Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes. – Carl Jung
Let’s be honest with ourselves for a moment. The old man had late-onset agoraphobia because he was scared to death he might get in trouble if he left the neighborhood. If he left the block. If he left the house. This room.
Costs to leave. Helped there was nowhere around here to go. Their home was nearly three miles from the front gate. He didn’t enjoy going that far without a good reason. A compelling reason. Like if he was out of beer or something. Maybe get a Kegerator. That might be unwise, the old man told himself. While another voice, oh, go ahead. Running out of something to drink was his only way to cut back.
Had to laugh at something in the morning’s paper.
Residents living in a quiet neighborhood – my neighborhood – are being hassled by a group of hawks dive-bombing retirees as they walk to their mailboxes. Red-shouldered hawks – according to the retirees – seem to be getting more aggressive each time. Wildlife officials refuse to remove the birds.
The whole ordeal has left the victims along the street without many options. One 88-year-old man has taken to wearing a pith helmet after he was struck and sent to the hospital.
You can’t keep old people from their mail. There might be a check from Publisher’s Clearing House or a card from a grandchild. Maybe a coupon for a free meal at Carrabba’s, if you listen to some young punk in a bad suit try to sell you insurance for an hour or two.
The old man thought about Kevlar umbrellas, because he looked kinda stupid in a pith helmet.
An umbrella like that would also come in handy during holiday celebrations in the Sunshine State. Banana republic where folks like to shoot guns into the air. They’re just so happy it’s America’s birthday or it’s Cousin Chico’s birthday. Maybe some pregnant girl got married or some dimwit managed to finally get out of high school with a diploma. So exciting I have to shoot hot lead into the air, killing missiles land I don’t give a shit what I hit. Or who.
River Run was after all a bird sanctuary. That’s what he told everybody who asked. Tortoises, too.
You should be proud those hawks chose your neighborhood. Ducking those winged assassins will keep you young. Would you shoot them for us, someone wondered, pretending not to ask the question.
The old man’s mind began to wander as his neighbor wondered aloud, would you shoot them for us? Those words. Would. You. Shoot. Them. For. Us. Like he was some sort of Manchurian Candidate, programmed to snap awake, at the sound of those six syllables.
That is just six, right?
A witch had once told him his lucky number was six.
A staff sergeant had told him to do stuff he couldn’t remember but knew had to be bad.
Would you shoot them for us?