The John Wayne Effect
Aaron had been back in Proctor, Minnesota, just a couple of weeks, after eight years’ exile in Winnipeg, avoiding the Vietnam draft. He’d come back the summer after Saigon fell, the war effectively finished, but his exile status uncertain. There was talk of an amnesty, but he didn’t know the details. A cop car was parked along the curb, and he tried not to walk too fast past it, like he was avoiding them. Two cops sat in the car. It was as if he could feel their eyes on his back. Or maybe it was just draft dodger paranoia. A little of both, he reckoned.
Aaron paused at the door to the hardware store, Bostwick’s, and glanced at the cops, who pulled away from the curb. Their car rolled by him slowly and the cop in the passenger seat looked at him and smiled but they kept going. Aaron watched them disappear down the street and then made sure he had enough money in his pocket as he entered the store.
He wished he had driven instead of walked because he was going to have to carry what he needed and cross the creek weighed down. He knew that in Vietnam, it had been called humping. He’d read about that stuff in a Canadian newspaper. Soldiers humped this and humped that—packs, weapons, ammo, food, and whatnot.
In one of the aisles, Aaron found the most important item he wanted, an American flag. The biggest one they had. It was folded neatly and sealed in plastic. Patriotism in a package. He checked the dimensions of all of them to be sure it was the largest. Unfurled, it would be hard to miss. He was approached by a store clerk, a tall and skinny man with a shaved head, and wearing a bright blue employee vest over his flannel shirt.
“Finding what you need, pardner?” the clerk said, smiling. He had a chirpy, annoying voice.
“Oh, yeah,” Aaron said more enthusiastically than he planned and holding up his packaged flag. “I’ve got a cracking good stars and stripes here, for sure.”
“Excellent,” the clerk said, his voice rising in pitch and a bit shrill for Aaron’s taste. “Memorial Day will be here before you know it.”
Aaron had forgotten about Memorial Day. He suddenly realized how odd it would be, a day for vets, given the fall of Saigon so fresh on everyone’s minds. But it wasn’t his problem. Live by the sword, die by the sword.
“You’ll be needing a cracking good flagpole now,” the clerk said.
“Thinking of making my own,” Aaron said. “With pulleys and rope—you know?”
He made a motion with his hands like he was pulling a rope and raising a flag.
The clerk gestured down the aisle.
“But we have some ready-made flagpoles. Long ones, short ones—anything you need, pardner.”
Aaron nodded and smiled politely. He was already tired of that pardner business.
“And I know they must be crackerjack poles. But I have to carry all this shit home and it’s a hike.”
“We can deliver,” the clerk said hopefully.
Aaron was tempted. But he didn’t care to take any shortcuts. He wanted to truly own the project and do all the work himself. There was a length of galvanized pipe behind the trailer, perhaps forty or more feet long. It would do nicely. He would need rope, bolts for the pulleys, and the tools necessary were already at the trailer. He had learned a thing or two about using tools laboring for years in a Winnipeg factory. He could figure things out.
“Just point me to the rope and pulleys, man,” Aaron said. “I’ll do the rest.”
The clerk seemed disappointed and frowned.
“Just doing my job,” he said evenly.
“I know you are,” Aaron said, glancing at the clerk’s nametag. “Me, too—Ronald.”
Ronald showed him the way but lingered—hovered. He watched Aaron assess how much rope was needed. Aaron tried to ignore him as he examined different pulleys.
“Those are the finest pulleys the industry makes,” Ronald said proudly.
Aaron nodded but avoided eye contact.
“They do seem like pretty amazing pulleys. The stuff of dreams, really.”
“Dreams?” Ronald said. “I don’t get it.”
“They’re dandy pulleys.”
“Damn straight they are.”
After collecting everything he figured he’d need, Aaron went to the register and bought a cheap pack to carry the pulleys and their hardware. He coiled the rope and draped it around his neck. He thought the teenage girl cashier at the counter looked a little disturbed by the sight of the rope draped on him, like an enormous snake, but she didn’t say anything. She popped her chewing gum.
“It’s a long walk,” he said. “It’s a lot of gear to hump.”
She frowned at the word. He knew she probably didn’t understand. Or maybe she was grossed out by its other meaning.
“It’s a load to carry, I mean.”
She nodded and looked bored again. She popped her gum. Aaron already hated the sound—like a gunshot.
Ronald sauntered up to the register and winked at the girl cashier, who ignored him.
“Find everything you need?” Ronald said, now sounding cocky.
“I’m a satisfied customer,” Aaron said cheerfully.
“Well, pardner, that’s what we aim for.”
“Couldn’t have done it without you, Ronald—pardner.”
Ronald seemed to miss the sarcasm. He preened and leaned against the register, winking again at the girl.
“You’re crowding me,” she said without looking at him. “I have to ring this up, Ronald. Shoo, fly!”
Aaron heard disdain in how she said the name.
“Pardon me for living,” Ronald said teasingly.
After Aaron paid and had loaded the pack, Ronald offered his hand.
“What’s that for?” Aaron said.
“It’s a pleasure to do business with a fellow patriot.”
“I’m just buying a flag,” Aaron said.
“But it’s our biggest one.”
“Big is what I’m going for.”
“Big makes a statement, brother.”
Aaron finally accepted his hand. The grip was strong.
“A statement is what I’m looking for, for sure—brother.”
“Have a good Memorial Day,” Ronald said.
“And you, too. In these trying times.”
Ronald looked confused.
“What do you mean?”
“The war,” Aaron said, adjusting the pack’s straps to get it riding just right.
“What about it?”
“We lost.”
“Where’d you get that?”
“It was on TV. In all the papers.”
“Did we?” Ronald frowned and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Here he goes again,” the girl cashier said. She left the register, popping her gum loudly.
“Sure looked that way on TV,” Aaron said.
“That’s just propaganda.”
“Really?”
“Of course. We didn’t lose.”
“How do you figure that?” Aaron said.
“Because there wasn’t anything more to do over there. That’s why we left.”
Ronald shrugged like it was obvious, an irrefutable answer to a math equation no one else could solve.
“What about those North Vietnamese tanks rolling into Saigon?” Aaron said.
“Staged,” Ronald said smugly.
“I see. And very well done, I’d say.”
“Of course. Hollywood helped with that.”
“It wasn’t filmed in Saigon?”
“Florida, probably. To look realistic.”
“Well, it looked genuine to me. But I guess we never really know, do we?”
“Exactly,” Ronald said.
He looked quite happy, Aaron thought.
Stupid, but happy.
* * *
Aaron lived in an old trailer out in the country. His cousin Jack had loaned it to him until he could get his exile status worked out. The trailer sat nestled in a grove of trees near a creek. It couldn’t be seen from the road and Aaron liked it that way. He had money saved from working at the factory and figured to just cruise for a while and see what developed. The trailer was rent free because Aaron agreed to help around Jack’s farm.
Aaron bolted the pulleys to the pole and strung the ropes, and then dug a deep hole as a base. That’s what really took time. But he had time. He wanted to do it right, make it look good. It had warmed up. He stripped to the waist and worked up a sweat. The hard work felt good, purposeful.
But the pole was too long and heavy to raise by himself. He hadn’t really thought that through. He realized it was a two-man job, even with ropes properly rigged. He didn’t want to ask Jack to help him because of what he had planned with the flag once the pole was up. That might offend him. He wasn’t sure about that. They hadn’t yet talked about his situation, the exile bullshit, and amnesty. Or the war. That was a coming conversation. Jack had gotten out of going to Vietnam because he inherited the farm when his dad died. The local draft board had seen to that.
Aaron drank another Stroh’s and contemplated the pole dilemma. It was quite out of the question to raise it alone. He wracked his brain for ideas involving rope, but a solution eluded him. He finally drove back to town, to Bostwick’s, in an old VW Jack loaned him. He was hoping an idea would come to him.
He cruised up and down aisles, looking—hoping—for inspiration, a clue, even some equipment that might solve the puzzle. Nothing jumped out at him. He ran into Ronald when he rounded a corner to another aisle.
“Well, you’re back,” Ronald said.
“I guess I just can’t stay away, for sure.”
“How’d that awesome flag work out for you?”
“It didn’t.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Not a damn thing. It’s the pole—too tall for one man to raise.”
“How tall is it?”
“Forty feet.”
“Jesus. That’s a hell of a pole.”
“Taller than the one at the high school, I reckon.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely—the one at the school is maybe thirty feet tops. I’ve got it beat by at least ten feet, man.”
“Maybe so,” Ronald said, nodding. “But what are you going to do?”
“Go find some help, I guess. It sure as shit ain’t going to raise itself.”
Aaron shrugged and walked toward the door. He had no idea where the manpower might come from. It looked like his grand gesture with the flag was stillborn.
“Tell you what,” Ronald said. “I’ll help you.”
Aaron stopped in his tracks. It was not the most appealing idea he’d ever heard. Ronald was a bit of a patriotic lunatic, he figured. But beggars can’t be choosers. And Ronald was tall, almost six-three. That would help. Raising the flag meant tying a rope to it and one man pulling it up, the taller man pushing it up as it moved forward and settled into the hole. Absent a crane, that was the only way. He wheeled toward Ronald.
“Don’t you have to work?”
Ronald shook his head.
“My shift’s almost over. I can leave early if it’s a delivery. This sort of qualifies, since you bought the flag here.”
“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“You’re not.”
“I see,” Aaron said. “So, just why do you want to help, Ronald?”
“Well, you’re a customer, for starters. And it’s the American flag. I reckon it’s my patriotic duty.”
Aaron winced. He regretted it already.
“Ronald, we won’t be running the stars and stripes up a hill on Iwo Jima.”
“The flag’s the flag,” Ronald said, grinning maniacally and stripping off his blue clerk’s vest.
Aaron thought about his plans for the flag, now aided by a lunatic store clerk who believed in blind patriotism. What could possibly go wrong?
* * *
Aaron drove them out to the trailer in a light rain, but it had stopped by the time they got there. Aaron slipped the rope around the pole and they positioned it on the lip of the deep hole. Ronald pushed the pole up as far as he could while Aaron pulled on the rope and incrementally they got it up and it slipped firmly into the hole. Aaron wished he had some concrete for a proper base, but the pole seemed stable enough. He could add concrete later.
“All damn right,” Ronald yelled, his arms waving above him, as if Proctor High had scored another touchdown over an archrival.
“Hold your horses, Ronald. We’re not quite done yet.”
But Aaron stepped back and admired his work. It was not a bad job at all. He pushed against the pole, but it felt solid, stable. It didn’t move. It looked like it could even withstand some wind. He unfolded the flag. It was as big as advertised. The Godzilla of flags. It would really stand out, especially more than forty feet up. It was taller than most of the nearby trees.
Aaron took a moment and thought about what he was about to do. He glanced at Ronald, who seemed thrilled by it all, his eyes wild, spittle in the corners of his mouth. Aaron wondered if the guy had a couple loose screws. What was coming would certainly put him to the test. Hell, it would probably put the whole county to the test.
He attached the flag—upside down—sighed heavily, and slowly raised it to the top of the pole, glancing at Ronald several times as the flag went up. A breeze snared it for a moment, and it fluttered proudly, but then fell limp. It could probably be seen for miles and certainly from the road, which was the idea.
Aaron couldn’t say exactly why he’d done it, only that it felt right.
Ronald looked flummoxed, hands on his hips, staring at an upside-down American flag.
“Hey—you got it wrong, man,” he said, pointing.
“I don’t think so,” Aaron said quietly, arms crossed over his chest. “That’s exactly how I want it.”
“But it’s not right.”
“But it is, Ronald. It’s—perfect.”
Ronald looked almost sad—desperate—and glared.
“Aaron—it’s upside down, for fuck’s sake.”
“Good catch, Ronald. Nothing gets by you, man.”
Aaron stepped back some more and admired his handiwork. A breeze caught the flag and it shimmied nicely, but then fell limp again.
“What the hell’s going on here, Aaron? How come it’s upside down?”
Aaron figured Ronald must truly be a dumb sonofabitch. A boy in a man’s body raised to salute the flag and never question what it symbolized, what the country did under that banner. The John Wayne effect. Ronald probably watched old Wayne movies and believed they were real, that old Duke Wayne had won all the wars single-handedly.
“You really don’t know what it means to fly it upside down, Ronald?”
“It’s just a mistake.” Ronald shrugged. “We can fix it.”
“No mistake.” Aaron pulled hard on the rope, to see how taut it was. “There’s nothing to fix.”
Aaron went to the trailer and got them a couple of beers and lawn chairs. He figured Ronald could stand a beer about now. He owed him that much for the help. When he came back, he was half-surprised Ronald hadn’t hauled the flag down and raised it right-side up. But Ronald looked too confused to act. Like a deer frozen by car headlights. Aaron handed him a cold Stroh’s and sat in a lawn chair.
“C’mon, Ronald, have a seat.”
“This is bullshit,” Ronald said.
“Whatever,” Aaron said. “Enjoy your beer, for God’s sake We worked hard.”
Ronald shifted the cold beer can from hand to hand.
“What have we done?” Ronald said quietly.
“We put a flag up, man. Go on, now—sit and enjoy your brewski. You earned it.”
Ronald finally swigged some beer and looked again at the limp flag before awkwardly unpacking his length into the lawn chair. It seemed too small for him.
“Just what the hell does it mean, Aaron, to fly it upside down? I don’t get it.”
Aaron took a healthy swig and swallowed, waiting for the alcohol to explode in his stomach. He was quite pleased with his flag.
“Distress, Ronald. It signals distress.”
Ronald gulped his beer.
“But for what?”
“Well, shit, brother—for Vietnam, for starters. And don’t tell me we won, Ronald. We came home with our tails between our legs. I’m feeling the distress all over the damn place.”
Ronald stared at Aaron, the look one of disbelief and a little bit of anger, too.
“Were you there, in Vietnam?”
“Oh, hell, no, man. I’ve been up in Canada. Cold but safe.”
Ronald arched his eyebrows. He sagged into his chair.
“Jesus—you’re just a fucking draft dodger.”
“Well, now, I really do prefer draft avoider, Ronnie Boy.”
“Yeah? Well, how about traitor then?”
Aaron wagged a finger at him and narrowed his eyes.
“Careful, bubba—that’s thin ice you just stepped onto.”
Ronald chugged the rest of his beer and crumpled the can in his fist, the small-boy gesture of a would-be tough guy. He tossed the can and abruptly stood up, the lawn chair tipping over. More small-boy drama.
“Now, don’t get your panties in a bunch, Ronald.”
“Fuck you, asshole.”
Ronald grabbed the rope, to haul the flag down, but Aaron leaped from his chair and swatted it out of his hands. Ronald put up his fists and circled, like he was a prizefighter, but he looked slow and unconvincing to Aaron, who figured the guy had never been in a real fight. He was just a paper tiger.
“Sit down, Ronald.”
“I won’t, by God.”
He circled Aaron some more.
“Don’t be a damn fool, Ronald,” Aaron said. “Hey—how about another beer?”
“Fuck you and your damn traitor beer,” he said, and then he lunged, but Aaron easily ducked under the telegraphed roundhouse and caught Ronald twice with swift punches to the stomach. Ronald went down hard, like a sack of potatoes. He rolled in the grass, coughing, and tightened into a fetal position at the base of a tree. Ronald moaned like a beaten dog.
Aaron watched him a moment and finished his beer. He’d learned to fight at the Winnipeg factory, where the older men had also called him a draft dodger. It was sink or swim back there. But he regretted it coming to this with Ronald. It was maybe inevitable, but he still wasn’t happy about it. Ronald was just an overgrown kid who didn’t know shit from shinola. He’d been brainwashed by American arrogance and hubris. He believed the lies about the rocket’s red glare and those amber waves of grain. He went down on one knee and put his hand on Ronald’s shoulder.
“Okay, man. Just catch your breath. That’s it—breathe slowly. In and out. Slowly. You’ll be okay in a minute.”
Ronald wheezed and blinked his eyes rapidly. Saliva rolled down his chin. But his breathing quickly returned to normal. He rubbed his gut.
Aaron knew he’d just knocked the wind out of the star-spangled prick. He’d avoided the ribs. No real damage done. Aaron didn’t want to hurt him, tempting as it was. He’d made his point nicely. Like with the upside-down flag.
“Back with us, champ?” Aaron said.
Ronald nodded. He tried to get up, but Aaron gently held him down.
“Don’t rush it, brother. Get your wits back first.”
“Okay,” Ronald said. “Okay.”
Aaron glanced at the flag. Wind caught it, the flag snapping like a whip before going limp again. He looked down at Ronald, whose eyes were moist, glassy.
“I couldn’t go,” Ronald said sadly.
“Go where?”
“To Vietnam.”
He sounded like a kid denied a swimming pool pass for the summer.
“Jesus,” Aaron said. “Did you want to?”
“Well, yeah,” Ronald said after a pause. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Oh, I don’t know—because you might have been killed, or had your dick blown off? And for what?”
“To defend our country, of course.”
“Defend it against what?” Aaron said. “Jesus H. Christ—were the Viet Cong going to paddle to Minnesota in canoes?”
Ronald moved his mouth but had no immediate answer. Aaron stood up. He felt a little sick by it all. The thrill was gone, as the B.B. King song suggested.
“Why couldn’t you go to Vietnam?” Aaron said after a moment. “As if that’s a bad thing.”
Ronald coughed. He wiped his nose with the back of his dirty hand.
“I had some stomach ulcers.”
“Lucky bastard.”
“You think so?”
“Give me a treatable ulcer any day, brother. Beats the shit out of Viet-damn-nam.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” Ronald shook his head. “I just don’t know anymore.”
“No maybes about it, man. Trust me, Ronald, you got the better deal.”
Ronald looked away a moment.
“So, why’d you go to Canada?”
Aaron put a hand on the pole. He’d been asked that question a million times, and it was now far beyond tedious. It was a question without an answer.
“To go fishing.”
Ronald looked exasperated.
“For eight years?”
“They were biting.”
Ronald stared at him, a lingering gaze, and then he smiled, and finally laughed, wincing and holding his tender stomach.
“That’s a good one—they were biting,” he said. “I like that one.”
“Thought you might.”
Ronald righted his lawn chair and slowly, awkwardly climbed into it, sighing. Aaron thought there might be an air of grudging acceptance settling over him. Or maybe it was just simmering anger, the flame turned down low for now on a back burner. Ronald leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He stared at the ground. Aaron fetched two more beers. They sat a while without saying anything. Aaron broke the silence.
“You still regret you didn’t go to Vietnam, Ronald?”
Ronald tilted his head back for a few seconds, as though the answer could be read up in some cloud.
“Hell if I know, man. Sometimes, I’m not sure at all what anything means.”
“I can relate, man. For sure.”
Ronald finished his beer, glanced at the flag, and turned to Aaron.
“Now what?”
Aaron went over to the pole. He looked up and then at Ronald, who appeared skeptical. Maybe the kid wasn’t so bad after all. He just needed to grow up, wake up. Maybe see some of the world beyond Proctor, Minnesota. Or maybe Ronald would just play possum and bide his time, maybe try and sucker-punch Aaron when he wasn’t looking for it. You just never really knew about people.
Aaron clutched the rope, hesitated for a moment, and hauled the flag down to half-staff and tied off the rope again. He stepped back. It fluttered nicely. He sat back in his chair and finished his beer.
“Better, Ronald?”
“It’s a start.”
MICHAEL LLOYD GRAY
Michael Lloyd Gray is the author of six published novels. His stories have appeared in Press Pause, El Portal, Alligator Juniper, Arkansas Review, I-70 Review, Flashpoint!, Black River Syllabary, Verdad, Palooka, Hektoen International, Potomac Review, Home Planet News, SORTES, The Zodiac Review, Literary Heist, Evening Street Press & Review, Two Thirds North, and Johnny America.