Militia Men

Published by Lonely Whale Press Astoria, Oregon ©2023 by William Dean All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred. Cover and Interior Design by We Got You Covered Book Design ISBN: 978-1-7373452-8-2 For Ann “I’m no hero. I’m a survivor.” Alexandra Austin, United States senator DO YOU HAVE any regrets? What a dumb question. Regrets? Oh yeah, I’m drowning in them. There’s no escape. This place is a deep, murky pool of regret and all you can do is tread water, wishing things had gone down differently, or yield to the pain and drown. Two choices. Two levels of hell. “So many,” I answer in a tiny voice. “Too many.” You seem tense. She’s looking at my hands and I realize that I’m gripping the edges of the square sofa cushion so hard my knuckles are white and my fingernails are buried deep in the fabric, a faded cream. It’s an ugly couch, not well-suited for a shrink’s office because it’s not even long enough to lie on. But nothing is what it should be here. Everything is a terrible version of itself. Especially me. “Sorry,” I say, willing my fingers to unlatch. They slowly do. What would you have done differently? “Everything.” The word comes out sounding vaguely hopeful, like the start of a confession. “I’d have done just about everything differently.” I brave a faint smile. She writes something in her notes and it makes me gulp because I have to get out and she holds the key. I miss freedom and its quirks. I even miss the homeless people who pushed their shopping carts every day in front of my shop. I don’t think I’d shoo them away anymore if I was free. I’d get to know them … if I was truly alive again. My heart beats a little faster. The first beads of sweat are forming. All this treading water. I start squeezing the cushion again. “I wouldn’t have gone to Portland that night. I wouldn’t have let him join.” More scribbles in the pad on her lap. She says nothing, just lets the silence float there like an ambiguous cloud, one with the power to either bring rain or allow sunshine. “I … I don’t want to talk about Sean anymore.” It’s a plea, not a request. A numbered man in an orange jumpsuit doesn’t have much sway. Actually, he’s got none at all. Her face remains a blank. A freshly painted wall with nothing hanging on it. She taps her pen, peers over the top of her reading glasses. Why did you make the call, Robb? I hesitate. Is this a trick question? She’s cocked her head, taking stock. Assessing. The air seems thick as pie. “I was out of options,” I say finally. “Nothing I’d tried worked and now she’s in the trunk. He’s in the passenger seat with the gun. … I WE WERE STONERS in high school, me and Sean. There was a covered place behind the old gym where we could fire one up and not be seen. A blind spot. We called it “The Office” because we put in regular hours. We thought that was hilarious. Sometimes the janitor, Ancient Al, would join us for a couple of tokes and reminisce about his glory days in a blues band on one gritty side of Chicago or another. South or east, I could never keep it straight. We enjoyed his stories, though. For a wrinkled old dude with a kinky Santa beard, he was cool. We liked getting high and listening to him play the trumpet. Jocks would stop by after practice to buy a few Js, which put some cash in our pockets. We sold them shitty, throat-scouring weed for about five times what it cost us. Dumb asses. The hot chicks? We’d give them our best pot for free if they were chill. So, definitely not the stuck-up cheerleaders or student government clones or anyone with a GPA over 3.5. Except Layla Meadows. She moved to our tidy Oregon town in senior year. Her Hippie parents named her after the Clapton song, she told us with one of her trademark shrugs that seemed to say “whatever.” She grew up in an orange VW camper van, roaming the country, back and forth, and then back again. Never staying in one place for long. Her mom and dad were basically minstrels, playing guitar and performing one-act plays they’d written themselves. Donations dropped into a striped Seuss hat paid for food and gas. At Astoria High, she was a rule-busting rebel, which I guess is why she’d skip class now and then to hang with us. She was always super friendly, which is saying something because she was hard-core Goth back then, with body ink and piercings and the whole nine yards, down to her racoon eyes and the red streak running through her black hair. Layla was also really smart – an honor student. That amazed Sean and me since we never once saw her with a textbook or heard her ask a single question in class. She’d just sit in the back row, drawing stuff in the sketch pad she always carried around. Mostly swirly, mystical things that flowed from her imagination. Van Gogh on acid. I’d sneak a peek once in a while and she’d catch me, then flip me off under her desk. That always cracked me up. The three of us became good friends. Sean liked how she played shooter games and