Behind the Door
an excerpt from a novel in progress tentatively called Where Wolves Roam
by Christopher Stevenson
If MSNBC, Fox News, and NPR announced a bomb dropped on Washington, DC, it wouldn't have mattered because Bubba drank and got high so much after Peggy died he forgot news media existed.
Been one year since she left.
That morning he hopped on Facebook and he saw that Peggy’s family still needed money to cover Peggy’s funeral. They put up a CreateAFund and were asking everyone to give what they can.
They were trying to raise $10,000.
He thought about how he might pay it off. The VA would love for him to settle his disability.. How much money would that be? But you can only do it once. After that, you’re stuck.
He headed over to the American Legion to think about it. Post 747 officially opened at 1 o’clock but they let Bubba in early because they felt sorry for him. He’d been hometown hero and post president once upon a time. Now, he was a squish of a man.
He’d spent the better part of a year at the Legion drinking $1.50 pitchers all day. Drinking. Puking. Drinking some more until the alcohol and vomit competed in burning his throat. Listening to the saddest country music. Playing “The Grand Tour” over and over and over.
The American Legion post governing body even held a meeting to see if they could ban the song from the jukebox, but ultimately, they said no and that if they started banning songs people found annoying, they would never be able to play any music.
The anniversary of Peggy’s funeral was no different. He pre-gamed, strolled into the club at opening, ate a cheeseburger for breakfast, and one for lunch. He might have another cheeseburger.
He wasn’t sure.
In the evening, the Legion riders came in with their motorcycles, then it was Turkey Shoot Wednesday, and finally karaoke. He never understood why the Legion let people drink and ride, drink and shoot guns but worse, drink and karaoke? To be fair, Bubba brought his shotgun. Three dollars a round for a ham was a good investment. $25 for 10 rounds was even better. And yeah, he was probably gonna sing.
He was on pitcher number six when the afternoon crowd came in.
Alexander Pike slapped him on the back and said, “Sup, Bubs?”
What was up was that it was the anniversary of Peggy getting hit by some rando in a car and killing her and their unborn baby.
Everyone in the bar knew this story. Bubba stopped telling it after the 11th time someone asked him. So instead, Bubba nodded and continued eating his cheeseburger.
Pike served with the 10th Mountain Division in Somalia. He remembered when the two Black Hawks fell from the sky. He dealt with his issues by sporting a happy face. Bubba knew the whole story. Not from Pike, but from his Delta Force mentors when he himself served.
“Do we have to listen to George Jones all day?” asked Pike.
“Yes,” said Bubba. "Yes, we do! Until the Lord decides to bring back the love of my life, I am going to mourn her."
Pike rebelled and overwhelmed the jukebox with Honky Tonk Bedonkey Donk, All I Want to Do, and five Jimmy Buffett songs in a row.
Bubba hated Jimmy Buffett.
Correction: Jimmy Buffett enraged the deepest recesses of Bubba’s soul.
“It’s gonna be Five O’Clock where the sun don’t shine if you don’t stop playing this garbage,” Bubba yelled.
He never understood the allure of the flip-flopped troubadour. He called the man Jimmy Barf-on-it. As far as he was concerned, the dude destroyed country music. Everything was Some Beach, Rounds of Jose Cuervo, How Forever Feels, Red Solo Cup—nothing wrong with music about drinking but all Buffett’s music was that stupid cheeseburger song redone 1000 different ways. Bubba loved cheeseburgers, but no one needs to write a song about it. Hell, people love nice feeling toilet paper. No one tried to make Billboard Top Ten about pooping.
Jimmy Buffett sounded like Weird Al put too much grenadine in his Shirley Temple. Like ordering shrimp scampi at Red Lobster but instead the platter they gave you was tofu smothered in shrimp flavor powder from an Oodles of Noodles packet.
What did his fans call themselves? Parrotheads. What the hell is that? Parrots are stupid. You can have better conversations with mosquitos.
Pike said, “Then just shoot the fuckin jukebox. We know you’re sad. But you’ve played the same song 100 times in three days. I don't give a good god damn where the chair sits anymore.”
“What does your highness recommend?” said Bubba.
Pike walked to the digital jukebox. “This is a three-dollar song, so I doubt we’ll hear it again.”
“Do not play Jimmy Buffett!”
Pike smiled wide and said, “I’ll play what I like. Besides, I thought you like them Texas guys.”
“Jimmy Buffett is not a Texas guy. I’m not even sure he’s ever been to Texas.”
“Legend has it that he and Jerry Jeff Walker made Austin Austin. Played Jerry's first gig in the Lone Star capital. Ol’ Margaritaville is a Tex-Mex place in a shopping mall.”
“Look man, I spent more time in Las Cruces than Austin when I was stationed there.”
Bubba did love the West Texas music scene when he was at Fort Bliss.
"Ever see any Slim Hand?”
“No. I don’t think I did.”
“Well, he’s also a Texas guy,” said Pike. “Are you sure you like Texas guys?”
“I like Bob Wills and ZZ Top. I never claimed to have the dossier on every singer from El Paso.”
“Fair enough.”
Moments passed and the bar rang with the sound of fiddles.
Pike said, “This is Slim Hand’s ‘In the Corner’ and it’s for you.”
But it wasn’t just for Bubba. The whole bar stopped. No one but Pike knew this song. Local country stations never played music like this. The opening sounded a lot like the refrain to “I Fall to Pieces” by Patsy Cline and when Hand sang it sounded like God melded Hank William’s voice with George Jones.
Pike sat down with Bubba.
No one likes to see a grown man cry, but every man in the club realized something about themselves. Why do they visit this haunt at 1:30 in the afternoon? A shrine of painted cinder blocks covered by wood paneling inside. A church where the scent of years-worth of beer sticking on the walls filled the air.
Slim sang their story to fiddles, guitars, autoharps, and soft drums.
Every person and drink left their place at the bar to join Bubba and Pike. Bubba tried to wipe the snot dripping from his nose. When the song ended six of America's bravest men sat with him with their own runny nostrils.
"This is why I don't do group therapy," said Pike.
"Motherfucker," said Harry. "I don't cry. What are you doing to me?"
Lindsay, the bartender came over, “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s mighty fine,” said Pike.
Barb, the cook, came in from the kitchen, “What is going on here?”
Barb raised her arms.
“Oh, you’ve never seen anything like this?” said Lindsay.
“Noooo….”
“I’ve seen a few of these,” she said. “Someone dies and they have nowhere to go. They can’t cry at home because they don’t want anyone to think they’re pussies.”
“None of the men in my life cry like this,” said Barb.
“Oh babe, I’ve seen both your husband and Dad cry at the same time,” snorted Lindsay.
“I can’t believe this,” said Barb. “This is too unreal! It’s unnatural.”
“They’re crying, not smoking crack on Mars,” said Lindsay. “Get them another round and bring them some napkins to blow their noses.”
A couple of the men pulled out hankies to show they didn’t need them. Barb walked toward the bar.
“It’s okay, boys,” said Lindsay. “Get it out. We’ll tell no one about this, I swear.”
They played the song over and over. Bubba had his sad story but others had theirs. Men who still missed their buddies from overseas. Harry, who served in Vietnam 40 years ago, told of how the only man he ever kissed was his battle buddy Simpkins, who laid on a gurney before dying. He put his lips on Simpkins’ cheek before the medics took him away and said, “I love you man.”
Gil said he’d not been the same since he lost his wife to breast cancer and he hated God for taking away the love of his life.
Other stories included Bill who lost his dog, and Chaney who missed his Dad. Pike struggled with his wife cheating on him and then taking his kids away.
None of this made Bubba feel better, but it did make him realize that men pretend to be cast iron pots but are blobs of skin waiting for snot and saltwater to fall out of their orifices. He realized that they were all hurting. Realize that he wasn’t the only crybaby. Being a man was living in a nursery of straight faced anguish.
As far as Bubba was concerned, you could say what you want about Barb, but she reacted the way any regular woman might. Lindsay knew more than most. For Bubba, it was not his first heartbreak. But he was determined to make it his last.
Women never stayed longer than they needed. It took some longer than others to discover the truth and then they’d leave.
If you asked Peggy, they were almost boyfriend and girlfriend.
And she said so for decades. She said so until some rando in a pick up truck ran her over.
Life fell apart after Peggy died. He dropped his college courses and faded into alcohol, weed, and anything else that could kill the memory of her. The doctor prescribed muscle relaxants for anxiety, and even though his injury from the Army cleared up 50%, he kept popping Oxys. Often mixing his opiates with his beer, turning his brain to pudding. He’d do anything to dull the thoughts of what their marriage would look like or if she survived long enough to bring her pregnancy to term.
On his loneliest days he imagined family vacations with Peggy and their daughter or son. He postulated theoreticals: would he care if the kids were gay (no)? Would he be a good Dad and save money for college (yes)? More than anything he wanted to teach a kid how to be a better version of him.
Often he blamed himself. All those people he killed in the Army came home in the death of Peggy. Killing people for Uncle Sam in the name of freedom meant no more happiness for the Bubsters.
Back at the Legion, Lindsay quelled everyone’s tears. It was time to bring the shotguns out. Because the activity involved alcohol, the Legion asked everyone to use a low grain shot. Preferably rock salt. The spray for rock salt is ridiculous, but according to legend, rock salt is non-lethal.
Tipsy and less sad, Bubba walked out to his truck and retrieved his trusted shottie. He ordered some rock salt shells from an online company. He knew first hand the power of rock salt. In his youth, he caught it in the ass once from an angry husband, while trying to churn Fulton County’s Mrs. Agriculture USA butter after the PA Farm Show, but less than lethal? Bubba presumed that it would depend on where and at what range. Short range to the temple probably did a lot more than the 35 away yards running with his pants around his boots.
He bought ten rounds at the Turkey Shoot. He handily won the first round. So much so everyone thought the salt was an advantage.
Pike said, “I heard you once took rock salt up the you know who.”
“I caught it on the cheek, not up the hole.”
He also won the second and third rounds.
“Save some meat for the rest of us, you damn hog!”
“I’ve been thinking about investing in salt myself,” said Pike. “I reckon, you could rob a bank with a shotgun and some of these Morton shells.”
The fourth round should’ve been more difficult. Bubba drank his weight in beer. He barely lined up the ball site on the target and pulled the trigger. Then everyone did. He walked down the target to meet the judge. Another bulls-eye.
Bubba went back to the shooting area and said, “Morton. Like the blonde girl in the commercial?”
“Can you imagine her with a shotgun?” Pike said. “Walking into PNC and cleaning the place out of $10s and $20s?”
That’s when it hit Bubba. A small bank would do it. He could pay off Peggy’s funeral costs.
He stopped at round four.
He thanked the gentlemen for allowing him to live in the corner of the bar and learn a new song by the door sorrow locked but he needed to do something. He collected his hams and went home to cry some more.
He kicked back an oxy. He rolled a joint. He decided to rob a bank.
He spent a couple hours planning the entire heist over Google maps. Where to go, how to do it. He had almost everything he needed except a couple items.
After double-checking everything, he drove to a costume shop in town. He wanted to buy a robe and a Richard Nixon mask. When he arrived, they did not have many masks. This was not a costume shop for Halloween. But they did have everything he needed to look different.
The next morning, he woke and decided his days as a country song were over. Or if he were one, he was Clay Walker’s “Live Until I Die.”
He took only the bare minimum of Oxys and two shots of Southern Comfort.
He drove down to Somerset, PA and parked his truck back on an abandoned dirt road and in the parking area of an abandoned quarry. If anyone asked, he was swimming. Then he hiked to commit the worst bank robbery in history.
Christopher Stevenson splits his time between DC and WV. He has two cats, Sacco and Vanzetti. He once won a ghost pepper eating contest.
an excerpt from a novel in progress tentatively called Where Wolves Roam
by Christopher Stevenson
If MSNBC, Fox News, and NPR announced a bomb dropped on Washington, DC, it wouldn't have mattered because Bubba drank and got high so much after Peggy died he forgot news media existed.
Been one year since she left.
That morning he hopped on Facebook and he saw that Peggy’s family still needed money to cover Peggy’s funeral. They put up a CreateAFund and were asking everyone to give what they can.
They were trying to raise $10,000.
He thought about how he might pay it off. The VA would love for him to settle his disability.. How much money would that be? But you can only do it once. After that, you’re stuck.
He headed over to the American Legion to think about it. Post 747 officially opened at 1 o’clock but they let Bubba in early because they felt sorry for him. He’d been hometown hero and post president once upon a time. Now, he was a squish of a man.
He’d spent the better part of a year at the Legion drinking $1.50 pitchers all day. Drinking. Puking. Drinking some more until the alcohol and vomit competed in burning his throat. Listening to the saddest country music. Playing “The Grand Tour” over and over and over.
The American Legion post governing body even held a meeting to see if they could ban the song from the jukebox, but ultimately, they said no and that if they started banning songs people found annoying, they would never be able to play any music.
The anniversary of Peggy’s funeral was no different. He pre-gamed, strolled into the club at opening, ate a cheeseburger for breakfast, and one for lunch. He might have another cheeseburger.
He wasn’t sure.
In the evening, the Legion riders came in with their motorcycles, then it was Turkey Shoot Wednesday, and finally karaoke. He never understood why the Legion let people drink and ride, drink and shoot guns but worse, drink and karaoke? To be fair, Bubba brought his shotgun. Three dollars a round for a ham was a good investment. $25 for 10 rounds was even better. And yeah, he was probably gonna sing.
He was on pitcher number six when the afternoon crowd came in.
Alexander Pike slapped him on the back and said, “Sup, Bubs?”
What was up was that it was the anniversary of Peggy getting hit by some rando in a car and killing her and their unborn baby.
Everyone in the bar knew this story. Bubba stopped telling it after the 11th time someone asked him. So instead, Bubba nodded and continued eating his cheeseburger.
Pike served with the 10th Mountain Division in Somalia. He remembered when the two Black Hawks fell from the sky. He dealt with his issues by sporting a happy face. Bubba knew the whole story. Not from Pike, but from his Delta Force mentors when he himself served.
“Do we have to listen to George Jones all day?” asked Pike.
“Yes,” said Bubba. "Yes, we do! Until the Lord decides to bring back the love of my life, I am going to mourn her."
Pike rebelled and overwhelmed the jukebox with Honky Tonk Bedonkey Donk, All I Want to Do, and five Jimmy Buffett songs in a row.
Bubba hated Jimmy Buffett.
Correction: Jimmy Buffett enraged the deepest recesses of Bubba’s soul.
“It’s gonna be Five O’Clock where the sun don’t shine if you don’t stop playing this garbage,” Bubba yelled.
He never understood the allure of the flip-flopped troubadour. He called the man Jimmy Barf-on-it. As far as he was concerned, the dude destroyed country music. Everything was Some Beach, Rounds of Jose Cuervo, How Forever Feels, Red Solo Cup—nothing wrong with music about drinking but all Buffett’s music was that stupid cheeseburger song redone 1000 different ways. Bubba loved cheeseburgers, but no one needs to write a song about it. Hell, people love nice feeling toilet paper. No one tried to make Billboard Top Ten about pooping.
Jimmy Buffett sounded like Weird Al put too much grenadine in his Shirley Temple. Like ordering shrimp scampi at Red Lobster but instead the platter they gave you was tofu smothered in shrimp flavor powder from an Oodles of Noodles packet.
What did his fans call themselves? Parrotheads. What the hell is that? Parrots are stupid. You can have better conversations with mosquitos.
Pike said, “Then just shoot the fuckin jukebox. We know you’re sad. But you’ve played the same song 100 times in three days. I don't give a good god damn where the chair sits anymore.”
“What does your highness recommend?” said Bubba.
Pike walked to the digital jukebox. “This is a three-dollar song, so I doubt we’ll hear it again.”
“Do not play Jimmy Buffett!”
Pike smiled wide and said, “I’ll play what I like. Besides, I thought you like them Texas guys.”
“Jimmy Buffett is not a Texas guy. I’m not even sure he’s ever been to Texas.”
“Legend has it that he and Jerry Jeff Walker made Austin Austin. Played Jerry's first gig in the Lone Star capital. Ol’ Margaritaville is a Tex-Mex place in a shopping mall.”
“Look man, I spent more time in Las Cruces than Austin when I was stationed there.”
Bubba did love the West Texas music scene when he was at Fort Bliss.
"Ever see any Slim Hand?”
“No. I don’t think I did.”
“Well, he’s also a Texas guy,” said Pike. “Are you sure you like Texas guys?”
“I like Bob Wills and ZZ Top. I never claimed to have the dossier on every singer from El Paso.”
“Fair enough.”
Moments passed and the bar rang with the sound of fiddles.
Pike said, “This is Slim Hand’s ‘In the Corner’ and it’s for you.”
But it wasn’t just for Bubba. The whole bar stopped. No one but Pike knew this song. Local country stations never played music like this. The opening sounded a lot like the refrain to “I Fall to Pieces” by Patsy Cline and when Hand sang it sounded like God melded Hank William’s voice with George Jones.
Pike sat down with Bubba.
No one likes to see a grown man cry, but every man in the club realized something about themselves. Why do they visit this haunt at 1:30 in the afternoon? A shrine of painted cinder blocks covered by wood paneling inside. A church where the scent of years-worth of beer sticking on the walls filled the air.
Slim sang their story to fiddles, guitars, autoharps, and soft drums.
Every person and drink left their place at the bar to join Bubba and Pike. Bubba tried to wipe the snot dripping from his nose. When the song ended six of America's bravest men sat with him with their own runny nostrils.
"This is why I don't do group therapy," said Pike.
"Motherfucker," said Harry. "I don't cry. What are you doing to me?"
Lindsay, the bartender came over, “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s mighty fine,” said Pike.
Barb, the cook, came in from the kitchen, “What is going on here?”
Barb raised her arms.
“Oh, you’ve never seen anything like this?” said Lindsay.
“Noooo….”
“I’ve seen a few of these,” she said. “Someone dies and they have nowhere to go. They can’t cry at home because they don’t want anyone to think they’re pussies.”
“None of the men in my life cry like this,” said Barb.
“Oh babe, I’ve seen both your husband and Dad cry at the same time,” snorted Lindsay.
“I can’t believe this,” said Barb. “This is too unreal! It’s unnatural.”
“They’re crying, not smoking crack on Mars,” said Lindsay. “Get them another round and bring them some napkins to blow their noses.”
A couple of the men pulled out hankies to show they didn’t need them. Barb walked toward the bar.
“It’s okay, boys,” said Lindsay. “Get it out. We’ll tell no one about this, I swear.”
They played the song over and over. Bubba had his sad story but others had theirs. Men who still missed their buddies from overseas. Harry, who served in Vietnam 40 years ago, told of how the only man he ever kissed was his battle buddy Simpkins, who laid on a gurney before dying. He put his lips on Simpkins’ cheek before the medics took him away and said, “I love you man.”
Gil said he’d not been the same since he lost his wife to breast cancer and he hated God for taking away the love of his life.
Other stories included Bill who lost his dog, and Chaney who missed his Dad. Pike struggled with his wife cheating on him and then taking his kids away.
None of this made Bubba feel better, but it did make him realize that men pretend to be cast iron pots but are blobs of skin waiting for snot and saltwater to fall out of their orifices. He realized that they were all hurting. Realize that he wasn’t the only crybaby. Being a man was living in a nursery of straight faced anguish.
As far as Bubba was concerned, you could say what you want about Barb, but she reacted the way any regular woman might. Lindsay knew more than most. For Bubba, it was not his first heartbreak. But he was determined to make it his last.
Women never stayed longer than they needed. It took some longer than others to discover the truth and then they’d leave.
If you asked Peggy, they were almost boyfriend and girlfriend.
And she said so for decades. She said so until some rando in a pick up truck ran her over.
Life fell apart after Peggy died. He dropped his college courses and faded into alcohol, weed, and anything else that could kill the memory of her. The doctor prescribed muscle relaxants for anxiety, and even though his injury from the Army cleared up 50%, he kept popping Oxys. Often mixing his opiates with his beer, turning his brain to pudding. He’d do anything to dull the thoughts of what their marriage would look like or if she survived long enough to bring her pregnancy to term.
On his loneliest days he imagined family vacations with Peggy and their daughter or son. He postulated theoreticals: would he care if the kids were gay (no)? Would he be a good Dad and save money for college (yes)? More than anything he wanted to teach a kid how to be a better version of him.
Often he blamed himself. All those people he killed in the Army came home in the death of Peggy. Killing people for Uncle Sam in the name of freedom meant no more happiness for the Bubsters.
Back at the Legion, Lindsay quelled everyone’s tears. It was time to bring the shotguns out. Because the activity involved alcohol, the Legion asked everyone to use a low grain shot. Preferably rock salt. The spray for rock salt is ridiculous, but according to legend, rock salt is non-lethal.
Tipsy and less sad, Bubba walked out to his truck and retrieved his trusted shottie. He ordered some rock salt shells from an online company. He knew first hand the power of rock salt. In his youth, he caught it in the ass once from an angry husband, while trying to churn Fulton County’s Mrs. Agriculture USA butter after the PA Farm Show, but less than lethal? Bubba presumed that it would depend on where and at what range. Short range to the temple probably did a lot more than the 35 away yards running with his pants around his boots.
He bought ten rounds at the Turkey Shoot. He handily won the first round. So much so everyone thought the salt was an advantage.
Pike said, “I heard you once took rock salt up the you know who.”
“I caught it on the cheek, not up the hole.”
He also won the second and third rounds.
“Save some meat for the rest of us, you damn hog!”
“I’ve been thinking about investing in salt myself,” said Pike. “I reckon, you could rob a bank with a shotgun and some of these Morton shells.”
The fourth round should’ve been more difficult. Bubba drank his weight in beer. He barely lined up the ball site on the target and pulled the trigger. Then everyone did. He walked down the target to meet the judge. Another bulls-eye.
Bubba went back to the shooting area and said, “Morton. Like the blonde girl in the commercial?”
“Can you imagine her with a shotgun?” Pike said. “Walking into PNC and cleaning the place out of $10s and $20s?”
That’s when it hit Bubba. A small bank would do it. He could pay off Peggy’s funeral costs.
He stopped at round four.
He thanked the gentlemen for allowing him to live in the corner of the bar and learn a new song by the door sorrow locked but he needed to do something. He collected his hams and went home to cry some more.
He kicked back an oxy. He rolled a joint. He decided to rob a bank.
He spent a couple hours planning the entire heist over Google maps. Where to go, how to do it. He had almost everything he needed except a couple items.
After double-checking everything, he drove to a costume shop in town. He wanted to buy a robe and a Richard Nixon mask. When he arrived, they did not have many masks. This was not a costume shop for Halloween. But they did have everything he needed to look different.
The next morning, he woke and decided his days as a country song were over. Or if he were one, he was Clay Walker’s “Live Until I Die.”
He took only the bare minimum of Oxys and two shots of Southern Comfort.
He drove down to Somerset, PA and parked his truck back on an abandoned dirt road and in the parking area of an abandoned quarry. If anyone asked, he was swimming. Then he hiked to commit the worst bank robbery in history.
Christopher Stevenson splits his time between DC and WV. He has two cats, Sacco and Vanzetti. He once won a ghost pepper eating contest.