Preview of "When Shadows Shine"

Re-Take

A rugged pickup slithers through Spanish moss hanging over rutted dirt road, slips into a murky meadow and cruises to three or four dozen cars, trucks and one limo packed before an oversized shack with open windows gasping for any breeze to be coaxed out of this steamy bog.

Mean blues guitar blends with wailing harmonica amid mournful whines of misery leaching from a slinky lady pouring her soul into the saga of her man, his whiskey, his cards. But the lanky Cajun ignores it, focuses on a brand new 1953 Cadillac in the middle of the back row.

Five, six miles per hour, till within ten feet, then snatching any horses still snoozing in a tired 1938 engine, whipping them mercilessly into the Caddy’s rear bumper, smashing with a rude crunch that insolently clashes against the smooth music oozing out of the shack, jerking the slumbering chauffeur against the steering column of the Cadillac.

Not your typical driver at all, the muscle-packed Italian American grabs his snub-nosed 38, dives out of the limo, wheels to face a wobbling Cajun stumbling from the pickup, slurring his regrets, waving a fistful of cash.

“S-sorry, d-didn’t see, I pay, fix…s-sorry.”

The driver sneers, swaggers toward the lanky sot, they meet where their vehicles did, he glares at the crushed bumper that moments before proudly boasted polished chrome. He opens his mouth to swear, to tell this coon-ass what he can do with his money, just as the drunk’s eighteen inch blade slams into his throat, digs and twists deeply amid startled gurgles.

On instinct he tries to raise his right hand to shoot his assailant, finds it pinned to his side by the tall Cajun’s knee, fires helplessly into the dirt, drops his pistol, struggles to kick, to hit, anything to writhe the slicing blade that still tunnels deeper, cannot. He weakens, feels all but his fury draining out, throws his last effort into spittle aimed at the face of his killer.

 The roar of the pistol had gone unnoticed, buried by the singer’s garish closing high note, screamed into the thunder of applause from enthralled dancers and drinkers. The Cajun grins, leers at the near lifeless body dwindling toward and then reaching the packed dirt.

He puts his foot on the man’s chest, pushing out his last breath, grasps his blade’s handle with both hands, pulls mightily and finally tugs it from its fleshy scabbard. Then he callously wipes it clean on the man’s immaculate jacket.

Now his attention shifts to the boisterous shanty that rambles before him - - and he frowns.

“I didn’t see nothing,” a squeamish voice from a squat fortyish man assures. Arms spread in desperate beseech he adds “can’t talk anyhow, or remember. Even if I could nobody believes me.”

The tall man is now some three feet from him. No one talks or moves for several long seconds.

“Honest, mister, you got no worries.”

The Cajun stares, head atilt. More silence.

“No worries,” the nervous fellow offers, getting no response, no reaction. Seconds drag on.

“I already forgot what I thought I saw. No worries.”

More silence; then “lines!”

“CUT! What the hell, you think you’re in some high school play? This is an Episode, Jack, and it’s no rehearsal.”

“I know. He went off script, confused me.”

“No, Jack, you froze, he went off script to bail you out, three times. You wanted a chance, I gave you one, now get your sorry has-been ass off my set.” ………………………..................................

Ambush

A cloudless light blue January sky was undisturbed by cold wind gusts every few seconds. Not so the pine trees lining the broad field of browned grass some fifty yards away. Not so the unit of advancing Redcoats.

They had set out at dawn marching into a hazy gray morning that suddenly grew as bright as a horde of angels. The low winter sun helped and hindered. It made quick work of the frost, it tamed the chill; but it blinded them.

The cagey old woodsman had counted on that.

“Remember, two quick volleys and we run.”

His militia was hunched in the thick undergrowth under the pines at field’s edge. They could clearly see their prey, growing closer, nearing the shade from the pines that would soon restore their vision. But as the sun rose the shadows fell. The soldiers were about to catch up with it.

“Fire!”

Squirrel guns exploded concurrently. Five British were hit. They were very well drilled in cohesive fighting, camping, marching, soldiering, but not dying. Some screamed, some flew backwards, some twisted, some fell, and some silently clutched their broken bodies and stared.

Officers shouted orders. Troops obeyed. The unit’s organized response began. The second volley erupted.

Nine frontiersmen dashed into the woods and vanished. There should have been ten.

Thomas was too young for militia but badgered his father till he relented. He was a good shot, there would be just two volleys and then they would disappear. It sounded so safe.

Young Thomas should have been hauling water from the creek, splitting wood for his grandmother, not fiercely thrashing at vines entangling his ankles. Panic burgeoned. Coolness snuffed it, took over.

Determined, angry infantry were nearing the woods as Thomas sliced vines with his hunting knife. A glance around revealed a giant fallen tree trunk with large chunks of flaking bark. He scurried to it, dove to the far side, covered himself with a massive slab of bark, and froze.

Thick leather boots inched slowly, cautiously all around him. It sounded as if their ranks had been spread out and they were stealthily moving forward, working to advance as quietly as they could through the tangled undergrowth. A couple went right by him.

Thomas did not move, breathed gently. A Cockney accented voice, barely above a whisper, called ‘Halt’ and all noise stopped.

“No sign of them, Sir. See, a few paths where they scampered off into the forest, bloody cowards.”

It was silent a moment then an Oxford accent spoke.

“And they may well be positioned for us again just beyond this thicket. We’ll go around them. Fall back.”

This time the boots stomped noisily, quickly. The two sets that had passed right by Thomas came back toward him. The twelve-year-old boy held his breath.

They went by, and soon Thomas heard them being formed up again and marched away. There was some clatter in the field itself, but it was far off.

Yet he still did not move, other than to dare to breathe deeply, nearly gasping, until his heart finally settled at its normal pace. He remained motionless.

When the only noise he’d heard for what seemed an hour were the routine sounds of the wilderness, he warily pushed at his screen. All in his sight appeared safe, secure. He turned his head and studied the other side. Then he pushed it off of him and rose onto his elbows.

Again, he carefully surveyed all within his vision. Then he half walked, half crawled, to the edge of the trees. The bodies had been removed. There was no indication there had been a skirmish. Next he went to where he had been during the fight, looked for, and found, his gun………………………............................................

Sherman’s Gadgets

My ex-wife called them Darth Vader. We'd be at a stop light and sense a remote, rhythmic thunder. It was nearing, and within moments would be right on top of us.

The first time, we thought the ground was vibrating, and tried to remember earthquake tips from our California native neighbor.

We got used to it. Now, I don't even glance about or peek in the mirror because I know what I'll see - a dark car, probably a black Camaro with heavily tinted windows, drifting up to the light behind me. And the thunder is the background of a Rap tape. I know, because one day Darth's window was down, and I could hear the chanting.

But, in the early days, few adults knew that. We wondered what kind of music only had base drums. Now we ignore it. Or at least I did...until March 23, 1994.

Really, the first unusual thing happened a couple of weeks before that, but I don't remember the exact date. I was second in line in the right lane, and Darth Vader landed at the head of the left lane. Typical. A van, I think. Dark blue. No big deal.

Until the music shifted to Blue Grass Gospel.

Now, like I say, it seemed weird a few years ago for anyone to outfit their car with an open-air arena sound system and continually play it at full volume. But today it's the norm.

Or, at least, it's the norm within certain boundaries.

It HAS to be hard rock or Rap, right? Even though these people are quite evangelical, bent on making the whole world share their music, we just do not expect to hear Blue Grass Gospel from them.

Neither did the driver. But he wasn't shocked. Just furious.

First, he tried to get his tape player to work again, but not for long. He seemed to realize it was hopeless. Then, he switched to an acid rock radio station. And no sooner had he tuned it in, than it leaped all by itself to one of those Public Radio Classical stations.

Mozart didn't suit him, either. So he turned the volume down - and it came back up. He turned it off - it stayed off a second or two, then popped back on with Lawrence Welk, at decibels Lawrence never dreamed of.

The light was still red, but Darth wheeled right across the path of the car in front of me, slammed to a stop at the corner, vaulted out of his van, and screamed at the top of his lungs: "SHERMAN!"

Then he stomped about the roadway, fist clenched, looking like he could chew nails.

"I KNOW YOU'RE OUT THERE, SHERMAN!"

By now, the light had changed, and impatient people were honking at me. So, I left. It was curious, but I didn't give it much thought.

Until March 23.

This time, I was on the street, waiting to cross at the light. And, a nerdy looking teenager with an odd smirk was just around the corner. I'd walked right by him. He'd smiled at me - grimaced, really.

I'd nodded, and gone on to the corner just as Darth Vader cruised up. It wasn't a Camaro, but it might as well have been.

The light changed, I started to step off the curb, and was startled to hear something akin to the Hallelujah Chorus at ten decibels blare out of Darth's ship.

Darth had one of his space cadets with him. I didn't think about Sherman until the fellow tore out of the passenger side of the car and came roaring right at me. Sherman was hiding behind me! - right behind me! - clutching my shoulders, and screaming,

"Stop him, stop him!"

I don't know what I would have done if a policeman hadn't come out of nowhere. I mean, I'm there on the corner with an irate lunatic about to go right through me to get to Sherman, and every time he'd jump to one side of me, Sherman would scoot around to the other.

Then the lunatic would grab the front of me and try to toss me out of his way while Sherman was working just as hard to keep me in his way. And then Sherman about went nuts when Darth himself arrived and they were ready to come at him from both sides of me.

But, as I said, thank God a policeman came from somewhere just in time.

There was a lot of fussing...a whole lot. In essence, Darth and his cadet had known this kind of trouble from Sherman before and had just about had it with him. Sherman was just teasing and didn't mean any harm, but the policeman took his gadget anyhow.

Finally, I was left there with just Sherman. And I didn't know what you're supposed to do with a Sherman after a scene like that. ……………………………………………………..................................................

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