The only thing we have to fear

A short story

Part Two

That evening Doc and his neighbor Charlie saw the news that Kari Lake had told her supporters to “Put on the armor of God and strap on their Glocks going into this election.” The next morning when he started out for his walk Doc looked over at Charlie’s yard and saw Charlie at the end of his driveway, raking gravel, wearing a new holstered Glock.

That’s when Doc decided when he got back from his walk he’d do it.

The development Doc lived in had no sidewalks and no above ground telephone lines and he liked the natural desert he and his neighbors lived among, the brittle bushes and creosotes that attracted the quail, doves and occasional coyote. Every morning on his walks through and around his neighborhood, which he nicknamed “Barrio BMW” he felt as though he lived close to the natural world, the only answer to the madness he saw on his endless news feed and on this morning when he returned from his walk he told Patton, “I have to do it. Telling folks to strap on a Glock. Good God. What kind of madness was that?”

Patton’s mewed response was not helpful. Doc’s companion, Patton, was a scrawny ragged old cat who adopted him one afternoon years ago and thanked him by leaving a gift of rodent parts in front of the sliding glass door to his back porch.

Doc’s hero was General Patton, a surly old warrior whose nickname was “Old Blood ’n’ Guts”. In honor of the cat’s generous gift of bloody pack rat guts Doc dubbed the cat Patton.

“Patton, you are no help. When am I ever going to stand up to these people? What am I afraid of? What’s that, Pat old boy? Everything? Kiss my ass, cat. Every Trumper in his burb is on edge. They’re mad as Hell.” Doc was pretty sure there was a gun in every other casita in Barrio BMW. They were always shooting their mouths off about kneecapping illegals. Standing their ground against the hordes of criminals that would be pouring over the wall of their gated Fortune 500 fortress at any moment. Constipated bullies. Shaking their walkers at straw men. Imagine telling those geriatric McVeighs to go out and buy Glocks. Jesus H Christ. Insane.

“I tell you, Patton. I’m going to do it. I’m going to put a “Biden/Harris/2024” sign in my yard. Every Trumper will pop their catheters. There’ll be a parade of golf carts in front of our home. Charlie will lead tours. I better keep you inside."

Watching the news of the Trump trial Doc thought to himself there was hope for America after all. At that moment the rat-a-tat-tat of a Gila woodpecker hammering away at the aluminum chimney on his roof made him jump, drop the TV remote and spill his coffee. “Goddammit.” He looked at his cat Patton, who looked back at him. “I know. I know. Get a hold of yourself, Doc.”

Next door Charlie was watching FOX news cover the Trump “show trial”. Charlie knew the Deep State was behind all of it. Freezing an old man like that in a shitty courtroom. Charlie imagined his neighbor Doc laughing at poor Donald Trump’s persecution. “What is wrong with those goddam liberals?” He threw his remote at his large screen TV and looked through his side window at the casita next door and cursed Doc. “I’ll bet the son of a bitch is a deep state Antifa agent. Or worse.”

On Saturday, while microwaving his oatmeal, Doc told Patton, “I’m done betraying my brother.”

Patton rolled on his back and mewed his approval.

Doc was referring to his older brother, Leo, the Charlie Company medic, the beloved brother who served two tours in Vietnam, won a Bronze Star, was killed one week before he was set to come home and who was a closeted gay man his whole too short life, fearful of being outed because it was the sixties and here in 2024 Doc betrayed him with silence every time his neighbors would denigrate homosexuals as deviants. Sick perverts. Turning our country into a Sodom and Gomorrah.

They weren’t fit to kiss Leo’s boots.

Doc supported local LGBTQ causes every chance he had. Secretly. As he explained it to Patton, "Wouldn’t want any of these old bastards down at the club house to find out I was woke. God, I hate that word.”

When his daughter teased him about being a sucker for underdogs he texted her back, “maybe it’s because I read the goddamn Bible. And as for my holier than thou neighbors who call America a Christian country I have seen enough of what religion can do to people up close and personal in Kandahar.”

Doc wasn’t sure what he was politically, but he sure as hell knew he wasn’t like Charlie. Old Charlie saw the world in stark black-and-white. The way Doc saw it, he knew the world was grayer than the hairs on his head.

And Doc thought Biden was a decent man doing a decent job. And in perilous times. Doc opened his laptop, found the site he bookmarked weeks before, hit “return” and ordered the goddam “Biden/Harris 2024” yard sign.

On Wednesday the sign arrived.

Doc opened the box, slid out the double-sided corrugated plastic sign, carried it to his front yard and after weighing where to place it, he began to feel foolish so he planted it in the center of his yard in front of the cluster of prickly pear from which his flagpole rose up. Where it could be seen by all who passed his home.

Charlie watched it all from his porch and muttered. “God help us.”

Thursday morning Doc pretended to look at his watch as he quickly walked past Charlie’s.

And rather than taking the same path home and risk seeing Charlie he looped through the neighborhood and return to his home through the back gate.

That entire day Fox News screamed out of Charlie’s house through his open front door, back door and every window. “Trump persecuted”. “Arizona indicts eleven fake electors.””They’re trying to silence you, the American people.”

At noon Doc checked his mailbox and found “Trump 2024” bumper stickers and flyers from various MAGA candidates crammed into it. “Thanks, jackasses.” On the way back into his house Doc tossed them all into his garbage dumpster. He shut his door, put a frozen pizza into his microwave and told Patton,”It’s already started.”

Outside a passing pickup with flags flapping slowed down. The driver honked.

Friday morning Doc went for his walk and there was Charlie, raking his gravel again.

And packing his Glock. Doc muttered, “Jesus” and tried reaching out. “Nice Glock.”

Charlie grunted. “Nice sign.”

Doc said matter of factly, “I carried one when I was in Iraq. 18-bullets in nine seconds. Fine weapon. Never jammed on me. I still have it.”

Charlie grunted.

Doc calmly shifted gears. ”You know, I was a volunteer for Congresswoman Gabby Giffords when…” Doc paused to drink in Charlie’s dumbfounded surprise at this revelation.

And then added, “You know she was shot by Loughner with a Glock.”

Charlie said nothing. What did Doc want him to say? Doc quickly broke the awkward silence. “Say, Charlie, I’m volunteering to be a poll worker in this upcoming election here in the county. Why don’t you think about signing up with me? It’s a couple of hours of community service…”

Charlie, done with wasting any more time, waved the idea away. “What’s the point? It’s going to be rigged. Your kind thinks you run the world. Not for long though. See you around.”

Doc and Charlie just stood there, a vast canyon between them growing deeper and darker by the minute. The way Charlie snarled, “See you around,” sounded ominous. Doc answered, “Have a good weekend.” And went on his way asking himself, “Was it time to move?”

Saturday morning Doc made his coffee, ate his oatmeal, put on his shoes, opened the front door, grabbed his keys and water, and looked out at his front yard and back at Patton. “Will you look at that! What the Hell!”

Next up on Sunda: Part Three

The Conclusion to “The only thing we have to fear”