After saying goodbye to Nicky—who pressed his music-plugs into his ears and slouched away—Stan locked his room. He hurried to the faculty parking lot. There was snow on the sidewalks, dark clouds above and gloom all around. Stan wore a faded Alaskan National Guard hat, a heavy coat, and boots. A little under six-foot tall, Stan fought a constant battle against a protruding gut, although he wasn’t fat like most of his friends. He’d been 165 as a high-school senior and a hard-tackling safety on the football squad. Now at forty-three he kept under 200 pounds. He lifted weights three times a week and played basketball against Bill Harris, the pastor of the Rock Church.
Stan had a feeling that he wasn’t going to get to lift today.
It was cold in the old Land Rover, and after turning on the ignition, he waited for the vehicle to warm up. Soon thereafter, he pulled out onto Pacifica Avenue and headed toward Jose’s shop. There was an occasional knock in the engine. It definitely needed work again. It had over one hundred thousand miles and could maybe last another twenty thousand before an overhaul.
Most people these days drove crappy little box-cars and ancient pickups from the 2000s like his Land Rover. They repaired them repeatedly. America only had a handful of car factories compared to the old days of glory.
While tapping the steering wheel with his thumbs, Stan thought about buying a rebuilt engine. It might be a good experience for him to install it. He always felt he needed more mechanical know-how. It would certainly make him a better tank commander afterward.
As he passed Oscar’s Donuts, Stan shook his head. When would that ever matter? Why did they even have tanks in Alaska, especially outdated relics like the Abrams M1A2? In the old days before the Sovereign Debt Depression, America used to deploy National Guard units in their ongoing foreign wars. But that had been over twenty years ago. Except for the Grain Union, America was hard-core isolationist these days.
Pulling to a stop before a red light on Ninth Street, Stan rubbed his eyes. He needed to take out his contacts. Leaning over, Stan opened the glove compartment to check if his glasses were inside. His mouth dropped open as he saw his .44 Magnum sitting there in its holster. His heart tightened in his chest. There were severe laws against having a gun on school grounds, which included the parking lot. How could he have forgotten to take it out? Did he want to lose his job and go to jail?
Behind him, a car honked.
Stan jerked up, looked back and saw a woman giving him the finger behind her windshield. Blushing, Stan glanced at the green light. He gave the rover gas and it lurched like a jumping salmon. The big magnum fell out of the glove compartment and thumped heavily onto the floor.
Now his eyes really hurt. Stan pulled to the curb, stopping beside a Burger Palace. A girl was leaning out of the drive-up window, handing a bag and a soft drink to a young guy in a pickup. Blinking too much, Stan extracted his contacts and put them into his solution bottle. Then he dug out a pair of glasses from the glove compartment and put them on. One of these days, he was going to get laser eye-surgery, but it wasn’t today. He picked up the .44 and shoved it back into the glove compartment, shutting it hard.
As he pulled back onto the street, his cell phone vibrated. He dug it out of his pants pocket, and said, “Hello?”
“Honey, are you almost done?”
It was his wife, Susan. Glancing at the rover’s clock, showed Stan it was 4:21. Oh, right, it was Wednesday. It was a growth group meeting at the Boone’s tonight. He and his family went to church at the Rock, and the growth group meetings discussed Bill’s latest sermon. Normally, Stan appreciated the Wednesday evening meetings. Not only did they study the Bible there, but they also got to know the other people at the church better. It was one thing looking at the back of a person’s head during the service and maybe shaking the person’s hand afterward, and quite another sitting in a home drinking coffee and arguing about what the pastor’s sermon had really meant. Stan liked the discussions and he liked the deeper connections with others. People were far too divided these days—lonely islands with too little glue holding them together as a society. Stan had vowed more than once after watching too many football games and sitcoms in a day to quit vegging on the couch.
“Stan?” his wife asked over the cell phone.
“Ah…” he said, wondering if he should mention his dad. His wife had cooked the meal tonight. The meeting started at six-thirty and it was all the way across town. Stan lived on the outskirts of Anchorage, and the Boone’s house was on the other side. The crisscrossing back and forth would add maybe an hour, if he were lucky. How long would his dad take?
“Is something wrong, honey?” his wife asked.
“Dad’s been drinking again,” Stan blurted. “He’s been acting up.”
Susan got quiet, which was a bad sign. “You missed last week’s growth group meeting,” she finally said.
“I want to come,” he said. “You know that.”
“What’s your dad done this time?” she asked tiredly.
“I’ll be quick, honey. I just need to talk to him, get him settled down.”
“You know I hate going to the Boone’s alone.”
“I know,” said Stan, with the ache in his eyes a light throb.
“It’s an interesting topic tonight,” she said. “You told me so yourself after the sermon.”
“Honey, I want to go. But I need to help my dad first. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said, but in a quiet tone that indicated it was anything but.
Susan was the greatest. Stan loved his wife, and she had been longsuffering with his dad. The old man used to stay at their house. That’s where the real trouble had started. They had two girls, ten and seven, and his father’s explosive cursing and occasional nudity had been too much. It had caused the biggest fight of their marriage and a week with Stan sleeping on the couch. Susan’s tears had finally convinced Stan he had to tell his dad to move out. It had been in the middle of winter, and his dad had been allowed at the Homeless Center for three weeks until they kicked him out. Jail time had seen him through the coldest part of the year. Unfortunately, his dad had never done well with the police. Stan had never gotten the story straight from his dad, but he knew his father had smeared his own crap on Sergeant Jackson. There had been a beating afterward, and Stan had sunk fifteen thousand on lawyer’s fees against the Police Department for brutality.
No one had been happy with him for that—not the police, his wife, or his dad, who said he could fight his own battles. The police had finally made a bargain with his lawyer. Stan had dropped the police brutality charge, and his father had been released from jail. For two months, his father either had remained sober or had only taken a few drinks a day.
Those “good days” were over. His dad had started drinking heavily again, and now his weird side was shining through even stronger than before. In their way of thinking, the police had given his dad several breaks. Those breaks might soon be ending, especially if Sergeant Jackson had anything to say about it.
“I’ll make it home in time to go to the Boone’s,” Stan said.
“You promise?” Susan asked.
“I promise to try my hardest.”
“Okay,” she said, even quieter than before. “Bye honey.”