Patriotic Colors

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I'm hiding this one from the mainpage, because it contains a fairly nasty ethnic slur. Click here if you want to go to the post page and read it anyway.[WARNING: FAIRLY NASTY ETHNIC SLUR BELOW. SKIP ON BY IF YOU DON'T WANT TO READ IT.]

It wasn't so much that David minded people doing this sort of thing to him. Or rather, he reflected as he ducked back into the house, it wasn't quite so bad when it was just directed at him. Sometimes, going to work or out on errands, he'd catch a dirty look or a cruel remark; one time when he was pumping gas, he'd actually been approached by a belligerent drunk who'd threatened to deck him if he didn't go back to his own country.

Funny, David thought as he pulled a bucket out from under the kitchen sink. He'd been born and raised in Los Angeles, not an hour's drive from where he now lived. Same with his wife, for that matter. But try telling that to the redneck at the gas station.

"Dave?"

He winced, then turned to his wife. "G'morning, Sora. Didn't mean to wake you."

She rubbed at her eyes, voice still muzzy as she asked, "What are you doing? It's not even six yet, and you're going to clean something?"

"It's nothing, sweetie, go back to bed." He hefted the bucket, now full of soapy water, and grabbed the sponge from by the sink. "I was just out getting the paper, and I decided the, um. The steps could use a wash."

Sora looked at him, dismay flooding into her face and replacing the sleepiness. "Oh, David. It happened again, didn't it."

He nodded. "On the wall by the front door," he answered quietly. "I was hoping to get it cleaned up before you or the kids could see."

She moved slowly toward the door, and after a moment he followed. Together they walked out to the front porch and looked at the graffiti someone had left in the night.

SAND NIGGERS GET OUT, it read.

"We'll need my scrubber brush," Sora said finally, her voice oddly small. "And we'll have to work fast. There's only an hour or so till the girls get up."

Serving

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"You're insane!" Anne shouted. "You just got home from that mudhole, and now you want to go back?"

"I don't want to go back," Gary replied, jaw set obstinately. "And it's hardly a mudhole."

She threw her hands up angrily. "Fine. I guess you're right; calling it a mudhole would be assuming there was any damn water, when it's actually nothing but desert." She turned away, arms crossed. "That's not the point, anyway."

Gary sighed. "See, this is why I waited to tell you until after I told everyone else. Even my wife didn't put up this much of a stink about it. You're my sister and I love you, but I have made up my mind about this."

He thought that when Anne turned around again, it would be with tears in her eyes, her anger giving way to sadness. But no, they were still dry. Hard. He supposed he should have known better; she had never been given to sentimentality.

"You want to be the big hero, and I get that," she told him. "But you've been to Iraq already. You've done it. Why go back now, if they're not asking you to?"

"Because if I go, that's one less other guy that needs to. And what if he's got his own family? Kids that depend on him to feed and clothe them? Mary's got her own career, and we never had children." Gary shrugged. "I can't risk dooming some stranger to death and knowing that I put his kids one step closer to being orphans."

"And if that means dooming yourself to death?"

He shrugged again. "It's my choice, isn't it?" Anne made no reply, but still he nodded, as if agreeing with himself.



* With all the stoploss measures currently in place in Iraq, I don't know that they're actually letting anyone go home for good anymore. A few years ago, though, I knew someone whose close friend served a term in Afghanistan, then turned around and enlisted to help relieve forces in Iraq not long after. His friends and family were not entirely pleased with his decision, but he figured he was just a single guy livin' the military life, so he might as well help take the pressure off the poor saps who actually had wives and kids to spend Christmas with. That's what this particular vignette is inspired by, along with the usual Plugtasticness.

Edit 12/22/2007: I'm going through tagging old posts, and I just noticed that I named a guy Gary and his wife Mary. Whoops.

Proud

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Richard pulled aside the living room curtain slightly. Yep, there she was, a half-hour late, as usual. For all that she claimed to love visiting with him, she certainly did take her time showing up.

She pulled her car up into the driveway, barely missing his petunias on the way up, and parked by the garage. Then the car doors opened, revealing both of the car's occupants. Perfect. His irresponsible daughter and his bigshot lawyer son, both in one visit. Definitely not a good sign. He let the curtain drop and walked slowly to the front door to let them in anyway.

"Hey, dad," Ellie said brightly, swooping in like a miniature hurricane as usual. She hugged him briefly before going to hang up her coat. Brad was more reserved, merely smiling and offering a polite handshake and a "You look well, dad" on his way in. Richard shut the door behind them, offered them a drink (which they both declined), and lowered himself down in his armchair to wait out whatever bad news they'd come to drop.

Brad began first, after a meaningful look from his sister. "You're probably wondering why we're both here today, dad," he started. "It's just that we're -- "

"You're both getting tired of having to drive all the way up here to check on dear old dad, and figure it'll be easier if you can drop me in a nursing home and be done with it, right?" They looked surprised and guilty, and Richard chuckled humorlessly. "Don't think I haven't noticed the signs. You've been thinking of this for at least a year." He pointed an arthritic finger at Ellie's purse. "I'm sure you've got a stack of brochures in there to show me, don't you?" She blushed, which was all the answer he needed. He chuckled again.

"Well, yes, sir, we have been worried about you lately," Brad answered. Calm and collected again, Mr. Bigshot Lawyer ready to argue his case. "I mean, three times in the last month alone, you've called one of us to say that you can't find your keys or your glasses..."

Richard snorted. "Everyone loses things. Doesn't take being old and senile to do that."

"Still." Brad looked levelly at him. "We care about you, dad, but we can't keep caring for you this way. I've got my practice, and Ellie's got her own family to look after. It's an hour's drive here for either of us, and as you get older you're going to start needing more and more help... help we just can't give you if you're living in this house all by yourself."

Ellie reached out and put her hand on Richard's. "We're just worried about you, dad."

Richard pulled back sharply. "I don't need your worry. Or your pity -- just because I'm old doesn't mean I'm helpless, dammit -- or even some goddamn geezer hotel. I'm perfectly fine on my own, always have been, always will be." He folded his arms and glared at them both in turn. "So you can just save your meddling and your planning my life for me. I may be nearly seventy now but I'm still your father, just as much as I was when you were both growing up, and if I say that I'm perfectly self-sufficient, then that means that I'm -- "

"You're not any such thing," Ellie snapped back. "You're just proud. And pride will do you a fat lot of good if you fall on that damn sidewalk some December and break your leg. Again."

Brad looked positively mortified, but Ellie just pulled the rest home brochures out of her purse and slapped them down on the coffee table. "Your choice, dad. Pride or common sense." Then she rose to her feet. "Let's go. He doesn't need our help making any decisions, apparently."

They let themselves out, leaving Richard alone to stare moodily at the pile of brochures.