| General Fiction posted November 22, 2021 | Chapters: |
1 -2- 3... 
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Lee comes to the end of a muddy road.
A chapter in the book Concertina
Lights Out
by Yardier
| Background Vietnam Veteran, Lee Morason, suffers from PTSD. In denial, he is heading to the cross roads of psychological and spiritual accountability. Attempting to mute his nightmares he is drowning in alcohol |
Lee was born and raised in the small town of Boron in the Mojave Desert on the eastern side of the Tehachapi mountains. Considered the south end of the Sierra Nevada Mountain range, the Tehachapi mountains were a formidable obstacle overlooking California's richest valley. Yet, as a young man, Lee didn't plan to live in the valley; he just wanted out of the desert. The war in Vietnam and a bouquet of wildflowers and poppies did that for him.
Initially, he embraced the separation from the desert to Vietnam's jungles until he realized deserts come in many shapes and forms. When he returned from Vietnam and got off the bus in Bakersfield, he was greeted by his parents and all six members of the Greenfield Gardening Club. The President and bearer of the bouquet, Dawn Brundage, beside herself with patriotism, embraced Lee the moment she saw him. With the flowers crushed between them, Lee accepted her kiss without protest.
Lee's parents drove back to Boron alone.
Aside from the early pioneers that crossed over the mountain ranges that bordered California's South Joaquin Valley and developed Bakersfield, no one chooses to relocate there. There are no spas, natural hot springs, or other great inspiring environmental wonders to entice residents from Los Angeles or Sacramento to make a move and call it home. But, go into any restaurant, agricultural, or petroleum business and ask employees how they came to be valley residents. You will be sure to hear about a flat tire, overheated radiator, or blown head gasket that occurred to a member of their family tree as they passed through Bakersfield on State Highway 99 some years past. Bingo; instant waitress, gas jockey, farmhand, or oilfield roughneck.
But it is not just the surrounding mountains and disabled vehicles that keep people in the valley. Sometimes, it's a lack of endurance where the weight of a person's unrealized dream becomes a useless burden. This surrender of the soul reaps some benefits in a balanced agricultural and petroleum-based economy where average paying jobs are available for those who can put up with Valley Fever, ice-cold Tule fog, and an oppressive summer inversion layer. This thick brown haze of oilfield and agricultural pollutants that drives the summer temperature into triple digits is great for cotton, corn, melons, and onions but not so great for the lungs.
Like most valley residents Lee endured the climate and except for the lack of visibility during winter months due to Tule fog, he didn't mind driving from the east end of the valley to the west. The aftermarket air conditioner his father installed on the truck crapped out years ago, so during the summer months, he drove with the windows down and savored the rich smells of alfalfa, corn, and onions as he smoked a cigarette and drank a breakfast beer or two on the way to work.
But now, as he drove toward the west side of the valley, he mused about his 'Nam nightmare wondering how such dark events could spring from the depths of his soul, bringing vivid memories and images of past terror to his mind. It reminded him why he changed his driving patterns to work this last winter. Previously he enjoyed driving and exploring the pre-dawn roads through acres of orchards, fields, and crops, finding an odd comfort as if he was back in ‘Nam patrolling the Mekong Delta's tributaries.
But, in a strange change of emotion, as the relationship between Lee and his wife cooled and his ‘Nam dreams became more frequent, he began to feel uneasy driving on the dark farm roads. It became more and more difficult for him to find respite. Sometimes for no reason at all, he worried the truck headlights would fail leaving him unable to see where he was going. He feared he might drive into an irrigation canal and drown. During those moments, he experienced a sense of guilt building with an unknown fear. Every day it seemed a growing apprehension something terrible was about to occur with impatient insistence doom was right around the corner. Lee couldn't escape the nervous sensation that a clock was ticking everywhere he went, but instead of winding down, it wound tighter. Pitifully, he attempted to counter that apprehension by drinking and smoking more and working himself to the bone.
He was beyond being unsettled; he was lost.
Last winter, during one dark foggy morning as Lee drove to work on a muddy farm road, the truck's headlights suddenly flickered off. Unable to see the road, Lee over-corrected his steering, causing the truck to slide toward a shallow irrigation ditch. Realizing his fear had come to fruition, Lee panicked and jumped on the brakes! The engine stalled, and the truck slipped sideways out of control to the edge of the irrigation ditch and stopped.
Rattled, Lee sat in darkness for a moment, trying to calm himself when he realized he had bitten hard enough on his cigarette to put it out. He rolled the window down and spat the dead cigarette into the morning fog, gulped a quick drink of beer, and tried to start the truck. The engine turned over but would not start. Lee knew the carburetor was flooded and he would have to wait a few minutes and try again. Finally, as the truck's cab became cold, Lee looked out the window and saw the truck sitting at a precarious 45-degree angle to the ditch.
It had been a close call.
Chilled and nervous, he stepped from the truck, zipped his jacket up, and started to light another cigarette when something moved behind him. He dropped the lit match in the mud, a rabbit?
Maybe a coyote, he thought. But wasn't it a little too close for those critters? They don't like being around people.
He lit another match and turned carefully around and saw it was his own shadow that had startled him as it swept across a stone obelisk about two feet wide and three feet high. Lee lit another match and stepped across the irrigation ditch and saw a bronze plaque on the obelisk that read:
Initially, he embraced the separation from the desert to Vietnam's jungles until he realized deserts come in many shapes and forms. When he returned from Vietnam and got off the bus in Bakersfield, he was greeted by his parents and all six members of the Greenfield Gardening Club. The President and bearer of the bouquet, Dawn Brundage, beside herself with patriotism, embraced Lee the moment she saw him. With the flowers crushed between them, Lee accepted her kiss without protest.
Lee's parents drove back to Boron alone.
Aside from the early pioneers that crossed over the mountain ranges that bordered California's South Joaquin Valley and developed Bakersfield, no one chooses to relocate there. There are no spas, natural hot springs, or other great inspiring environmental wonders to entice residents from Los Angeles or Sacramento to make a move and call it home. But, go into any restaurant, agricultural, or petroleum business and ask employees how they came to be valley residents. You will be sure to hear about a flat tire, overheated radiator, or blown head gasket that occurred to a member of their family tree as they passed through Bakersfield on State Highway 99 some years past. Bingo; instant waitress, gas jockey, farmhand, or oilfield roughneck.
But it is not just the surrounding mountains and disabled vehicles that keep people in the valley. Sometimes, it's a lack of endurance where the weight of a person's unrealized dream becomes a useless burden. This surrender of the soul reaps some benefits in a balanced agricultural and petroleum-based economy where average paying jobs are available for those who can put up with Valley Fever, ice-cold Tule fog, and an oppressive summer inversion layer. This thick brown haze of oilfield and agricultural pollutants that drives the summer temperature into triple digits is great for cotton, corn, melons, and onions but not so great for the lungs.
Like most valley residents Lee endured the climate and except for the lack of visibility during winter months due to Tule fog, he didn't mind driving from the east end of the valley to the west. The aftermarket air conditioner his father installed on the truck crapped out years ago, so during the summer months, he drove with the windows down and savored the rich smells of alfalfa, corn, and onions as he smoked a cigarette and drank a breakfast beer or two on the way to work.
But now, as he drove toward the west side of the valley, he mused about his 'Nam nightmare wondering how such dark events could spring from the depths of his soul, bringing vivid memories and images of past terror to his mind. It reminded him why he changed his driving patterns to work this last winter. Previously he enjoyed driving and exploring the pre-dawn roads through acres of orchards, fields, and crops, finding an odd comfort as if he was back in ‘Nam patrolling the Mekong Delta's tributaries.
But, in a strange change of emotion, as the relationship between Lee and his wife cooled and his ‘Nam dreams became more frequent, he began to feel uneasy driving on the dark farm roads. It became more and more difficult for him to find respite. Sometimes for no reason at all, he worried the truck headlights would fail leaving him unable to see where he was going. He feared he might drive into an irrigation canal and drown. During those moments, he experienced a sense of guilt building with an unknown fear. Every day it seemed a growing apprehension something terrible was about to occur with impatient insistence doom was right around the corner. Lee couldn't escape the nervous sensation that a clock was ticking everywhere he went, but instead of winding down, it wound tighter. Pitifully, he attempted to counter that apprehension by drinking and smoking more and working himself to the bone.
He was beyond being unsettled; he was lost.
Last winter, during one dark foggy morning as Lee drove to work on a muddy farm road, the truck's headlights suddenly flickered off. Unable to see the road, Lee over-corrected his steering, causing the truck to slide toward a shallow irrigation ditch. Realizing his fear had come to fruition, Lee panicked and jumped on the brakes! The engine stalled, and the truck slipped sideways out of control to the edge of the irrigation ditch and stopped.
Rattled, Lee sat in darkness for a moment, trying to calm himself when he realized he had bitten hard enough on his cigarette to put it out. He rolled the window down and spat the dead cigarette into the morning fog, gulped a quick drink of beer, and tried to start the truck. The engine turned over but would not start. Lee knew the carburetor was flooded and he would have to wait a few minutes and try again. Finally, as the truck's cab became cold, Lee looked out the window and saw the truck sitting at a precarious 45-degree angle to the ditch.
It had been a close call.
Chilled and nervous, he stepped from the truck, zipped his jacket up, and started to light another cigarette when something moved behind him. He dropped the lit match in the mud, a rabbit?
Maybe a coyote, he thought. But wasn't it a little too close for those critters? They don't like being around people.
He lit another match and turned carefully around and saw it was his own shadow that had startled him as it swept across a stone obelisk about two feet wide and three feet high. Lee lit another match and stepped across the irrigation ditch and saw a bronze plaque on the obelisk that read:
IN MEMORY OF L.A.P.D. OFFICER IAN J. CAMPBELL
KILLED IN THE LINE OF DUTY 1963
MAY HE REST IN PEACE
South Valley Farmers Association
KILLED IN THE LINE OF DUTY 1963
MAY HE REST IN PEACE
South Valley Farmers Association
Lee shivered as he stood in the cold rolling Tule fog next to a plowed-down onion field miles from nowhere. As the match burnt out cold, he glanced across the valley toward Bakersfield's muted glow, then back to the obelisk, now a dark granite testament. It was quiet as Lee looked beyond the obelisk through the wafting fog toward a twinkling light about four miles away. He wondered if it was the same light Officer Hettinger ran to after Jimmy Powell shot his partner Campbell in the face, killing him. The light seemed similar to a mariner's warning beacon, but instead of warning about dangerous shoals, it appeared to be an invitation for respite, a calm cove, a haven.
Without warning, the terror that had been licking at Lee's psyche for months raised its head and prodded him into panic! He wanted to tear his jacket off and run as Officer Hettinger did across the deep plowed furrows toward the porchlight in wild desperation. He wanted to leave his wife and her dollhouse and, most of all, Vietnam far behind. He didn't want to hear or remember anything about Vietnam ever again and thought if he ran fast enough, he might be able to erase everything in his life before this moment.
But, more than that, he wanted to reach the brightly lit porch and pound on the screen door and yell for help, except, in his panicked mind, he couldn't utter the word help. And, just as quickly as his internal distorted cry, "Please elp me… elp me… please!" confused and mocked him; an overwhelming and familiar cloud of gloom settled his sense of terror into a comfortable mire of denial.
Defeated, cold and mute, Lee turned away from the distant light and walked slowly to the truck with an unlit cigarette between his lips, stepped inside, shut the door, and rolled the window up. He sat for a moment staring at the fog-shrouded road before him, lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, gulped the rest of his beer, and threw the empty can onto the other empty cans on the floor. Then, as the alcohol and nicotine wrapped around his tongue, Lee turned the headlights on, started the engine, and put the truck into gear. Sensing a dark presence lurking behind the cab of the truck, he avoided looking into the rear-view mirror as he drove slowly out of the mud toward Derby Acres.
He would not drive the back roads again.
The title Concertina refers to razor wire used to secure a combat perimeter. It is also used on prison walls. It is designed with barbs and razor type hooks intended to snag a person from entering or attempting to escape a secure area.
Concertina, in the context of this novella refers to psychological and spiritual entanglement. Specifically, it refers to a Vietnam combat veteran who is ensnared by the deepest and darkest fetters of torment and denial. Those fetters consist of alcohol abuse, guilt, and resentment.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Concertina, in the context of this novella refers to psychological and spiritual entanglement. Specifically, it refers to a Vietnam combat veteran who is ensnared by the deepest and darkest fetters of torment and denial. Those fetters consist of alcohol abuse, guilt, and resentment.
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