Dupree's Rebirth

by Micheal Maxwell

  Perhaps it was the rocking of the rail car, perhaps it was the relative safety of his environment or the occasional dull throbbing of his nose, but Dupree began to dream. Dupree was not given to dreaming. The stress and Rubik’s Cube puzzles of the law usually just kept him awake. He would pace, self-medicate with a double Scotch, or simply toss and turn, but dreams rarely visited his four or five hours of sleep a night.

  Tonight he slid and floated through a world of images, fleeting vignettes, tableaux, and disjointed memories. All were meaningless, and yet profound. None were worrisome or unpleasant. It all started from a place of discomfort but ended in a place of tranquility. At one point he was sitting at his desk at the firm. In the corner, Ray Charles sat a grand piano singing Born to Lose, as Dupree tried to assemble a model airplane. Just an image, one of the hundreds, then it was gone.

  The longest of his dreams seemed to go on and on, though probably it was only a few seconds. He was riding a bicycle through his childhood neighborhood. The houses, cars, and people he saw were familiar but somehow sad and forlorn.

  Mr. Bonaventure flagged him down. The old man, who every year hand-delivered Easter Baskets and Christmas candy canes to the neighborhood children, spoke to him with disappointment and discernible anger.

  “Why you never come back to the neighborhood?” The old man’s thick Italian accent was still the same. “You left to go to college and I not see you again. You let me die without a good-bye. I thought you liked me? What happened to you in that college?”

  “I…” Dupree began, but the old man turned and walked away.

  He rode on, and one old neighbor after another turned their backs when they saw him. Finally, he reached his house. His bike came to a stop on the grass and he let it fall.

  “I’m home,” he called as he opened the door.

  There didn’t seem to be anyone home. The sights and smells of his childhood home were the same, but there were pictures of movie stars in the picture frames on the walls and mantle. Dupree walked toward the kitchen. Suddenly he saw his parents in the shadows. As he approached he saw that they were old, much older than they ever lived to be. As they backed into the light of the kitchen, he could see they were hunched and twisted with age. His mother looked up at Dupree, but the face so wrinkled and old, it was not his mother at all, but his wife, Diane. She sneered and snapped, “It’s about time you got back, where have you been?” His father turned to her and shook his head.

  “I never liked you. You are a mean nasty woman who made my boy mean and unhappy. Why don’t you ever die?”

  “I am dead you fool, just watch!”

  The old woman began to twirl in the middle of the kitchen. Her skirt rose as she spun and exposed a pair of young slender legs and sparkling silver tennis shorts. Dupree laughed loudly and began moving to his father. He put his arm around his frail old shoulders and they both laughed as the twirling sped up. Faster and faster she spun until she lifted off the floor and up through a hole that appeared in the ceiling.

  “We could have had a lot of fun, son. Why were you so ashamed of me?”

  “Would you like to go on a bike ride with me?” Dupree offered in return.

  “Sure!” his father cheerfully responded. When Dupree looked at him, he was a young man again.

  In an instant they were pedaling down the street, merrily waving and greeting all the neighbors. As they pedaled, Dupree was watching himself on the bike. He was no longer a participant, but an observer. As he watched, he and his father faded into the green arch at the end of the old street.

  If he could have seen himself, Dupree would have seen a man smiling in his sleep, bobbing his head to the music of his dreams.

  The blood-curdling scream of a baby jerked Dupree from his sleep. The Mexican woman, her family still sleeping, paced the aisle. She gave Dupree an apologetic grimace. He smiled in return and tried to go back to sleep. The purple of dawn was filling the sky and he just leaned against the window. He tried to recall some of the best parts of his dreams, but they were like a mist burning away in the dawning of the day. A warmth of spirit came over him as if he was released of guilt and anger, pain, and exhaustion. The gentle movement of the train brought a smile to his face and the screaming baby was just so much noise, blending with the roar of the train in the coming light.

  The station clock out the window said six twenty as the train came to a stop in Ashland. Somewhere in the night, they crossed the border into Oregon. The platform was crowded with suitcases, boxes reinforced with twine, and an army of passengers they belonged to, and their family and friends.

  The hipsters in his car stood and made a great production of stretching, running their hands through odd cuts of hair thick with gel. One of the big bearded leaders of the oh, so cool band of travelers reached down and lifted his waifish girlfriend from her seat and spun her in the aisle nearly, hitting an elderly lady with a walker. He set his curly blond partner aside and offered the old woman a spin but she declined. With a tip of his hat and a deep bow, he waved her on.

  The Mexican family gathered up the children, bundles, diaper bags, and plastic bags of food and made their way out of the car. Within minutes nearly half of the familiar faces were gone.

  A tired mechanical voice came through the overdriven speakers. “Ashland station. We will have a twenty-minute stop. Please take your belongings if you leave the train, we can’t be responsible for any missing or lost items. Ashland station twenty-minute stop.”

  Dupree decided to stretch his legs. He opened the magazine he found on the table, placed the sack lunch Valericia sent with him in the seat and set his coffee cup from the vending machine next to the magazine.

  “That looks occupied,” he said, leaving his seat.

  “I’ll keep an eye on it for you,” the lady across the aisle offered.

  “Thank you. I’ve grown fond of this seat.”

  “I know what you mean.” The woman smiled.

  On the platform, Dupree made his way through the crowd and into the station. With his pack securely across his chest, he made his way to the bathroom. The lobby of the station was nearly empty, except for a couple of people still purchasing tickets.

  As Dupree pushed the restroom door open with his forearm, he heard a loud harsh voice coming from inside. The profanity that filled the air seemed to be aimed at no one and everyone. As the oaths and blasphemies echoed against the tile and porcelain, Dupree identified the direction of the tirade. He moved slowly around the divider separating the sinks and urinals from the stalls.

  Near the end of the row of stalls protruded a leg from under the door. The foot was twisted in a most unnatural position. It wagged back and forth banging against the frame of the stall. Twice it disappeared under door only to shoot back out a different limb, followed by a deep groan and another string of curses.

  Carefully assessing the situation, Dupree surmised the person in the stall was unable to get up.

  “Having trouble?”

  “No, you dumb shit, I’m having a party in here. Yes, I’m having trouble!”

  “Can I give you a hand?” Dupree replied in a calm civil tone.

  “Yes, please.” The voice inside the stall mellowed a bit. “Please, yes, I need help.”

  “Help is on the way,” Dupree answered in a friendly, yet cautious, voice.

  Grabbing the handle of the stall Dupree was presented with his first problem in his Good Samaritan effort. The door was locked.

  The voice inside the stall stated he locked the door before he fell, then called it an astounding variety of names and cursed it to unspeakable tortures of hell.

  “I get you’re upset but can you dial back your language just a bit? I’ll try and figure out how to get the door open.” Dupree, not unfamiliar with his own burning blast of profanity on occasion, found the man inside the stall beyond the bounds of even bad taste.

  “Whatever,” the man groaned.

  Dupree glanced around the restroom for some kind of tool, then walked b
ack to look around the divider.

  “Hey, where you goin’? Don’t leave me in here!” the man yelled.

  “Relax, I’m looking for something to help me get the door open.”

  “Well for God’s sake, don’t go gathering a crowd.”

  Dupree didn’t respond. Just around the corner, leaning next to the urinals, was a mop and heavy industrial bucket. He commandeered the rolling opportunity. The uneven clattering of the rollers on the tile echoed off the walls. He pushed the flat side of the bucket with the ringer against the door. Getting a tight grasp on the top of the door frame, Dupree placed one foot and then the other on the edge of the heavy yellow bucket.

  Dupree took a breath and looked over the top of the door, not sure what he would find. Wedged between the wall and the unflushed toilet was a young man with a military haircut. His legs were sprawled in front of him and a pair of metal canes were lodged behind his back.

  His face and neck showed the scars of severe burns. Next to the toilet on the other side set a tan camouflage bag. He was undoubtedly a wounded warrior.

  “Good morning,” Dupree said, his head appearing over the door.

  The young man didn’t answer, just looked down at his legs. “Damn things don’t work right or something. They both buckled back at the same time. I can’t get up. Three people so far have just ignored me. What kind of asshole leaves a person in a state like this?”

  “We got this. We’ll have you out of here and on your way in a minute.” Dupree reassured him. “I can’t tell, does that latch go up and to the right or left?”

  “My left, your right.”

  “Okay, hang on.” Dupree reached down and grabbed the mop handle, thankfully it was dry and the bucket was empty. He swung the business end of the mop up and over the top of the stall.

  It took three tries but the mop strings finally caught in the knob on the latch and up it came.

  “You did it! Hot damn! Good goin’.”

  Dupree put one foot on the floor and the bucket shot out from under him and slammed against the bathroom wall, the mop flopping to the floor.

  “Alright, how are we going to get you up and out of here?” Dupree asked, surveying the situation.

  “I think if you can get me under the arms to give me some stability, I can help lift until I get these pieces of shit straightened out.”

  “Let’s give it a try.”

  Dupree bent and put his arms under the young man’s and lifted firmly, but gently. He could hear and feel the metal legs click and turn into place.

  “Hey, I think we got it. Can you grab the canes?”

  As the young man balanced with one hand on the wall of the stall, Dupree retrieved the four-footed canes.

  “Other than your wounded pride, are you hurt anywhere? Your back okay?”

  “My ass is asleep, but otherwise I’m okay, I guess.”

  Dupree stepped back and out of the way. With surprising agility, the young man made his way out of the stall.

  “I am very grateful, sir. Thank you for getting me out of there.”

  “How long have you been stuck in there?” Dupree asked.

  “Since about three-thirty, I reckon.”

  “My name’s Dupree. Sorry it took so long to get you out of there.”

  “First Gunnery Sergeant Devon McAllister, in your debt sir.” McAllister offered his hand to Dupree.

  “No, I’m in your debt. Thank you for your sacrifice and service to our nation.” Dupree patted the Marine on the shoulder, then shook his hand firmly. “Got time for a cup of coffee?”

  “I’d like that.”

  Dupree let McAllister take the lead. Halfway to the door, Dupree stopped.

  “Hold on, I came in here for another reason than getting you unstuck!” Dupree laughed and walked to the urinal.

  “I’ve had enough of this place. I’ll wait outside.”

  When Dupree left the restroom, McAllister was sitting on a bench making adjustments to his prosthetics.

  “Black, cream, sugar?” Dupree asked.

  “Black, thanks.”

  The coffee was horrible. The thin paper cups were only three-quarters full, but the Marine was happy to get it.

  “So, where are you headed?” Dupree asked once seated.

  “Longbridge, Texas.”

  “I should have known you were a Texan.”

  “The mouth?” McAllister chuckled. “Nope, that’s pure United States Marine Corp. I gotta clean that up. My pop’s a Baptist preacher and it won’t sit well at all with him, or my mom. God knows I know better. And you?”

  “I’m going to take a look at a little town called White Owl, Washington. I’d like to see if I can find a place to catch my breath and maybe start over.” Dupree felt at ease with Devon McAllister and wasn’t hesitant to share what he was thinking.

  “Northbound 318, will be leaving in five minutes,” the loudspeaker announced.

  “You need help getting rescheduled? I got a couple of minutes.”

  “No, I’m good, thanks. If your trip to White Owl doesn’t pan out, come on down to Texas for a while. You get to Longbridge, ask anybody for Pastor Jack’s house, and you got a home.”

  “That is an offer that has the sound of real promise.”

  “And the best biscuits and gravy in the Lone Star State!”

  “I suppose if you’ve got it from here, I should get back to my train.” Dupree extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Devon, maybe next time it won’t be so stressful.”

  “Yes sir, next time it will be BBQ and potato salad and ice tea.”

  “You’ll have me switching tickets in a minute!” Dupree stood and gave Devon a nod and walked to the exit.

  Dupree hated war. He hated waste. He despised the waste of young men and women’s lives. He hated the waste of twisted scarred bodies that would ache, and long to be whole, for the rest of their lives.

  The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan continued year after year. America tired of the news, the pictures, and reports. Other tragedies, scandals, and catastrophes grabbed the headlines. Politicians posed and postured and did nothing. The nation grew numb to the pain and suffering of the women and children trapped in a hellish cycle of bombings, and village to village taking and retaking of land. Refugee camps and the mass exodus to Europe, the hatred and hostility of the people of the overrun countries and their cultures, by people who neither wanted to assimilate or embrace their new country of residence, ushered in a whole new set of problems, wasted resources, and lives.

  What angered Dupree, apart from the loss of American lives, injuries, and shattered lives of the Veterans, was the waste of money. Trillions and trillions of dollars wasted on people who hated each other for millennia, who shared a common religion but hated the sects of their countrymen. Americans fight and die for people who, left to their own devices, would still be fighting and killing each other in another thousand years.

  There was no gratitude, benefit, or significant change in lands of rock and sand. Yet every night on the evening news, people are asked to give money to feed Native Americans in Arizona and South Dakota. Funds are sought hourly for families, and veterans, ripped apart by these pointless political wars. With all his knowledge of the law and the structure of government, there was nothing Dupree could do to affect change anywhere. And that, to him, was the greatest waste of all, and he hated it.

  Voting was pointless, so he stopped twenty years ago. The political parties were both the same when it came right down to it. Liberal, Conservative were simply two names for the same dog. The only real difference in the legislation they passed, in the end, was where the money was spent. The pot was divided quietly, in bills that had more provisions and amendments than anyone could possibly define, trace, or fully understand. Elected officials either stayed in Washington and got rich, or left and got richer. So Dupree tried not to focus on the news and the decline in western civilization. It would continue to decay until it all collapsed under its own greedy, bloated, immoral weight, and h
e would be dead and buried by then.

  At the door, Dupree turned and gave a last look at the warrior who suffered the humiliation of being trapped for three hours on the filthy floor of a train station restroom in the country he gave his legs for. Dupree shed an angry tear, turned, and ran to the train.

  For a moment he thought he boarded the wrong car. He scoured the car for a familiar face. The turnover at the Ashland station was considerable. He moved up the aisle and got curious looks from strangers. It was then he remembered his broken nose and black eyes.

  Not once in their time together did Devon McAllister react or question his injuries. Not once did he catch him staring at the bandages or deep purple circles around his eyes. Could it be he was so used to broken bodies and bruises he didn’t notice? Dupree smiled. He suddenly didn’t feel self-conscious about his wounds. He would wear them in Devon’s honor. Then he spotted the woman who promised to keep his seat.

  At his seat, his belongings sat undisturbed, but across from them sat a woman reading a book.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Hello,” Dupree said in greeting.

  The woman neither looked up nor responded. Dupree took his seat. He took his pack off his shoulder and placed it between him and the wall. He closed the magazine and put the empty coffee cup in the plastic bag on the hook under the window.

  The woman looked over the top of her paperback and sneered. Dupree smiled. She huffed and went back to her book.

  “Thank you for saving my seat,” Dupree said to the woman across the aisle.

  “Oh, no problem.” She smiled and paused. “Does that hurt as bad as it looks?”

  “Only when somebody mentions it.” Dupree chuckled.

  “Oops, sorry.”

  “How far are you going?”

  “Oh, just to Salem. Visiting my kids for a few days.”

  “Nice.” Dupree nodded.

  “You?”

  “I’m headed for a little town in Washington, up in the mountains. How about you?” Dupree asked, turning to the woman seated across the table.