Ryan (He/Him) is an English/Creative writing Graduate from Missouri State University. He is a photographer, filmmaker, writer, and veteran. His work is available or forthcoming in Writing Lifeworlds: An Anthology of Creative Nonfiction, Flash Fiction Magazine, Night Picnic Journal, and Microfiction Monday Magazine. Ryan is the founder and editor-in-chief of Pyre Magazine. Ryan's first novella, Killing My Flesh Without You, is available now with his forthcoming Halloween Anthology, The Halloween Party: and Other Tales of All Hallows Eve Terror, set to drop on October 3rd. He lives in Southwest Missouri with his wife and daughters and their menagerie of domesticated animals.
WON’T MIND FORGETTING
by
Ryan Thomas LaBee
He christened me “son” from the outset. I initially chalked it up to a quirk. A colloquial relic to grace the youth with. Now, he may honestly think I’m his long-lost son, Robert.
Paul asks me if I “want to hear a secret,” I suggest changing the topic to “things I won’t mind forgetting.”
No guests darken the old man’s doorway—perhaps they never did—and that is why, I imagine, I linger even after my graveyard shifts at the assisted living facility end. Besides, my life flows with the sluggish monotony of snail shit—no one waiting at home for me. Which is fine. That’s how I like it, honestly. But, what else should I dedicate my spare moments to than lending an ear to a feeble old man time has all but forgotten? To me, that seems like a fate worse than death.
Paul unspools tales meant for his boy about a war he didn’t vote for–though he was all too eager, electing to take up arms. For the sake of Robert’s memory, I listen.
“Wanna hear a funny story?” He asks, “I was dead to the world in my tent, but something, maybe God himself, roused me. I used to sleep with my weapon cradled in my arms like a lover. When my eyes snapped open, I rolled like dice and came up seven. Goddamned gook was bayonet ready, planning to plunge into my nape, returning me to the earth. I almost bought the farm. Punched my ticket, you might say. But my trigger finger was faster, and I split the darkness and the Korean bastard’s skull.”
He laughs. I laugh. Though, I don’t find the joke funny.
During his sponge bath, he brings up the idea of “a secret” again, and I respond with a noncommittal “Perhaps another time.”
“It should be a woman waxing my wand,” he says, “been women’s work, typically.”
“Wanna hear a funny story?” he asks. Addressing me or Robert, I can’t be certain, but he continues before I have a chance to challenge. “Used to call ‘em ‘Seoul City Sues’—ladies on the enemy side who would roll out their record players and play American music over loudspeakers, attempting to make us GIs homesick. It never had that effect on me. I never had a fondness for home cuz my daddy got his jollies refining his boxing skills on my ears. I discarded the hell hole that spawned me as soon as possible. But “Sues” music made a lot of my buddies heartsick. As for me, I’d use my binoculars to scope out them ladies, imagining unwrapping them like Christmas presents.
“One evening, about nine months into deployment–closer to twelve for my buddy Obbly–”Sue” strolled out and ignited Tony Bennett’s ‘Because of You’ on her record player. You’ve never seen a sadder sight than poor Obbly. He’d just received a ‘Dear John’ letter and snapped. You have to understand that we had a camp on one hill, and the enemy’s camp was across a valley on another. We could make each other out–ants on our respective hills–but couldn’t engage in combat. Didn’t stop poor Obbly–post letter–from marching down to the valley and howling at the top of his lungs, but Tony drowned him out. For poor Obbly’s sake, I fetched my gun–not my weapon. It only took one well-placed artillery shell to silence “Sue.” She didn’t play any more records after that, no sir. Poor Obbly didn’t last much longer, though. A few days after “Sue,” he took a bullet to the eye. Poor bastard never saw it coming.”
He laughs. I laugh. Though, I don’t find the joke funny.
Every Halloween, the facility opens its doors to trick-or-treaters, and the residents–slack-jawed and spit-stained–distribute candy to the little ones. It’s quite the striking contrast, witnessing those just starting life's journey and those nearing its end in close proximity. I’m never quite sure who is more disturbed by the irony, the young or the old.
“Wanna hear a funny story?” Paul asks, depositing a payload of black and orange Mary Jane bombs into a little Asian witch’s bag, “my group and I were out on patrol, and something told me, Paul, you ought to tell the Sargent to head in the opposite direction, and sure shit, we did, and you know what we came up on? A whole group of Korean bastards.”
The witch snaps her bag like a fly trap and darts toward her parents, who wrap her in their loving arms–I wonder what that must feel like.
“Big ones, tall ones, women, men,” Paul continues, “we ordered ’em to stop, gathered ’em in close, rat-like, and called in an air strafe. Know what that is, Son? An air attack. You know where those Korean bastards went after the bombing? Everywhere!”
He laughs. I laugh.
Paul says he is ready for bed, and I advance him to his room.
Extracting him from his wheelchair, he once again asks if I “want to hear a secret,” This time, I say, “Sure, old man.”
“You was right," he wheezes, "brought the fight home with me.”
I thrust him into bed, pulling his blankets to his weathered neck.
“You know, you can procure those things almost anywhere,” He says, pointing to the small sink near the door, “Over the counter. Online. No questions asked. Soften the outer shell of the beans, cook them, mash, filter, and you have enough to slay a giant. It's astonishing how one form can cure joint pain, and another can send ya to your maker. What do you call someone who poisons a person's cornflakes? A 'cereal' killer!”
He laughs. I laugh.
"Wanna hear another secret?” he rasps. I stop him, saying, "Not tonight. Let’s talk about things I won’t mind forgetting.”
I go to the counter near the sink and purge the area of the old man’s mess.
And I wait for the punchline.