7 November 2020
Outside Inman, South Carolina
James Duncan’s morning coffee hadn’t been enjoyable since the day after the election. He stayed up late Tuesday night, much too late for a 70-year old retired lance corporal, and each morning since the routine had been the same. The hosts of his favorite Fox News morning show looked incredulous trying to explain how Trump lost the election as James started the 20-year old Bunn coffee pot. He was glad it kept working year after year, because those new machines just didn’t heat up enough to make coffee the way James liked it.
“President Trump is strategizing on how to challenge election results in Pennsylvania and Georgia,” Bret Baier was saying on this crisp fall Saturday northwest of Spartanburg. “Reports of election irregularities are filtering into the White House following the president’s loss on Tuesday to Joe Biden.”
“Can you believe that, Duke?” James said to his mutt dog, a Carolina plott hound mixed with something he couldn’t quite place. “God damn liberals trying to steal the election, just like they did my Mikey.”
James referred to his only son, Michael, to whom James had not spoken in 15 years. He always knew the boy was different, his mother spoiled him, James thought. Michael was 32 when he finally got the courage to come out to his father, telling him cooly, “Dad, I’m gay,” as James crumpled the styrofoam coffee cup at the diner in Taylors Mill, burning his fingers in the process. Michael worked for many years as a school teacher up in Asheville, teaching music at the historic Claxton Elementary School. James didn’t care much for Asheville. The drive up on I-26 was bad enough, but then there were the flaked out street kids and the hippy-dippy shops everywhere. Michael’s mother, Lottie, teased her son about grandkids often before she died of a sudden just before his 30th birthday. Barely into his mid 50s then, James tried to reconnect with his Mikey, as he always called him, but noticed an uncomfortable closeness between the boy and his roommate, Brian.
Following a few probing phone calls, Michael made a point to come visit his father just before Christmas to stand his ground, coming out to the old man as he told him why he was going to Brian’s parent’s in Greensboro for the holidays instead of keeping the old Marine company in his grief.
James took it as a dig, a final insult to all he’d done for Mikey, the theater costumes, the art supplies, the trumpet, the trombone and finally the expensive Spanish classical guitar when the boy settled on music in high school. It was bad enough that James had paid his tuition at Clemson all four years and even gave him money for his first apartment and some furniture when he moved to North Carolina after graduation. He didn’t want to cuss his son, so after shaking the hot java off his hand and wiping it with a napkin, James just got up and walked out. The two hadn’t spoken since.
The coffee pot gurgled a final few times and James looked out to the red and yellow leaves filtering the brilliant South Carolina sunshine. A few brown leaves littered his green yard and James figured he’d better get it raked so he could finish his errands and get home before the big Clemson-Notre Dame game that evening. Duke whimpered a bit, despite knowing how James disliked whining, and pawed at the door mat.
“Alright, boy, just a minute,” James said, finishing off his morning’s first cup of coffee before deciding to take the dog for a spin around the neighborhood.
As they stepped outside, the early November air hit James like a splash of fresh water. The suburban streets of Quail Ridge Phase II, about two miles outside of Inman, were quiet, the kind of silence that held memories of better times. He and Duke walked past houses that seemed to hunker down in preparation for winter, their windows like closed eyes, shut against the world.
James’s mind churned as they walked, each step a rhythm to the images burdening his head. He thought of his days in the Marines, the simplicity of knowing your enemy, of clear-cut missions and unwavering camaraderie. Those days were gone, replaced by a world that felt increasingly foreign. The values he had fought for, the honor and duty he held sacred, seemed to be slipping away, eroded by changing social mores.
Duke’s pace was slow, mirroring James’s own weary steps. His mind swirled, invigorated by fresh air and caffeine. He thought of the news segments he’d watched religiously, the pundits who echoed his frustrations, the sense of a country lost. They all fused into knots of rage and isolation. He longed for the days when life was simpler, when duty and honor were clear, unambiguous. Now, everything felt uncertain, the ground beneath his feet unsteady.
Reaching the end of the block, he paused, looking out at the quiet neighborhood. The sight of a yard with its Biden sign brought his simmering anger to a boil. It wasn’t just a sign; it was a symbol of everything he felt was wrong with the world. The election, the liberals, the changing morals—they all seemed to mock him, to challenge his very existence.
James tightened his grip on the leash, the leather creaking under the pressure. His breath came in short, sharp bursts as he struggled to contain the fury building inside. He wanted to shout, to make the world understand his pain, his frustration. But the words wouldn’t come. He was trapped in his own silence, a prisoner of his emotions.
Keith Hart woke with a sense of dread and excitement, the two emotions intertwining like the tangled sheets on his bed. Today was the day. Today, he would tell his daughters about Jenna. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, the morning light casting pale, shifting patterns. His mind drifted to his first marriage, the memories sharp and vivid despite the five years since the divorce.
It had ended in a blaze of betrayal, his own fault entirely. Emilia had been a good wife, a devoted mother. But there was a restlessness in Keith, a gnawing dissatisfaction that had nothing to do with her. He remembered the late nights at the office, the dinners with colleagues that turned into drinks, the subtle yet unmistakable flirtations that marked the beginning of the end.
Jenna had come into his life like a whirlwind, a spark that ignited something long dormant within him. She was ten years younger than Emilia, vibrant, with a laugh that made him feel alive. The affair started innocently enough—a business trip, a few too many drinks, and the next thing he knew, he was waking up beside her, guilt gnawing at his insides. He’d tried to stop, told himself it was a one-time thing, but the pull was too strong. Emilia found out eventually, of course. These things always come to light. The confrontation was explosive, tears and shouting that left him hollowed out and empty.
Keith sighed and sat up, running a hand through his thinning hair. Redemption. That’s what he hoped for now, with Jenna. A chance to start over, to do things right. He glanced out the window at the yard that demanded his attention, the leaves scattered like memories of better times. It was a perfect fall morning, the kind that made you believe in new things.
He pulled on his jacket, the fabric cool against his skin, and stepped outside. The scent of damp leaves filled his nostrils, earthy and grounding. He took a deep breath, feeling the crisp air invigorate him. As he scanned the yard, he spotted his neighbor, Hank, jogging over with a Biden sign under his arm, a wide grin on his face.
“Hey, Keith! Saw you took your signs down. How ‘bout I put this one up? We can do a little victory lap!”
Keith chuckled, shaking his head. “Sure, Hank. Why not? Fuck ‘em, right?”
Hank gave a mock salute, pushed the thin wire stand into the yard, and jogged off. Keith watched him go, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Hank’s enthusiasm was infectious, but today was not the day for hubris.
He grabbed the rake, the wooden handle smooth and familiar in his grip. As he began to work, the rhythmic scrape against the ground matched the growing anxiety in his chest. His thoughts drifted to his father’s upcoming 85th birthday, a milestone that felt both significant and burdensome. His father, a stoic man of few words, had always been a looming presence in his life, a benchmark of what it meant to be a man. Keith's failed marriage gave him a sense of inadequacy, a feeling that he had somehow fallen short.
And then there was Emilia. Even after the divorce, she was a constant presence, a ghost that refused to fade. The demands never ceased—payments, decisions about the girls, endless negotiations that left him drained. He thought about their last argument, her voice sharp and cutting, accusing him of neglect, of being an absent father. The guilt was a constant companion, a weight he couldn’t shake.
He raked the leaves into neat piles, his movements almost mechanical. The physical exertion provided a temporary respite from the chaos in his mind. He remembered the early days with Jenna, the excitement of a new love, the stolen moments that felt like a rebellion against the mundane. But now, with the prospect of integrating her into his family, the complexity of the situation loomed large.
His daughters were the light of his life, the one thing he hadn’t managed to screw up completely. Telling them about Jenna felt like stepping into a minefield. He imagined their faces, the hurt and confusion. He wanted them to understand, to see that he was trying to be happy, to make things right. But he knew it wouldn’t be easy. The past had a way of casting long shadows.
The rake scraped against the ground, the sound mirroring the turmoil in his heart. He paused, leaning on the handle, and looked up at the sky, the blue expanse offering no answers. The future was uncertain, filled with potential but also with pitfalls. Keith closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his resolve. Today was the day. He had to face it head-on, for his sake and for the sake of those he loved.
James turned the corner onto Keith’s street, each step measured, deliberate, as if he were back on patrol in some forgotten jungle. The anger simmered just below the surface, a restless beast pacing its cage. The country was unrecognizable. Honor, duty, sacrifice—those words meant something once. Now, they were relics, gathering dust like the medals in his drawer.
His thoughts churned like a storm, memories of childhood flickering past—long summer days in Spartanburg, playing stickball until the streetlights came on. His father’s firm hand on his shoulder, the deep voice that brooked no argument: “Stand tall, son.” The pride of marching in parades, the flag snapping in the breeze. Those days felt like a dream now, receding into the fog of the past.
As he walked, his eyes narrowed, focusing on the present. The houses on this street stood in neat rows, each one a fortress of suburban comfort. Lawns meticulously manicured, autumn leaves raked into obedient piles. But beneath the surface, James saw decay, the rot of changing morals and shifting loyalties.
Then he saw it—Keith’s yard, another Biden sign standing defiantly amid the fallen leaves. It was like a slap to the face, a taunt. Blood boiled, the simmering anger erupting into a full blaze.
James stopped, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. His vision tunneled, the world narrowing to the sight of that sign. It wasn’t just a piece of cardboard; it was a symbol of everything wrong. The election, the liberals, the erosion of values he held dear.
His mind flashed back to the last conversation with Michael, each word a dagger. “Times are changing, Dad. You have to change with them.” But James didn’t want to change. He wanted the world to make sense again, to have rules he understood.
His heart pounded in his chest, a war drum. A tall man was out in the yard, raking leaves, oblivious to the storm brewing just down the street. James’s jaw clenched so tight he could feel the grind of his teeth. He started forward, a freight train of fury, the leash in his hand taut as Duke sensed the tension.
Memories assaulted him—marching in formation, the bark of drill sergeants, the crack of gunfire. The clarity of purpose, the bond of brothers. He’d fought for his country, bled for it, and now it felt like it was slipping away, one election at a time.
The Biden sign loomed larger, a beacon of everything he despised. He could almost hear his father’s voice again: “Don’t back down, son. Never back down.” The mantra repeated in his mind, a steady rhythm that propelled him forward.
He reached the edge of Keith’s yard, his face a mask of fury. He could see Keith now, the man’s back turned, oblivious to the approaching storm. James’s hands curled into fists, the leash cutting into his palm. He had no plan, only rage.
Keith was thinking of his daughters’ visit that afternoon, raking furiously, when he noticed James approaching. The old man’s face was a mask of fury. Keith’s grip tightened on the rake as he called out, “Hey there, how ya doing?”
James stopped, eyes blazing. “I think you’re an idiot.”
Keith’s jaw clenched. “Blow it out your ass.”
Something snapped in James. He stormed across the yard, a whirlwind of anger, and chest-bumped Keith. Keith stumbled back, tripping over the Biden sign and crashing to the ground.
Keith’s rage flared. He surged to his feet, towering over James. “Get the fuck out of my yard, you old bastard!” he bellowed, fists clenched.
James stumbled back, Duke barking furiously at his side. The old man’s bravado crumbled as Keith loomed over him. He turned and shuffled away, muttering under his breath. Keith watched him go, chest heaving, then picked up the crumpled Biden sign and tossed it onto the leaf pile. The political noise, all of it, seemed so pointless in the face of everyday life.
James walked down the street, his mind a swirl of emotion. The confrontation had left him feeling vindicated yet exhausted. He’d stood his ground, made his point, but the anger still burned within him, a smoldering fire that refused to simmer down. The decision crystallized in his mind as he walked toward home—he would open carry his pistol from now on.