May 2021
Bio Note: I’ve balanced my life as a home improvement contractor by day, author by night. I’m from
Maryland, imprinted Appalachian, educated midwestern, settled half a century under redwoods in the coastal mountains
of California. My most recent book is Random Saints.
When Eisenhower who won WW-Two was President
Fat boy grabs my arm. Thin boy punches my stomach which hurts, yes, but less than I’d expect. “What are you doing?” I say in my beginning-to-crack voice. “We’re gonna beat you up,” fat boy says. “Wait a minute,” I say and strangely, obediently, fat boy drops my arm. “Before you beat me up,” I say, “just tell my why.” “Because it’s your turn,” thin boy says. “Why?” I say. Each boy looks at the other. They don’t know why. In fifth grade, 1957, they teach Walk Don’t Run. They teach Duck and Cover and Kiss Your Ass Goodbye. No kiss. I run. They chase, heavy footsteps past the tail-fin Chryslers tied to blackface lawn butlers past the muddy football field where one day a kick will crack my testicle past the mothers in pink bathrobes whose sons died in Korea past Julie Johnson’s house who another day will test that testicle. I run all the way to the grim faces of the draft board men fat and thin who grab my arms and punch my stomach many times and it hurts, yes, but this time I fight back while friend Denny joins the brawl and loses, an RPG to the belly at Khe Sanh as I run farther faster to coach Little League baseball where my son plays shortstop; his friend Sammy the catcher confused shaves his head and enlists, gung-ho for Iraq, comes back PTSD because I can’t stop him, because sometimes it’s your turn. Just tell me why.
Originally published in Picaroon
©2021 Joe Cottonwood
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