By Ethan (Randy) Choi
Art by Iza Fernandes
Back aches, heart wheezes, organs wrench – but this outpost needs you. Do it for green grass, the mailman, the sunrise, because who else can? You’re an adult. No, a soldier. No - a Super Trooper. Gas lamps, your headlights; coffee cans, your diesel; you're a hot rod engine. Turn your lights brighter, stand strong. You’ll be ready. Always ready for tomorrow. People will thank you – they must – and when they do: You’ll be their Hero.
Someone emerges from the inland streets. “Turn off that damn light.” An oldman yells. You’re startled, but too weak to flinch, instead chattering: “Sorry sir, I needed heat.” He glares, adjusting his coat.
“Go home then” he says. “Set a fire,”
“No, this post needs a watchman”
“What post?” He asks,
He’s right. This is barely a post, more of a box. But still, it has a vantage point. You point across the valley “See that east village?”
He takes a moment, “Heard they don’t speak our language,” he replied.
“Don’t have our language, our currency, no coffee cans either. I mean what else don’t they have? I’d kill for coffee. Just imagine them when winter comes,” you sneer. “Utter bat-shit,” “That’s why you’re here?” he sourly asks.
It is. It’s the Super Trooper M.O. - liberty, justice, and everything else. You’re the hero, “Self-appointed. Here to defend, built to last,” you say.
He scoffs.
“You a washing machine?”
A what!? “Fuck no, I’m a soldier,” you tell him.
“A sad soldier you are. Watching diddly squat.”
Oh, gramp’s just losing it. Doesn’t he know Johnny law? "Shut your geezered-ass. That’s an order.”
He backs off, "Listen kid, it’s just you out here. Nothing’s…”
A sudden rustle grabs your attention. Without delay, you run for your custom built Lebel Rifle – unauthorized, engraved with ‘Hupomone’.
You aim your rifle assiduously. Crickets, heartbeat, and breezes sound off, but just there: another rustle. BAM. A round expels, piercing through foliage; Jumping out, a fawn – scared but unharmed.
Shit.
Lights turn on in the east homes. Their troopers arrive, pointing at your light. This is horrendous. They’ll confiscate your rifle, boot you from the army, laugh at the boy who cried war.
“Wait.” The oldman grabs your arm. “Give it to me, people are easier on veterans.” Wait. Veteran? He has rank on you? “Regardless, It’s my responsibility. I’ve got to…” With ragged hands, he pokes your chest. It’s piercing yet warm. “You’ve done enough, get some sleep,” he says ,“At ease.”
You loosen your grip, dropping the gun into his hands. He shuffles into the booth, locking himself in. You watch him a moment longer, but it is time to go.
Grab each leg, take them home. One foot after another, each pace from the post questions the purpose of it all. Will you be fine? Will the oldman be fine? But as you look back towards him, you’re baffled. There's just an empty box – facing east as the sun starts to rise.
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