Trent Reedy - Divided We Fall

“Okay, kitten,” Sweeney said.

She turned around in her seat to face him. “Call me any more sexist names, Eric, and I’ll make sure you never ride in this truck again. I have some pull with the owner.”

Sweeney grinned and put his hands up in surrender. JoBell really didn’t like the nicknames that Sweeney often made up for her, but at this point her anger and even Sweeney’s sexism was mostly an act, a game the two of them had been playing for years.

After we dropped Timmy, Sweeney, and Becca off, I pulled the Beast over in front of JoBell’s big brick house. She squeezed my hand. “Wish you didn’t have practice again tonight.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s the last two-a-day, though.” I looked down. “Last two-a-day of my whole life.”

She put her fingers under my chin and made me look at her. “You sound all sad, like one of the old-timers at the coffee shop who sits around reminiscing about the ‘good old days’ of high school.” She leaned forward and we kissed. I could taste her favorite spicy gum on her tongue. She kissed my cheek and then my neck, and tingles rippled all the way down my body. “But these are the good times.” She gave me a quick kiss on the lips again and kept her face close to mine. “And they are never” — kiss — “going” — kiss — “to end.”

I looked into her warm, happy eyes. “I love you,” I whispered.

“I love you more.” She unbuckled her seat belt. “This is senior year and, yeah, lots of things will be changing. But this” — she pressed her hand over my heart for a moment and then held my hand over her own — “is forever.”

I laughed a little and gently slid my hand up her neck and around the back of her head to pull her close one last time. Then she climbed down out of the truck and pulled her duffel from the back. I watched her jog up to her porch. She stopped at the door and waved, then went inside. My chest ached the way it did whenever JoBell left, but I started the truck and drove to the shop.

I parked off in the grass like I usually did to let customers use the driveway. The faded sign squeaked as it swung in the breeze. I could hardly read SCHMIDT & WRIGHT AUTO on it anymore. It probably hadn’t been painted since before Dad died. I dropped three quarters into the old pop machine that sat between the two open garage doors, hit the button, and pulled a Mountain Dew out of the slot.

“Look who finally shows up!” Schmidty said. I laughed. He spun away from the desk in his dusty old swivel chair. My dad’s longtime business partner — now my partner — was taking his lunch break with his daily ham sandwich and iced tea. He took a drag on his cigarette. “How was practice? Coach still bustin’ your balls about not being in his precious weight room this summer?”

Coach had been kind of a dick when I first started practice because he had this idiot idea I hadn’t worked hard enough at Fort Leonard Wood. “Naw. I’ve been blasting right by all the best guys.”

Schmidty raised a bushy eyebrow as the Buzz Ellison talk show music came on the radio. “Is that right?”

“I even laid out TJ today. You should’ve seen—”

“Hang on now.” He flicked his cigarette ash in an old coffee can. “Shut up, and let me enjoy my show in peace.” He pointed to the Honda Civic GXE in the far bay — a natural gas/electric hybrid with solar assist. Someone had some money and really cared about cutting emissions. “You want to get started?” Schmidty said. “Oil change and tire rotation.” He called cars like this “dirty hippie cars.” Wouldn’t touch them.

I went over to the far bay as Buzz Ellison returned from a commercial break.

Welcome back, all of you true patriots. You’re listening to the one, the only, Buzz Ellison, the last bastion of truth and freedom in a very troubled America, broadcasting live coast to coast from Conservative CentCom in downtown Boise, Idaho. The number to call if you’d like to be on the program today is 1-800-555-FREE, that’s 1-800-555-3733. More reports are piling in from across the nation about people who just aren’t buying El Presidente Rodriguez’s party line about these government surveillance cards. We have protests on campuses in Florida, Texas, Iowa, and, of course, a chaotic situation right here in Boise.

Buzz faded into the background as I went to work. Schmidty and Buzz got all fired up about politics and how Democrats, liberals, and the government were supposedly destroying America. JoBell sometimes argued the exact opposite. I mostly let them all spin on. Politics weren’t my thing.

“Yeah, Buzz! That’s exactly what I’ve been saying!” Schmidty spat out bits of his sandwich as he yelled at the radio. I had to laugh. I’d told him over and over that he should have his own show. “Are you listening to this?” he asked me.

I hadn’t been, but I paid attention now.

These are sad days for America. First, terrible unemployment at 18 percent. Federal debt off the charts, a federal government shut down over budget disagreements earlier in the year. Now this. I don’t even want to think about what’s next. Well, but I already know. More big government. Remember what Ronald Reagan warned us about, patriots, when he said, “Government big enough to give you everything, is also powerful enough to take it all away.”

“Yeah! Give ’em hell, Buzz!” Schmidty shouted. Buzz rolled on.

People might ask me, “But Buzz, if everyone hates these new cards, why did the bill pass?” Well, that’s the problem! There are people out there… I have people on my phone lines right now waiting to disagree with me, people who are willing to overlook all the drawbacks in this boneheaded idea. These idiots are out protesting in the streets too. It’s an absolute mess.

Schmidty stood up and stretched, his stained T-shirt rising to expose the bottom flap of his big sagging belly. He downed the rest of his iced tea and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t know why you signed up with the National Guard. This ain’t the same country that your father died defending.”

This was like the hundredth time he had said something like that. I don’t know why he didn’t get it. As soon as I’d heard that a kid could join the Army National Guard at seventeen, I begged Mom to sign the permission form so I could enlist right on my birthday and ship out to training two days later. It was the perfect deal. The Guard would pay for all the auto tech classes I needed to really expand the business, even the advanced tech stuff for working on these newer hybrids, compressed natural gas vehicles, and second-gen solar-assist systems that Schmidty couldn’t stand. With my Guard pay from the summer and the money I’d been saving, I’d be able to buy Schmidty’s half ownership of the garage when he retired in a couple years and set up a real future right here in Freedom Lake.

More than the money, though, it was an honor to be a soldier and serve my country like my father had. Standing straight at basic training graduation, saluting the flag while the national anthem played, I knew I was part of something important. I loved my home and I loved America, and I was willing and ready to fight to defend them, to defend freedom and protect the people I loved.

I went back to work on the oil change. Buzz Ellison went on arguing with callers and complaining about the president. Schmidty worked on a pickup and argued with the callers as well. “Dumbass hippie protestors!” he yelled once.

That was classic Dave Schmidt, never happy unless he had something to be mad about. Still, he seemed worse than usual. Business had been bad lately. With gasoline prices so high for so long, the people who couldn’t afford to switch over to electrics or to cars like this Honda were actually driving less. Less wear and tear on cars meant less repairs meant less money. But that was pretty much the same story everywhere, and this old shop had never made Schmidty or Dad rich.