One Man's Island

by Thomas J. Wolfenden

  He made his way down the aisle and selected a few cans of the store brand tuna when he heard a “tsk” from behind him. He turned to look, and saw a morbidly obese woman, whose age he was unable to determine. He thought to himself with a laugh that she had more chins than a Chinese phonebook. She was sitting in— more like oozing out of— one of those electric buggies the store reserved for the handicapped, looking at him disdainfully.

  “You’re not going to buy that tuna, are you?” she spat.

  “Yeah, I was. What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s not dolphin friendly tuna!” she said in a tone that reminded him of Sister Mary Magdalene from grade school. She was a bitch too.

  “Dolphin friendly, what the hell is that?” he asked, knowing even before he finished he’d get a lecture all about it.

  “Well, the dolphins get caught in the tuna nets and die. Dolphin friendly tuna is tuna they catch without nets, saving the dolphins!” she said in a superior tone that was really starting to get on his nerves.

  He stood, looking at her deadpan for few moments, crossed his arms, and then finally spoke.

  “So let me get this straight. It’s okay to kill the tuna, but not okay to kill the dolphins?”

  “Well, I didn’t say—”

  “Yes you did. I guess it’s okay to kill the tuna, because a tuna never had its own TV show back in the 60’s right? Or is it because tuna aren’t cute, like baby seals and otters and shit? Well fuck them, I’m hungry. I’d kill Flipper for a tuna sandwich!” he was shouting now, and he took an arm, scooped several more cans of the non-dolphin friendly tuna into his cart and walked off, not giving her a chance to reply.

  I swear to God, he thought. I’ve got to have some kind of magnet somewhere that I attract these fuckwits.

  He made his way to the checkout, and of course the person in front of him had a problem with their personal check. Several times the checkout girl tried to run it through, and it just kept rejecting it.

  “What else can fuck up today?” he muttered, which the checkout chick heard. She looked at him apologetically, though it wasn’t her fault. Finally, after the fourth time the girl tried to run the check through Tim had finally had had enough and asked, “How much it the bill?”

  “Thirty seven fifty,” she said. He pulled two twenties from his wallet and paid for the man’s groceries. It wasn’t because he was feeling all that generous; he was at the point where his head would implode if he had to endure one more fuckup today.

  The man thanked him, and Tim replied “Merry fucking Christmas, a month early.”

  The man quickly took his few bags and quickly left, saying, “Thank you, sir! God bless the troops!”

  The girl grinned at him, and he just nodded. He was tired, but nowhere near being done for the day. He paid for his groceries and made his way out of the store to the truck. He loaded it quickly and headed off to his house, finally.

  He pulled the truck into the alleyway behind the row of homes, and backed into his small driveway, so the tailgate was almost against the garage door. He broke into the back door, the same way he had done with the front door earlier. Gaining entry, he opened the inside door, walked into a small hallway to the inside door to the garage. This he opened, letting in some light. He was delighted for the first time today, when he saw the four cords of hardwood he’d cut, split, and stacked before the last deployment.

  Guess Connie forgot about that. It would come in handy in the wood stove he’d had installed in the living room several years ago. He quickly unloaded all his wares to the house, and put it all away. Now, to get the generator up and running. He set it up outside the house, filled the fuel tank with gas, primed the carburetor and quickly pulled the recoil starter. It fired up in one pull. He had to hand it to the Brigade. Maintenance was good. He ran the extension cord through the garage and the rec room, up the stairs to the refrigerator, plugging it in. Next he went back down to the garage, bringing up the lanterns, heaters, and a Jerry can of diesel, shutting both the garage door and the basement door in the kitchen.

  He went about setting up the camp stove on the kitchen counter, the heaters, one in the kitchen, the other in the living room, and put a pot of water on to boil. He’d decided on the drive home, he’d just live in the kitchen/living room/dining room level of the house for now. There was a small bathroom off the kitchen he could use for now. He’d bought ten gallons of water at the grocery store, and this he could use to wash up and use the toilet. If he couldn’t get the water turned back on tomorrow, he’d have to get more.

  He set the cot up in the living room and got a fire going in the wood stove to take the chill off. It was as cold as a morgue in the house, and the temperature was falling fast. He then tacked up a few blankets in front of the open doorway to the upper level of the house. No sense heating a part of the house he’d not be using.

  Busying himself by tidying up his clothes and preparing where he was going to sleep took enough time to let the water he’d put on the stove heat up enough to wash and shave. He took his toiletries kit into the kitchen and stripped to the waist. With some soap and a brown Army issue washcloth Tim went about washing his upper torso and armpits. A really nice long hot shower would have been better, but this would have to suffice for now. Next, he took a small metal mirror out and propped it up next to the pot to shave the day-old stubble from his face. It was the first time Tim had really had a look his reflection, and he didn’t like what he saw. Who was this old guy staring back at him?

  The eyes still looked the same, but there were crow’s feet at the corners, and his face took on a weathered, slightly leathery look, from too many years of too much sun. His close cropped hair was salt and pepper now, long gone was the light brown of his youth.

  A dinosaur.

  Finishing up, he looked out the window noticing the growing twilight, and looked at his wristwatch. Five PM. It’d be dark soon. With that thought crossed, his stomach reminded him that the last meal he’d had was about ten hours ago, somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. He’d have to eat something soon. He looked around the kitchen, and even though he’d made a big purchase of food, he didn’t feel like cooking anything. So that decision made, he redressed back into his uniform, because he had no civilian clothes.

  He had no clue what Connie had done with them, and he just couldn’t walk around in a half-assed uniform. He was that kind of soldier. Do it right or don’t do it at all. He’d sort out some civilian clothes later, but for now he’d just wear his uniform. Even in these new ugly desert ACU’s he did look good he thought.

  He decided to walk the three blocks down to Garvin’s Pub, on the corner of Solly and Frankford Avenues for something to eat and a few beers. He would do that, come back to get a good night’s sleep, and figure out the next step tomorrow. He walked the three blocks easily, and just as he arrived at the front door of the bar, it began to snow. He pulled open the door and stepped into the dim light. It was a typical Irish corner bar for the area; several TV’s turned to the local ABC affiliate for the local news, sports memorabilia from the Phillies, Flyers and Eagles on the walls, with neon beer signs between. There were a few patrons sitting at the bar, which had a huge full length mirror behind it, with several glass shelves containing hundreds of bottles of all different kinds of booze. He saw a familiar face behind the bar and smiled. He walked up and tossed a fifty dollar bill on the bar, sat down on one of the padded stools and held his right hand out which was immediately taken with a firm grip.

  “Hey, Mickey, it’s good to see you!”

  “Timmy! It’s been a long time! How’ve you been?”

  “I could be better.”

  “Yeah, I heard. Your brother was in earlier. Anything I can do?”

  “Yeah, tell my brother next time you see him to shut the fuck up,” he said jokingly. He’d always liked Mickey and he considered him a good friend.

  “That’ll be the day your brother shuts up!” he said. He took a frosted mug from the cooler and poured Ti
m a beer from the tap, placing it in front of him on a paper coaster.

  “It was kind of a rotten thing to do, eh?” Mick asked.

  “Yeah, pretty low,” Tim agreed, taking a pull of the beer, noticing Mick made no move to touch the fifty on the bar. “Where are all the ashtrays?”

  “You can’t smoke in here anymore, Tim. It’s new city regulations.”

  “Those fucking smoke Nazis!”

  “You said it,” he said shaking his head.

  “Is the kitchen open?” Mick nodded. “Okay, I’ll have a cheesesteak and some fries.”

  “You got it, Timmy,” Mick said and walked off to the back kitchen.

  Tim looked around and didn’t recognize any of the other patrons, so he took another pull from his beer and looked up at the TV. A commercial for a local furniture company had just completed and the news was back on.

  A perfectly coiffed anchorman said that the President was flying back from a visit to Malaysia tonight, and was expected back in Washington tomorrow morning.

  “Big fucking deal,” Tim said aloud. “He should stop by Afghanistan.”

  That wouldn’t happen he knew. Then the anchor switched over to the sports scores. Eagles were doing great, and the Flyers were in the running for the Stanley Cup again this year. Even though it was November, they both were doing well early in the season. He looked forward to baseball season. Maybe this summer he’d actually get to a few games. Tim sipped at his beer, and watched the weather report, which confirmed what Phil had told him earlier, six inches of snow tonight, and the first bands of the storm were crossing the city line now.

  Mick came back and refilled Tim’s beer. “It’ll be a few more minutes, Tim.”

  “No problem, not like I have anything else to do.”

  “Hey, Timmy, you remember the last time they said that?”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’d get a slight dusting to six inches of snow,” he said, pointing at the TV over the bar.

  “Oh yeah, winter of 96’. I woke up with almost three feet of the shit. It took me a week to dig out my car.”

  Mick went to the kitchen when he heard the little ‘ding’ from the short order cook’s bell, letting him know Tim’s order was ready. He came back carrying one of those red plastic mesh bowls with a wax paper lining, heaped with French fries and a cheesesteak sandwich on top. The steam was rising from the food, and Tim’s mouth watered at the smell. Mick left Tim to eat, and went to wash the glassware.

  Tim attacked the food with gusto and ate like he’d been starving. When he finished, he pushed the bowl aside, wiped his mouth with a paper towel, and finished off his beer. All in all, Garvin’s was a good place to be left alone, which is what he really wanted.

  Over the next few hours and several beers, Tim was starting to feel a pretty good buzz coming on. Patrons came and went as the night progressed, and from time to time, Mick stopped by the end of the bar where Tim was sitting to make small talk.

  The last few people had left an hour or so before, and Tim basically had the place to himself. Mickey was in the back getting some beer to fill the coolers, when the front door opened, and two kids spilled in from the growing snowstorm.

  From the brief time the door was open, he could see that at least six inches of snow had already fallen, and it didn’t look like it was going to stop any time soon. The two walked up to the bar, and Tim got his first good look at them. Both were white, about twenty-two or so years of age, covered in tattoos, and had all kinds of metal studs in their faces. Mick went over to them, and they ordered a few beers. They were laughing and joking with each other a great deal, a little too loudly for such an empty place. Tim really wanted to tell them to pull their fucking pants up, but decided to keep to himself.

  God, they are becoming annoying, he thought. They were now playing darts at the far end of the bar.

  “Hey, Joe!” one of them yelled. Tim ignored it at first, but realized they were talking to him. He turned his head and the mouthier one said again, “Yo, GI Joe! Yeah you! Play darts with us!”

  “Nah, I’m ok,” Tim said and went back to the TV.

  “What’s the matter, don’t you know how?” he said and it came out like, ‘Whatsamatter, doncha knowhow?’

  “Yeah, I don’t know how,” Tim said. Mick saw the look in Tim’s eyes and thought he’d better do something.

  “Hey! You guys settle down. I don’t want any trouble here,” Mickey said.

  “There ain’t going to be any trouble bro, just askin’ GI Joe here to play some darts with us.”

  “Well he doesn’t want to play.”

  The taller of the two walked over to Tim and looked him over.

  “Hey man, aren’t you a little old to be playin’ soldier? And what’s this? Ranger? You some kinda park ranger or somethin’?” Loudmouth said, looking at the Ranger tab on Tim’s left shoulder.

  “Yeah, that’s it, a park ranger,” Tim said, smiling in a way that any one of his soldiers would have recognized right away as his ‘I am about to unleash so much hurt on you it’s going to put your mother in the hospital’ smile.

  “Hey, Lenny, he’s a park ranger! Protects all the deer and shit! Betcha’ he even hugs them trees and all!”

  “C’mon, man! Play some darts wit’ us!” the other one pleaded.

  “I told you, I don’t know how to play,” Tim said evenly, his voice icy. Tim did know how to play. He was even on a few dart leagues. His photo with a huge trophy for All City was right next to the dartboard, if either of these two morons cared to look closely.

  “Alls ya’ hafta do is shoot the bull, man!”

  “All I have to do is shoot the bull’s-eye?” Tim asked with an evil grin. He heard Mickey say, “Oh shit,” behind him.

  “Yeah, shoot the bull!”

  “Alright,” Tim said, and in one fluid motion stood, reached behind him, grabbed the butt of the .45, pulled it out and one-handed, thumbed off the safety. With a loud BAM, he let one round off, completely obliterating the center cork of the dartboard from fifteen feet away.

  “There. I shot the bull,” Tim said matter-of-factly, turning the pistol to the face of the nearest loudmouth. The only sound in the bar now was the expended .45 casing rolling on the floor.

  The kid’s eyes were like saucers and his mouth was like a huge ‘O’ as he looked, dumbfounded, through the cloud of cordite smoke.

  “I think it’s time for you two jerkoffs to take your sorry asses out of my area, okay?”

  “Whatever you say, man! Just don’t shoot us!

  “Get the fuck out of here right fucking now assholes!” Tim bellowed. “And pull your goddamn pants up!” he added at them as they stumbled out the door. He safed the pistol, and put it back into his waistband, concealing it once again.

  “Fucking retards,” he said, and looked over at Mickey, who was laughing so hard he was crying.

  “Sorry about the dartboard, Mick. I’ll buy you a new one.”

  “Ah shit, Timmy! That was classic, and worth the cost of a new one. It’ll be great story to tell everyone!”

  “I wouldn’t be going around spreading that war story, Mick.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right… but fuck, that was funny! I think the short one pissed his pants when you pulled out that cannon!”

  “I’d better be going, Mick. Again, sorry about the mess.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Timmy.”

  “What do I owe you?” Tim asked, reaching into his pocket.

  “You don’t owe me anything. Glad you’re home. You’re a hero to all of us here, Tim.”

  Tim winced inwardly at this. He certainly didn’t feel like any hero. “Mick, I’m no hero. I’m a nothing man.”

  “Ah fuck, Timmy. Get the fuck outta here before I call a cop!” “See you later, Mick.” Tim downed the last of his beer, got his Gortex jacket, and left through the same door as the two loudmouths.

  He stood outside in the snow for a moment looking around, but the snow was getting
heavier and their footprints were already being obscured. Tim turned to slog the two blocks back to his house, wondering why people wouldn’t leave him alone. That’s all he really wanted right now, to be left alone.

  He wanted to be alone to think.

  He got to his porch and looked around at a silent street. Not many lights on. He looked at his wristwatch and saw that it was nearly 12:30 AM. He had one hell of a buzz going now, made worse by his exhaustion from being awake so long.

  One last look up the block, and then without really thinking, he let a bellow out as loud as he could: “Just leave me the fuck alone!”

  And with that, he turned the doorknob and entered his house. It had finally warmed up some from the fire in the woodstove. He tossed two more logs onto the fire, closed the glass door on the front of the stove, plopped down on the cot, and had enough energy to take his boots off before collapsing on the bed and falling into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 2: Careful What You Wish For

  As Tim slept a deep but troubled sleep, a gift from the cosmos had reached Earth. When a star explodes in a massive supernova, it shoots out thin rays from both its poles, of gamma radiation. These bands, only one degree of arc in width, grow wider as they travel out from their source, like the taper of an ice cream cone, but far less savory. If the Earth was in its direct path, it would have been far worse. But worse is a relative term. If it had been a direct hit, the atmosphere itself would have been set alight, burning everything on the surface to a cinder and boiling away the oceans.