Page 108 - Sweet Embraceable You: Coffee-House Stories
P. 108

96                                            Jack Fritscher

             someone on probation to get a permit for a handgun, but it’s no
             way impossible for that same person to get a handgun, especially
             when that person’s daddy dies and leaves it loaded in a bedroom
             drawer. “Damn,” he said.
                 Floyd moved to the window, wiping his hands. “That your
             Chevy?”
                 He admired the Chevrolet gleaming all red and white with
             hardly a speck of any road grime Robert had wiped off every time
             he stopped to gas up. He had bought it, restored and cherry, the
             day he turned sixteen, paying for it with insurance money his mom
             had given him as his share of his dad’s policy. Those had been the
             days! The draft had been lenient to neglectful. By 1973, the draft
             was carnivorous for red-blooded all-American boys. He told Lou-
             ise Yavonovich, the gray-haired lady who ran the Green County
             Selective Service Board, that she couldn’t draft him because he was
             leaving for California.
                 “For school?” she asked.
                 “Yes, a school” he said, “for becoming a minister, a Quaker
             minister,” but his yes revealed itself for the lie it had always been
             before he had driven the first five hundred miles west. He knew
             he’d never sit in another school in all his life. He knew enough to
             get by in the world. And more. Even though he was no way, José,
             one of those spineless conscientious objectors, he vowed he’d never
             let anyone take him to some hellhole place like Vietnam, or even
             to prison for dodging the draft.
                 By no more than impetuous instinct, he had hopped into his
             car that day and worked out his plan about heading toward the
             coast, with its beaches and sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll, leaving
             fat old ugly Louise, no more the wiser, and a little the worse for
             wear, sitting on her cellulite in the sprawl of her manila alphabetical
             files. Even before the fierce rainstorm he had sat out in his car west
             of Omaha he had laughed. He was just another missing person out
             of millions. The old bitch would never catch up with him. He had
             no way of knowing that Louise had rather fancied him, and had let


                     ©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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