Auspicious

"Name please."

"D****t, Frank, you know my name!"

"Well, ever since the Oakland incident, they want me takin' names for ever gun i sell."

"Ebert Collins.  That's e-b-e-r-t-c-o-l-l-i-n-s."  He spoke each letter slowly and articulately, "Still, you know my name.  It's not as if some alien incapable of lying has taken over my body whose plan has been exposed by its inability to claim my name as its own-"

"Alright, shut up, Bert." said Frank, passing the rifle over the desk.  "I just wanted to piss you off.  You don't need to return the favor."

"Have a good one, Frank."  A bell chimed as the door closed behind Ebert and he stepped out onto the street.  He resolved to stop into a bar that was a block down; not to drink, as he had plans to go shooting, but to see who was playing.

On the stage, through the darkness and smoke, was a single man and his worn acoustic guitar.  The notes buzzed as his fingers were too weak to hold the strings down.  His voice was equally raw but deep and soulfully elodic.  His tune, played in an unusual offbeat meter of 5/8, overcame the drunken voices mumbling loudly.  It was catchy.  Ebert heard the guitar more than the voice, as all he recollected of the lyrics was the line, "ain't a thing these men can do that surprises me."  It bothered him on the drive home trying to figure out what line followed that one.  Lots of words rhyme with "me", so he never came to a conclusion.

 

Nothing more noteworthy than habit brought Ebert to be lying prostrate amidst the swaying plain.  His rifle sat in front of him and his eye was locked to the scope.  Scanning the plain he found that 5/8 rhythm returning to his head and it occurred to him that it was not consistently so in the song.  Tapping the ground with his boot and clicking his teeth, he struggled to figure it out.  It was in the heat of this, in his deepest focus, that a praerie dog emerged from the ground and frantically looked around.  Ebert realized this only to see it return to the hole.

"Aw..."

A breeze brought with it the smell of exhaust and Ebert knew he had a visitor.

 

He returned to see a man standing at his door.  "Afternoon, Bert."  Ebert nodded.

 

Inside the house, Ebert put on some coffee.  "Whatcha here for, Dave?"

"Well, Brandy wanted me to tell you how much she likes the figure you carved for her."

"Alright then."  Dave searched the kitchen for conversation but the entire room was non-descriptly practical.

"And i figured I'd just say hello and see how y'are."

"I'm doing fine."  Dave eyed the rifle.

"You been out shooting praerie dogs?"

"Nah, I's shootin' coyotes."

"Bert, the time you spend with that rifle out there, I wouldn't say a heart beats no more... 'less it wasn't for those praerie dogs."

"OK."

"Well the town dun like that kinda thing."

"Man, you know the rate this town devours t-bone-Hindu-diety? Bet the Hindus dun like that kinda thing too much."

"Hell... I know.  Just the way it is.  But they're sayin', 'ever see that Ebert Collins comin' to town rifle in hand, he's after the most dangerous game.'"

"Ah, right, small animals is a steppin' stone to psychopathy."

"War veteran..."

"I didn't even see combat, Dave!"

"I know, but-"

"Can I just tell you how it is?"

"Alright, go."  Dave conceded.  He leaned back casually, but his expression was tense.

"You know, I'd say the only reason we connect with animals is 'cause we tie a human face and emotions to em.  See that teary twinkle in the abandoned dog's eye?  Well that's the deep internal anguish of an orphan whose parent's abandoned her on the street and she's deprived of love.  Whoever said animals can love, anyway!"  Ebert paused and rubbed his forehead.  "Well I don't like people.  The war didn't even do that.  So what do i plaster onto those animal's faces?  Praerie dogs aren't cute innocent newborn babies, they're just damn praerie dogs!"

"Can't say you reassured me, Bert," said Dave, straightening his back.  Ebert's eyes wandered to the door and eventually fell on the floor in front of him.  Dave raised himself up.  "If you find the time or mental stability, Brandy and I would love to have you visit."  He said this with both bitterness and pity.  Dave walked out and drove away leaving Ebert to complacently review the echoes of his words.

 

It was the following day when Ebert was walking down the street of his town, his relaxed pace allowed by a cool wind.  He passed an alley on his left from which came the muffled grunting of three men.  Ebert turned to see two boys about 19 years old pinning a third as they beat him ruthlessly.  The sight brought a sick feeling to Ebert's stomach and he ran forward to intervene.  The two aggressors backed off and looked at him with smug faces.  They stood with that rebellkions "whatcha gonna do about it" look on their faces and a sneer to top off their appeal.  The boy with a cigarette gave one final, but not at all weak kick to the broken boy against the wall and strutted off.  Ebert looked at the boy.

"The hell where they?"

"My brother and his friend."  The boy delicately wiped a drop of blood from his left eye, an action which could have worked as a guise to wipe also a tear.  "He... needed money.  He's a pusher."

"S---."  Ebert paused.  "Want... a ride to the hospital?  Or i could just fix you up myself."

"Nah, the f---er sterilized me when i was a kid and I'd reckon he took my sister, too.  Not much more he can take now."

"S---"

 

It was the same day, July 25th, that Ebert Collins came to town with rifle in hand.  He took a vantage point in the building adjacent to a scrap yard.  Five minutes from the bullet clicking into the chamber, a 19 year old drug dealer christened a boys first fix with his brain matter.  It was only a distinctive birth mark on his chest and a burn mark on his lower back that identified the pusher.

 

Many days later, in conversation with his wife, Dave said, "You know what i hear?  Before the shooting, Ebert walked into the middle of the victim and his friend beating down the victim's brother for money.  They get from the kid who was beat up that he gave Ebert his sob story and Ebert looked visibly moved... in anger, i take it."

"Well ain't that somethin'" remarked Brandy.

"Well, that wasn't enough to convict him of the crime, but I'd say it proved he likes people... even if only a bit."  His wife nodded.  "He just hates those damn praerie dogs."