service. He had been experimenting in the cellar, preserving some squirrels and possum he trapped underneath the porch. Or the odd roadkill when available, and at least partly intact. He was ready to move up in class to bigger game.
The unwelcome stranger in the doorway held a long knife. He looked unsteady enough to use it.
“I know you get pension checks. And I see that younger guy who visits.”
“My son.”
“He brings you stuff. I need it.” The young man motioned towards a laser disc player, still in the box. “Nothing personal. You’re easy money.” He fidgeted with the blade.
“OK,” sighed Jake. “First let me get my soup from the oven, will you. It’s ready. It dinged just before you got here. I need to take my night medicine with a little food. Give an old soldier a last request. Final meal.”
Jake trudged to the kitchen. It was a short trudge. Reached into the unused microwave. Took out the Luger he’d moved there recently, to avoid bedside temptation. The dormant oven was a great place to store it. Perfect spot to hide something. No other use for the damn thing.
He returned and faced the surprised thief.
Jake would dream about ten falling pins from then on.
The dead intruder was a good-sized kid. Jake did some quick calculation about how much tanning material and adhesive he had on hand. It looked like the stuffed critters in the basement would be getting some company.
Tricky! I was hoping he wasn't going to blow up the microwave, though, to distract the guy.
Just another scene from the American way of life... :-))