Author: frankisemptiness

April 24th, 2016

Karin, Hans, and I drove out to the Catholic cemetery in Calvert. Tom is buried there, alongside his wife, Delphia. Delphia died in 2012. We drove along the cratered road to the cemetery, and stopped at Tom’s fresh grave. The large mound of reddish clay had some wilted flowers on top of it. Karin saw a food wrapper laying near the grave, and asked Hans, “Do you think this belongs here?”

 

Hans said, “Unless Tom got up to get himself a Big Mac, I don’t think so.”

 

Karin said that sometimes people leave odd offerings at graves, but then she picked up the wrapper and threw it away.

 

We said a prayer for Tom and Delphia. I don’t know how Hans felt. He had been there for the funeral a few days earlier. Hans had arranged a military color guard for Tom. Tom’s family had appreciated it, since Tom was a vet.

 

After a while, we left and drove to another Catholic cemetery, this one in Bryan. We had a hard time getting to it, because the road was all torn up. We parked next to my brother’s grave. Marc Blaze died in 1998 in a car crash. He was married to Shawn for seven years. Shawn’s second husband, Bob, is lying next to Blaze. Bob died of cancer in 2012.

 

A lot of people that Hans knew are gone now. Hans was close with Tom, Delphia, and Bob. Hans knew Blaze years ago, but I’m not sure how much they connected. Mark, Shawn’s brother, killed himself last year, and Hans was tight with him. Hans lost a couple of his veteran friends last year too. Overall, Hans has seen a lot of death, both in war and here at home. It depresses him, and he grieves silently. Hans often seems much older than his twenty-nine years.

 

April 24th, 2016

I’m not sure how we got on to the subject, but Hans started telling me a story about when he was in Iraq. It was typically strange.

 

Hans said, “We were at a checkpoint, and we captured a high value target. We called the information to the higher ups. A little while later, a Humvee comes roaring into the checkpoint. It had all sorts of Iraqi flags all over it. But the guys who got out of the Humvee weren’t Iraqis.”

 

“Who were they?”

 

“Well, they had Iraqi uniforms and full beards, but they looked really white. Also, they carried weapons that the Iraqis usually didn’t have. The Iraqis were slobs. These guys looked neat.”

 

“They looked like pros?”

 

“Yeah, you could tell just by how they talked and how they carried themselves. Maybe special forces.”

 

“So, what happened?”

 

“The two guys talked with our lieutenant, and then they grabbed the target, put a black hood over his head, threw him in the trunk of the Humvee, and drove off. We never saw the guy again.”

 

Hans shrugged. “It wasn’t my problem.”

 

April 24th, 2016

Hans was telling about how, when he was living in the old Texas farmhouse with Tom, they had problems with theft. There was a local druggie who would rip stuff off to support his habit.

Hans said, “There was this crackhead who kept taking things. This idiot came up to the front door one day, trying to sell me back the lawnmower that he just stole from us. I recognized the mower because I had just bought brand new.”

“So what did you do?” I asked.

“I showed him my gun, and I told him, ‘You get off this property. Leave the lawnmower.’.”

“Did that take care of the problem?”

“Not really. He came back one night. We heard him in the yard. Tom and I fired a few shots.”

“Did you get him?”

“No. We never heard a scream or found a body. We talked to the police about it. The cop said we would be within our rights to shoot him. Then the cop said, ‘We won’t shed a tear.’.”

April 24th, 2016

 

Hans took me to see Bill, his friend who owns a Harley repair shop in Bryan. Hans hangs out with Bill when he’s bored, which is often recently. Bill has a long, grey beard (not as long as mine), and numerous earrings. He’s in his late forties. Hans introduced him to me, and we talked.

 

Bill asked me right away, “So, what music do you like?”

 

I told him, “Well, I like a lot of different stuff. Blues and punk rock.”

 

He grinned, “You like punk?”

 

“Yeah. I know a band called ‘The Dead Morticians’. They’ve played at my house.”

 

“No shit? I play bass with ‘Street Pizza’. Wanna see a video?”

 

I said, “Sure.” Hans smiled.

 

Bill found a You Tube video of Street Pizza playing in some dive, the crowd good and rowdy. Bill could be seen playing bass in the background, while the singer gave the audience the standard, deep-in-the-throat, satanic vocals. It was sweet. Then Bill told us a story of how he took care of the Ramones when they played in Bryan. Apparently, it was a blast. At the end of the story, he sighed and said, “I can die now.”

 

Hans and Bill talked about bikes. Hans is going to get another Harley somehow. He needs one. For real. Riding helps Hans with his PTSD. He needs to get a new ride. Bill is looking for an inexpensive bike for Hans. He knows about Hans’ currently precarious financial situation. It will happen.

 

Bill had to get back to work. A guy from Homeland Security wanted to order a custom-made drink holder for his bike. Bill took care of him. Hans and I left.

 

 

April 24th, 2016

 

Out of the blue, Hans said, “Dad, you taught me the value of hard work.”

 

I had no ready response, so I let Hans keep talking.

 

“Yeah, I learned that you have to work to get what you want in life. That’s why I don’t like it when these politicians (e.g. Bernie) promise free stuff to people who haven’t earned it.”

 

Someone suggested to Hans that free college wasn’t really a bad idea. Hans responded by saying, “There has always been a way for young people to get the government to pay for college. It’s called: ‘Join the Army’. That’s what I did.”

 

That’s what I did too. Hans knows that there is no such thing as a free ride. He’s been learning that the hard way during the last eight or nine years of his life. He finds it inexplicable that other people don’t see that.

 

It’s not that Hans isn’t generous. He is. A while ago, when he was making the big money in the oil fields during the boom times, one of his combat vet buddies ran into trouble. The guy’s car broke down and he couldn’t afford to fix or replace it. Hans loaned his comrade $5000 to get a car. I think that it was really more a gift than a loan, but I suspect that Hans called it a loan so as to not hurt the pride of his friend. Hans is willing to help somebody in need, assuming he perceives that the person is trying to help himself.

 

Hans is fiercely loyal. He won’t turn his back on other people. He expects the same behavior from those around him. He is sometimes disappointed, but Hans has friends who really are friends. They can depend on each other.

 

Hans and his companions are an independent lot. They don’t want much from the government other than the government leave them alone. They are patriotic in a traditional way, and if there is any part of the government that they respect, it’s the military. Also, don’t mess with their guns. Don’t even think about it.

 

It could be argued that Hans doesn’t get the whole picture. He doesn’t. Nobody does. I find it interesting that Hans gets his news from the BBC. He watches the BBC because they are relatively unbiased with regards to American politics. He just gets annoyed when they keep reporting on boring stuff in the UK.

 

Hans got wound up about government give-aways and started ranting, “I don’t see why the politicians want to give stuff to people who just want to sit on their front porch and drink beer at nine in the morning.”

 

I asked him, “So, you never drank beer on somebody’s front porch at nine in the morning?”

 

Hans laughed, “Well, yeah, I did. But that was out in the country…where nobody could see me.”

 

“Ahhhh…”

 

Hans sighed, “I don’t care who wins this election, as long as it’s not Bernie or Hillary.”

 

Well, that narrows it down.

 

 

April 24th, 2016

 

Hans took me out to the country to meet his old boss, Jim. Jim had been Hans’ engineer in the oil fields. Jim had been working in oil fields ever since he graduated from Texas A&M, almost forty years ago. Oil was all he knew. Then Pioneer fired him when they fired Hans. Since then, Jim has been looking for a new job, but there isn’t any more work with oil.

 

We drove up to Jim’s house. Jim came to greet us. He’s a small, stocky man with blond hair turning white. He has a sunburned face and bright blue eyes. He shook my hand. I told him that I was Hans’ father.

 

Jim said, “Well, I knew that. Hans told me y’all were coming over.”

 

We stood next to Jim’s pick up truck, leaning on its side. Hans lit up a Pall Mall. Jim’s little puppy came near us, closely followed by Brenda, Jim’s girlfriend, and Brenda’s granddaughter, Turquoise.

 

I asked Jim how the job hunt was going.

 

Jim looked a bit lost. He finally said, “Well, I hooked up with this satellite dish company, to do work for them. They wouldn’t even pay for the training. Me and the guy I worked with, why, we didn’t do no more than two installations a day. That ain’t enough time to learn how to do the work. After a week, I called the boss, and I told him this contract work just wasn’t for me. He told me to give it more time. I can’t give it more time if I ain’t getting paid.”

 

Then he asked me, “So, Sir, what work you doing?”

 

I told Jim that I was retired.

 

Jim thought for a moment, and then he said, “Retired. That must be a fine thing.”

 

“Yes, it is.”

 

Jim said, “Well, Sir, if I can just hang on for another year or so, until oil gets back up, then maybe somebody will hire an old fart like me.”

 

Jim asked if I had been in the Army like Hans. I told him that I had been, but back in the Cold War.

 

I asked Hans if we should move on. He nodded.

 

I told Jim we were leaving. He shook my hand again, and he said, ” Sir, I just want you to know that Hans here is a fine young man. I’m proud to know him.  And thank you for your service.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

Hans and I got in his truck and left. Hans slept at Jim’s house that night.

 

April 24th, 2017

 

Karin and my sister-in-law went out one night for a Scripture study with some other women. Shawn’s study group is called the “Pontifical Biblical Institute of the Holy Hippie Sisterhood”. While Karin and Shawn were having coffee and conversation, Hans and I wandered off to the Brauhaus of Bryan. It’s kind of German restaurant/bar. We ordered a couple Pschorrbraus, and sat around talking.

 

Hans said, “If I get hit by a bullet, I just hope it’s not a gut shot.”

 

“Why?”

 

“They’re bad. Really bad.”

 

“Hans, how do you know this?”

 

Hans thought for a minute, and then he said, “Well, when we were in Iraq, an Iraqi got shot in the gut. We patched him up as best we could until the ambulance came. Two days later we found out that the Iraqi was dead, and that he had suffered agonizing pain the entire time.”

 

Hans went on, “Yeah, a shot to the head or the chest. That would be okay. Even a groin shot. You bleed out quick from one of those. I know that.”

 

I didn’t ask Hans how he knew that.

 

April 24th, 2016

 

I asked Hans if he had heard about the guy in Georgia who had filled up a riding mower with Tannerite, and then blown it up with a rifle bullet. The shrapnel from the explosion had taken the man’s leg off.

 

Hans shook his head and said, “That guy was an idiot.”

 

I asked Hans, “Have you ever used Tannerite to blow up things?”

 

He said, “Yeah, but now the government won’t let you buy the explosive in bulk. It takes a while to get enough to make a boom.”

 

“What did you blow up?”

 

“Well, me and a friend went hunting feral hogs. We filled up a metal drum with Tannerite. We lured in went the pigs with sweet corn, and then we shot at the barrel with a rifle. But, we took cover behind the pick up truck. We weren’t out in the open.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“The barrel blew up. I went looking for the hogs. They were all over the place. There was one fifty feet away.”

 

Hans thought for a moment, and said, “Yeah, it was kind of a mess.”

April 24th, 2016

 

Karin, Hans, and I were at my sister-in-law’s apartment, hanging out. Shawn’s phone rang, and she said to the caller,

 

“Yeah, we’re all here. I’m working on my blog, and Karin is knitting. Hans and Frank…well, they’re talking about blowing stuff up.”

 

Hans and I finished talking about things that go boom, and then Hans mentioned about how he used to kick in doors and clear out buildings while he was in Iraq.

 

“Yeah, Dad, it was dark and I was the first guy going into the room. The next guy tossed in a flash grenade, but didn’t tell anybody that he was going to do that. The flashbang went off, and I couldn’t see or hear anything. I was yelling at the top of my lungs because I couldn’t even hear my own voice. I took off the NVG’s (night vision goggles), but all I could see were green spots.”

 

“I bet he pissed you off,” I told Hans.

 

“Yeah, but we worked it out later. We had some ‘wall to wall counseling’.”

 

“Uh, what’s that?”

 

“That’s when two guys go into an empty room, and resolve their issues in there.”

 

“Ahhhhhh…I see.”

 

“The bad part is now the Army says we can’t do that. I guess that ‘he fell down the steps’ isn’t a good enough answer any more.”

 

“Did you ever fall down the steps?”

 

Hans looked at me and said, “Once.”

 

There was a pause and then Hans said, “A pillow case with a few soap bars in it worked the best. The guy might get a few bruised ribs, but that’s it. I never went for the face.”

 

“Why not?”

 

Hans stared at me and said, “Because a face shot brings up questions that nobody wants to answer.”

 

“Oh.”

 

April 24th, 2016

 

Hans was talking to us about the house fire. He showed us a picture of the ruin that used to be his Harley. Hans told me that the motor melted in the heat of the blaze. He started mentioning other things that he had lost. Hans had no renters insurance, so what he lost really is lost.

 

Hans said, “What hurts is losing those guns and all that ammo.”

 

I asked Hans, “So, how much ammo did you have in the house?”

 

Hans replied, “About twenty thousand rounds.”

 

“How much?!”

 

“Twenty thousand rounds.”

 

“Twenty THOUSAND rounds?!”

 

Hans looked at me like I was either deaf or stupid, and said, “Yes, twenty thousand rounds. Why?”

 

“And you needed that much ammo for what?”

 

“Well, it wasn’t for something stupid, like a zombie apocalypse. It was for martial law.”

 

“You’re expecting martial law?”

 

Hans smiled and said, “You never know.”

 

“Oh.”