Damn global whatever the hell, thought Herbert as he shoveled the snow in his driveway. Wasn’t it supposed to be getting towards spring? Sixty-five was too old for such tasks. As he insisted on the truth of such ponderings he looked next door and sighed. The widow Blankenship had over twenty years on him and her driveway needed attention. Clearing it out for her was the Christian thing to do.
As he dug the first shovel full out three teenagers appeared on the horizon, which with Herbert’s declining vision meant the edge of the property. Looking at them Herbert knew they were trouble. He cringed inwardly as he mourned the decline of society. Who the hell wore their pants down around the knees, especially in a foot of snow? Seeing one of the thugs motioning to him, Herbert walked to the impromptu conference.
“Pops, we have problem here. This is our territory.” The first boy, probably the leader, with the barrette, or something equally ridiculous sounding, piercing that that looked like a fishhook through his lip.
“Just being neighborly.” Herbert’s voice was proud and strong in spite of his advancing age and the apocalyptic conditions.
“Didn’t you hear? This is our turf!” Teen two, with the unsightly black, plastic saucers replacing and extending his earlobes. “That old bat pays us twenty bucks for five minutes work.”
“Did anyone ever teach you to respect your elders?”
“I’ll show you respect ya old fuck. Get on inside.” Teen three, the one with no metal but acne that would survive until his thirties on his face. “We’ll be over to shovel your house and get the money in about ten minutes.”
“Son, I would ask you to watch your language.”
“That’s it, I warned him. You heard me warn him.”
Permanent acne swung his shovel at Herbert as the other two nodded with mock sorrow. Herbert was old but these punks weren’t trained. He snatched the handle just below the blade and yanked. His leg came out and with the slipper snow the teen fell onto the wide metal of his shovel with a disturbing crunch of shattering teeth and nose.
“You boys have aggression but no training, no discipline, and no respect.”
Stop now, Herbert told himself, before this goes too far. It was too late though. The thing he had caged up since coming home was loose. Besides, saucer ears was advancing.
Herbert lifted his shovel. With a quick thrust driven by wiry muscles long unused but not forgotten the handle met the boy’s esophagus. The teen went down with a disturbing choking gag as he clutched his throat.
“We were punks in my day too but we respected age, skill, and service. Things your self-entitled generation does not learn and thus fails to honor.”
Metal mouth was turning to run but it was too late. Herbert was in another place. The boy was the enemy, Charlie, and he was escaping. Mercy belonged in Korea not Vietnam. Herbert reversed his hold and swung the blade of the shovel at the back of Charlie’s head, connecting with a satisfying thunk that dropped the youth to watery knees and spread crimson through his hair. As Herbert looked at the blood on metal the mist cleared and he returned to the now.
Crimson drizzle stained bone white snow with a sizzle of heat only known on the coldest days. Herbert wondered if this was what the world had come to. Wondered if this was what he had to become. He looked upon his fallen adversaries and felt ashamed of himself, but not as ashamed as he would if they didn’t deserve it.
“I’m sorry that had to happen boys. I’ll call an ambulance for you.”
Herbert turned to make good on the promise. His foot slipped on the unshoveled pink slush and he went down. He heard the telltale snap from his aging hip as he landed.
#shortstory #socialcommentary #author #writer
No comments:
Post a Comment