Useful Assets
Shaved apes need family members like Uncle John. If there’s a “there,” he’s been there, prob’ly packin’ a rifle. Steeped in pain, he laughs; stiff with scars like Egyptian hieroglyphics, there’s a story for every one of ’em, and he tells them with a smile. He’s the one who taught me that pain and injuries are only, “The price of an interesting life.”
“You didn’t have to get crippled just ’cause you idolize me, dummy,” he says. “And you’ll never be as handsome as me.” He’s ugly. He loves me.
After the move to our new place, he had to get a new primary care physician. I dropped him off, ran an errand and pulled up just as he came out. He stopped and commenced seriously shaking. I thought he might be having a seizure, but he was laughing his butt off.
“My new doc,” he chuckled, “Kid’s about 15 and looks like Doogie Howser, M.D. I told him, and he asked, Who’s that?” More laughter.
“Then he says I hafta give up tobacco, coffee, bourbon, beer, red meat, bacon and…” Another fit of shakin’ and whoopin’. I asked “Anything else?”
“I don’t know!” he roared, “I was laughin’ so hard I couldn’t hear him! Oh, it was so cute! He got all frowny and said You’d live longer. I told him no, it would only seem longer, or, like dying and goin’ to hell, but like Hell Lite.” He lit his pipe and asked, “Got time for a dark beer and a buffalo-burger?”
Neo-gorillas need friends like Pete C. On a recent Friday I found a great 1-day deal on lumber and joist plates we needed for our new site. It was 150 miles north and across the border into New Mexico. Pete was closer, on the road coming south. But he had to scoot straight over, get there before 1800, seal the deal with this guy Michaels and snatch the keys to the 5-ton truck the load was on for two, rent-free days. We were both driving, both on cell phones, and the signal was terrible. We kept yelling “Say again?” to each other, but when Pete finally shouted Roger that, I thought we were clear. We weren’t.
I pulled up at the new site about 1800 and there was Pete, standing by his personal truck, rigged for combat. I sat there in slack-jawed bewilderment as he loaded his ruck, two carbines and the case containing his .50 BMG rifle into the crew cab. He hopped in, grinning.
“Didn’t know if we’d need Long Tom too, so I just brought him. Ready to rock, pal.” Never mind what I’d said. What he heard was like this:
“We’re gonna cross the border into Mexico, roll about five clicks in, snatch this SEAL named Michael and somebody named Joyce. Probably lots of shooting. Be here by 1800.” I explained. He just sighed, spit out the window and shook his head. “Got that wrong, huh?”
“Did you really think we were gonna do that?” I asked.
He cocked an eyebrow, punched my shoulder and said, “Look at me, Connor. Like, we never pulled a snatch job together before? We never rolled in hard, shot up some dump and rolled out, takin’ rounds and laughin’ like maniacs before, huh?” Yeah. I remembered. Got a little choked up. I think he read the question in my eyes. He punched me again, lightly.
“I roll with you, bro,” he said. “Anytime.”
I had a buncha big oranges and some beer in the cooler. We sat on the tailgate, ripped open the oranges and bit into ’em, juice running down our arms; flingin’ drops out into the dust. Time passed. We watched the sickle moon rise in paling light, not sayin’ much and remembering all. A songdog howled and we howled back. Just a coupla shaved apes.
Connor OUT
Subscribe To GUNS Magazine
