8165. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #55

55. MR. SHERIFF GUY

There was one guy  -  I'm leaving

him un-named because it won't

matter  -  who had just come back

from Vietnam. It was a tour of

duty there that he had reveled in,

and let everyone know that. I

didn't know him in any way

before his Vietnam duty, and

only met him as he returned,

after his military time. A complete

loser, in my eyes, immediately.

He reveled in the details and the

methods of each kill, and let

anyone he met, or who in any

way seemed to care or ask, of it.

Before his military duty, he had

been a restless and troublesome

sort. As in so many of the local

families, he'd faced that awkward

situation of being the younger son,

after the old son had already taken

over the family house and farm  -

which happened a lot. There was

a sort of 'primogeniture' at work

thereabouts, a form of property

turnover somehow, an ancient

code actually, in which the eldest,

or first son, gets everything  -

carries on the family farm,

takes ownership of the family

homestead, establishes room

and care therein too for the aging

parents (and sometimes buried

them in the yard plots I've

mentioned, when that time came).

Daughters, in turn, were just

expected to marry out and join

in the very same process within

their new, married-in family set.

All of which left the younger son,

or sons, out of luck, as it were  -

rootless, listless, and facing a

pick-it-up-for-themselves scene.

It worked in many different ways

some cut a portion of the large

farm, and granted the younger

son his own hundred acres or so,

a house for them would then be

built in proximity (thus the often

off mix of fine, grand old farmsteads

with small, square and boxy little

homes right nearby), others were

picked up as tenant farmers,

working with and on their older

brother's farm and process, at that

point perhaps a joint-family

business-venture, or whatever.

It worked in various ways, and

not always successfully. Like a

Hollywood script, there were

left behind disjointed or angered

brothers, seething men with little

more to do, men with a mission

to get back or take back, foul men,

men who'd become vicious. The

sort who'd begin shooting blackbirds

off of clotheslines, restless, rootless

types. Angry, they'd go away, move

other places, the small, grubby cities

like Elmira, second-chance towns,

fall-out places for fall-out men. A

few would venture to larger cities,

itinerant and rootless. Industrial jobs,

strings of women, nasty tales and

stories, criminals. It's an ageless

American, and Human, tale in all

cultures. A Cain and Abel twist.

You can name your own, I'm sure.

Ronnie, the fellow here I'll call so,

was tough, proud, bombastic and

forward. A pugilist, in your face

type  -  bad language and bad

manners. He'd worked previous

at the Sylvania plant, a vast and

sprawling lightbulb factory about

30 miles away, or more, towards

Towanda   -  another catch-all

basin for those in need. Work.

Job. Pay. Menial stuff.

Second-tier jobs for sure, almost

the equivalent of, today, working

a fast-food schmuck job. There

weren't any then. He drifted a bit,

and then joined the military, for

Vietnam. When he returned, he

hired himself out for farm work,

around, and eventually got a job

on the local, Troy, PA police

force  -  driving around, mostly

nabbing travelers on Rt. 6 as it

went through town, and writing

speeding tickets and such. More

on that in a bit. It all kind of

fit him, walking around fully 

armed and all that, but it didn't

say much  -  in my opinion  -  

for law enforcement and the

standards of. Yet, these were

all little, hick towns on the 

farm roads to nowhere. Any 

real trouble, the State Troopers 

were called in, Towanda Barracks. 

If Ron (actually his real 1st name),

needed backup anyway, it would 

probably have been for a massacre 

he started. 

-

Have you ever seen a really 

dumb or ferocious-looking 

security guard, or maybe even 

a mall cop? Well, that was the 

appearance Ronnie gave off, but

with a real gun or two attached, 

and a radio contact thing to 

Headquarters, and handcuffs and 

all that. He was a real cop. The

mall cop who looks dumb you

can laugh off. Ron you couldn't.

Besides all the murder stories of

Vietnam (he was a Sergeant, desk

or not)  -  I'm telling you the

truth, this guy was a murderer - in

cold blood, forget the 'wartime' 

excuse. He'd somehow been set 

loose in Vietnam enough to be a

one-man killing crew  -  he'd a

penchant for telling his story of 

how (supposedly) he'd pull over  

all the beautiful blonds, or any

female  -  pulled over on Rt. 6

because he liked their looks  - 

and how he'd try to 'scare' them 

into a form of cooperation to 

keep out of a ticket, and have it 

it work too, his 'traffic stop.' I 

really, really, never knew what 

to believe, and I can imagine 

that any 'Authority' is scary 

on an unknown roadway, but

some of his stories were insane.

Coercing someone to show their

breasts and stuff like that, sure,

sure, tell me another one, but 

past that point, give me a break.

Sledgehammer shithead. That's

what I called him, to myself.

Nobody ever turned him in, or

I don't think. Although one 

morning, just like that, no 

more Rick, no more Rick's 

family. Mae, his wife, and 

Jennie Ann, or something, his

small kid, just gone. I never

asked, and no one ever told 

me a thing, but traffic down 

there seemed to run a lot 

smoother.

-

He also used to talk some gory

bad scenes in Vietnam.  Not

battlefield stuff  -  he wasn't

there, exactly, he was in some

town or village location and 

every 'gook' to him was a 

VietCong waiting to kill him.

Perhaps it was like that, I don't

know. But the graphic aspects 

of his stories were disgusting. 

I will tell one, and then I'm 

done with this. He would have

sex at will, any village gook 

would do. He be finished, she'd

be done, he'd take her by the 

neck, twist, and throw her 

down the flight of stairs. As 

she was at the bottom, crumpled

up, he'd shoot her. I heard that

same story, in variations of

plenitude, more than too many

times. Using Army parlance, 

they were all enemy-actives, 

not deserving to live on past 

one-use. I was stunned the

first few times I heard this 

crap, after that just nauseous

from disgust. You need to

remember, I'd just come from

a concentrated dose of lower

eastside antiwar activism, in

which we'd taken lots of bad

chances, lost a few souls, moved

many more along their way to

Canada, acted illegally often

to get things done, and took lots

of chancy steps. So this shit

could come home and be a 

policeman? You could probably

smell my disillusionment setting

in, even over the wafting headsplit

of manure's finer odor. No honor

among thieves; or killers either.

-

Does this sound perplexing to you?

Not real? Well sit back, it's real.

This is the same yokel who I'd see

punch a cow in the face or head,

a real, nasty, human punch, to get

its attention or move it along on

its recalcitrant way. He was foul. 

He treated his own wife worse 

than the cows. It was just sad, 

and insufferable that the modern 

era of that time could cast up an

individual, a product of time and

place and general schooling, and 

of Army service, acting for and 

'promoting' American ideals, and

seriously call him a man.