There’s something weird going on in my hometown. I…
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There’s something weird going on in my hometown.
I finished my four years of active duty just in time to bury my Pappy.
It was about three months ago now, when I got the news that he’d passed. I was four days away from transitioning to IRR, and finally moving out of the chapped armpit that is Twentynine Palms, when I opened the letter from my parents. Pappy had passed away in his sleep one night. ‘Complications related to his prior service,’ they said. I couldn’t say I was surprised-the man had inhaled a whole mess of nasty stuff, in the jungles of Vietnam-but out of my family, it probably hit me the hardest, besides my old man. I was just glad that they’d postponed the funeral until after I’d made it home.
My family’s not very big to begin with, so there weren’t many of us there. My parents, my younger siblings, and I were, of course. A couple aunts and uncles, and their kids, too. Pappy was the last of his siblings and their spouses to go, so all of the relatives there were from my parents’ generation or younger. A good chunk of the congregation, though, were Pappy’s Marine Corps buddies, many of them in their dress blues-same as I was, and Pappy in his casket. Just about as far back as we can trace the family’s history, we’ve had men in the military. Since World War One, we’ve been a Marine family in particular. My daddy was a devil dog, and Pappy before him, and so on and so forth. Pappy in particular had a really interesting career, but that’s a story for later.
The funeral was held in my hometown of Coldwater, a tiny little settlement in rural Alabama, in the southern part of the Appalachian Mountains. The Bridgers have lived there for generations, although my parents moved out to Miami, after my youngest sister started college last year. Pappy was the last Bridger to live near Coldwater, on his little piece of land. It’s up in the hills, surrounded by trees, with his cabin, a barn, and the only Bridger moonshine still that still (heh) exists today.
When I decided to move into Pappy’s cabin, about a month after the funeral, I think everyone in the family breathed a collective sigh of relief. He and I were very close, for one, and he had more stuff in that house than anyone wanted to go through. He wasn’t a hoarder by any means, but he certainly was a collector, and seeing as I was the only one as interested in history and such as he was, everyone was happy to let me have the place. In a morbid sort of way, it all worked out. I had a place to live as I transitioned into civilian life, a place with years of Bridger family history, many of my own childhood memories, and a one-eyed German Shepherd named Rusty, an ex-Army service dog that Pappy adopted a few years back. He’s a good boy, and I’ve been glad to have him these past few months, especially as I noticed some of the odd things that have been going on around this town.
When I pulled up to the cabin, in my rickety ‘98 Dodge Ram four-by-four, my cousin Clem was already there waiting for me. Clem’s a couple years younger than me, and he’s a bit of a wild child. I got into my fair share of trouble in high school, but that boy showed me up in every conceivable way. He’d mellowed out a bit over the last few years, but not much. I remember our conversation clear as day, as I walked up to him and Rusty.
“Hey, Jack. Sorry I didn’t have a chance to talk to you at the funeral,” he told me. That’s my name, by the way. Jack Bridger. (Technically it’s James, but that’s also my dad’s name, so everyone’s called me Jack since I was little.)
“No worries, Clem. It was a… weird day for everyone,” I told him.
“Yeah. So, you, uh… want to unpack, or just start looking through Pappy’s stuff?”
“I’ll unpack later. Let’s go make sure the raccoons haven’t gotten into Pappy’s garage.”
Clem and I headed to the barn, with Rusty in tow. As we rolled open the small barn’s big double doors, we revealed our Pappy’s prized possession. She was a 1969 Chevy Camaro Z/28, the same one he’d bought after six years of fighting the worst battles of the Vietnam War. She was exactly how I remembered her; jet-black paint, big bolt-on fender flares over super wide tires, chrome exhaust pipes hanging under the doors… she looked like she’d start up and go, right then and there, and you’d never see her again. Pappy used her for stunt driving out in Hollywood for a few years, then for running moonshine, once he’d married Mamaw and brought her back to Coldwater.
“What I wouldn’t give to go for one more ride with him,” I said, more to myself than Clem. I remember running a hand over the car’s front fender and cowled hood, just taking a second to admire her weather-beaten features.
“Yeah, Pappy loved this car. I’d say she’s in good hands with you, Jack,” he said. Rusty sauntered over and licked my hand as I stood back and looked at the car.
“I’ll give her the best home I can.”
I looked around at the rest of the space, which was much nicer than the rest of the little barn-finished walls, cement floor, and several big toolboxes-and at the various movie memorabilia Pappy had kept in there. Most of it was from movies he’d done stunt driving for, mostly minor action flicks from the time, except for the photo of him and Mamaw leaning on the Camaro, looking out at a Southern California sunset. He was wearing his favorite leather jacket in that one, black with a white skull and crossbones on the back, the same jacket that hung on the wall next to it.
“You need a minute, Jack?” Clem asked me, shaking me out of my stupor.
“No, no, I’m good. You want a beer? I’m sure Pappy’s fridge is still stocked.”
“I’ll never turn down a cold PBR.”
We sat in the cabin’s kitchen that night, drinking and reminiscing while Rusty padded around the house. I’d gotten enough unpacked to comfortably sleep in the cabin, but I had a ways to go yet. That would be a problem for later me, though, and after Clem left, I passed out. A few hours later, though, I heard Rusty whining.
I rolled over and checked the time on my phone. Just before three o’clock. I forced myself out of bed, wearing nothing but gym shorts and my dog tags, and headed downstairs to let Rusty outside. I assumed that he just needed a bathroom break. That was when I saw it.
The pitiful yard light, about twenty yards from the cabin’s front door, allowed me to just barely see something moving through the woods along the edge of the yard. Not something… someone. At that exact moment, Rusty started to growl, and my instincts took over. I grabbed his leash and headed for the cabin’s basement, where Pappy had always kept some of his more… interesting collectibles.
I flicked on the light, revealing four cement walls covered top to bottom in all manner of firearms, from Civil War muskets to the ARs I’d helped him build when I was in high school. Without even thinking, I grabbed one of those ARs, slammed a full forty-five-round mag into it, and slung it over my shoulder. I slipped a headlamp on my head, clipped on Rusty’s leash, and headed outside.
The headlamp did little to help me, as I took hold of the AR in one hand and Rusty’s leash in the other. Aside from the wind in the trees, and the occasional hooting of a far-off owl, everything was quiet. I knew what I’d seen, though. It was unmistakably a person skulking around the property, and I didn’t intend to let them get away with it. Rusty and I searched everywhere within the bounds of the yard, but we found no trace of the intruder, hardly even a scent for Rusty to track. Eventually, after letting Rusty do his business, I went back inside, double-checking that every door and window was locked, and that I had a loaded handgun and my KA-BAR on my nightstand, next to my Bible, plus that same AR leaning on the wall beside it. The rest of the night passed uneventfully, but the next few months wouldn’t stay that way.
#entertainment
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I finished my four years of active duty just in time to bury my Pappy.
It was about three months ago now, when I got the news that he’d passed. I was four days away from transitioning to IRR, and finally moving out of the chapped armpit that is Twentynine Palms, when I opened the letter from my parents. Pappy had passed away in his sleep one night. ‘Complications related to his prior service,’ they said. I couldn’t say I was surprised-the man had inhaled a whole mess of nasty stuff, in the jungles of Vietnam-but out of my family, it probably hit me the hardest, besides my old man. I was just glad that they’d postponed the funeral until after I’d made it home.
My family’s not very big to begin with, so there weren’t many of us there. My parents, my younger siblings, and I were, of course. A couple aunts and uncles, and their kids, too. Pappy was the last of his siblings and their spouses to go, so all of the relatives there were from my parents’ generation or younger. A good chunk of the congregation, though, were Pappy’s Marine Corps buddies, many of them in their dress blues-same as I was, and Pappy in his casket. Just about as far back as we can trace the family’s history, we’ve had men in the military. Since World War One, we’ve been a Marine family in particular. My daddy was a devil dog, and Pappy before him, and so on and so forth. Pappy in particular had a really interesting career, but that’s a story for later.
The funeral was held in my hometown of Coldwater, a tiny little settlement in rural Alabama, in the southern part of the Appalachian Mountains. The Bridgers have lived there for generations, although my parents moved out to Miami, after my youngest sister started college last year. Pappy was the last Bridger to live near Coldwater, on his little piece of land. It’s up in the hills, surrounded by trees, with his cabin, a barn, and the only Bridger moonshine still that still (heh) exists today.
When I decided to move into Pappy’s cabin, about a month after the funeral, I think everyone in the family breathed a collective sigh of relief. He and I were very close, for one, and he had more stuff in that house than anyone wanted to go through. He wasn’t a hoarder by any means, but he certainly was a collector, and seeing as I was the only one as interested in history and such as he was, everyone was happy to let me have the place. In a morbid sort of way, it all worked out. I had a place to live as I transitioned into civilian life, a place with years of Bridger family history, many of my own childhood memories, and a one-eyed German Shepherd named Rusty, an ex-Army service dog that Pappy adopted a few years back. He’s a good boy, and I’ve been glad to have him these past few months, especially as I noticed some of the odd things that have been going on around this town.
When I pulled up to the cabin, in my rickety ‘98 Dodge Ram four-by-four, my cousin Clem was already there waiting for me. Clem’s a couple years younger than me, and he’s a bit of a wild child. I got into my fair share of trouble in high school, but that boy showed me up in every conceivable way. He’d mellowed out a bit over the last few years, but not much. I remember our conversation clear as day, as I walked up to him and Rusty.
“Hey, Jack. Sorry I didn’t have a chance to talk to you at the funeral,” he told me. That’s my name, by the way. Jack Bridger. (Technically it’s James, but that’s also my dad’s name, so everyone’s called me Jack since I was little.)
“No worries, Clem. It was a… weird day for everyone,” I told him.
“Yeah. So, you, uh… want to unpack, or just start looking through Pappy’s stuff?”
“I’ll unpack later. Let’s go make sure the raccoons haven’t gotten into Pappy’s garage.”
Clem and I headed to the barn, with Rusty in tow. As we rolled open the small barn’s big double doors, we revealed our Pappy’s prized possession. She was a 1969 Chevy Camaro Z/28, the same one he’d bought after six years of fighting the worst battles of the Vietnam War. She was exactly how I remembered her; jet-black paint, big bolt-on fender flares over super wide tires, chrome exhaust pipes hanging under the doors… she looked like she’d start up and go, right then and there, and you’d never see her again. Pappy used her for stunt driving out in Hollywood for a few years, then for running moonshine, once he’d married Mamaw and brought her back to Coldwater.
“What I wouldn’t give to go for one more ride with him,” I said, more to myself than Clem. I remember running a hand over the car’s front fender and cowled hood, just taking a second to admire her weather-beaten features.
“Yeah, Pappy loved this car. I’d say she’s in good hands with you, Jack,” he said. Rusty sauntered over and licked my hand as I stood back and looked at the car.
“I’ll give her the best home I can.”
I looked around at the rest of the space, which was much nicer than the rest of the little barn-finished walls, cement floor, and several big toolboxes-and at the various movie memorabilia Pappy had kept in there. Most of it was from movies he’d done stunt driving for, mostly minor action flicks from the time, except for the photo of him and Mamaw leaning on the Camaro, looking out at a Southern California sunset. He was wearing his favorite leather jacket in that one, black with a white skull and crossbones on the back, the same jacket that hung on the wall next to it.
“You need a minute, Jack?” Clem asked me, shaking me out of my stupor.
“No, no, I’m good. You want a beer? I’m sure Pappy’s fridge is still stocked.”
“I’ll never turn down a cold PBR.”
We sat in the cabin’s kitchen that night, drinking and reminiscing while Rusty padded around the house. I’d gotten enough unpacked to comfortably sleep in the cabin, but I had a ways to go yet. That would be a problem for later me, though, and after Clem left, I passed out. A few hours later, though, I heard Rusty whining.
I rolled over and checked the time on my phone. Just before three o’clock. I forced myself out of bed, wearing nothing but gym shorts and my dog tags, and headed downstairs to let Rusty outside. I assumed that he just needed a bathroom break. That was when I saw it.
The pitiful yard light, about twenty yards from the cabin’s front door, allowed me to just barely see something moving through the woods along the edge of the yard. Not something… someone. At that exact moment, Rusty started to growl, and my instincts took over. I grabbed his leash and headed for the cabin’s basement, where Pappy had always kept some of his more… interesting collectibles.
I flicked on the light, revealing four cement walls covered top to bottom in all manner of firearms, from Civil War muskets to the ARs I’d helped him build when I was in high school. Without even thinking, I grabbed one of those ARs, slammed a full forty-five-round mag into it, and slung it over my shoulder. I slipped a headlamp on my head, clipped on Rusty’s leash, and headed outside.
The headlamp did little to help me, as I took hold of the AR in one hand and Rusty’s leash in the other. Aside from the wind in the trees, and the occasional hooting of a far-off owl, everything was quiet. I knew what I’d seen, though. It was unmistakably a person skulking around the property, and I didn’t intend to let them get away with it. Rusty and I searched everywhere within the bounds of the yard, but we found no trace of the intruder, hardly even a scent for Rusty to track. Eventually, after letting Rusty do his business, I went back inside, double-checking that every door and window was locked, and that I had a loaded handgun and my KA-BAR on my nightstand, next to my Bible, plus that same AR leaning on the wall beside it. The rest of the night passed uneventfully, but the next few months wouldn’t stay that way.
#entertainment
source
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