Vignette Assignment #1

“Verne! Verne! Yo, Verne?” Clyde called his name several times, but Verne had his head in the engine of a 1943 Ford, no one could pull him away from those new wheels.

As Verne continued to admire the ingenuity of the automobile he felt a tug on his shirt, “Verne,” Clyde yelled, “there's a telegram for you at the post office. I think it's from your ma.”

“Ah, I'll get to it when I get to it.”

Clyde was insistent though, “C'mon, ya gotta go get it. If something is wrong it will take us days to get from Alaska to Pennsylvania. Ya gotta find out.”

Verne spun angrily toward Clyde, “If you think it's that important, why didn't you pick it up?”

Taking a step back Clyde said, “I – I – I don't know, it only had your name on it. If your ma wanted me to read it wouldn't she have sent it to me?”

Resigning to the idea that he might be right, Verne jumped into the idling vehicle and headed toward the post office.

“What in the hell are you doing, Verne? You can't drive this man's automobile!”

“Shut up and get in. It will only take a minute and ain't no one goin' to know that we borrowed it.”

Clyde did as he was instructed and they headed off.

As Verne had expected, they were at the post office in a minute, thanks to the unknown generosity of the owner of the Ford. Running into the tiny building he claimed his telegram:

Drafted
Contact Local Draft Board for Further Instructions.

Verne slapped his forehead, scattering his pale blonde hair about his head. “What the hell? I've been drafted,” he told Clyde.

Pulling Clyde closer to himself, Verne wrapped his arms around his lover, for once he had no fear of anyone seeing them. In fact, he wanted someone to see them, if he were to get caught loving on a man then surely he would be placed in an asylum. An asylum wasn't his first choice for living, but it had to be better than the rigors of war.

Releasing Clyde from his circle of love Verne drove the vehicle to the local bar. He needed to calm his nerves before he reported to the draft board. He was lost in thought as he strode in and ordered a bottle of whiskey for himself and a beer for Clyde.

Verne's oldest brother, Lloyd lived in an asylum, the Pennhurst Annex to be exact, and the conditions were horrible. He wasn't entirely sure war could be any worse.

Tipping his head back he felt the smooth whiskey slide down his throat. He was torn back to the time his brother was removed from the family to the asylum, Verne was just twelve years old, and the family was separated, he and two brothers went to the Gates family, his younger three siblings went to live with the Anderson's. The younger kids had it better, but Verne, Sonny, and Raymond were slaves to Mr. Gates, slaves in so many ways he couldn't begin to describe it all.

“Verne,” Clyde said, “which ya thinking?”

“Oh man, I'm thinking about fighting, fighting for our country. I want to do this, hell, I've been through worse; been a slave to an old farmer, been a lover to an incredible man, I'm ready for this. Going to miss you, but I'm ready.” Verne couldn't help but to lie, he didn't want Clyde being upset over this draft. And, Verne, he was a manipulator, he could find his way out of the draft, he was certain.

Verne's face broke into a smile, “You know, Clyde, my brother Sonny, well he done told them he was blind and got out of the draft, even took his wife, who was nothing to look at, to prove his situation.”

Clyde couldn't help but laugh as he imagined Sonny's wife and her thick glasses and overly large nose, “No, she wasn't anything to look at, but he got out of the draft because he married an ugly women?”

“Well, hell yeah, ain't no one with good sight going to marry a woman like that, so they figured he really was blind.”

Both men were smiling and laughing now, the draft telegram all but forgotten. Verne held up his whiskey bottle, and Clyde met the bottle with his beer mug, “To a life of fighting for what's best,” Verne said.

With his bottle half empty, and Clyde having downed his third beer the two men decided it was time to return the automobile. As they walked out of the bar they saw an officer looking over the vehicle. Verne looked over his shoulder and whispered to Clyde, “Just keep walking, stay calm.”

“Hey,” the officer yelled at the two men, “you two know anything about this auto? Know how it got here? Anything?”

Verne walked toward the officer, “No, can't say as we do. Think maybe it drove itself here for a bit of a drink?”

Clyde and Verne both laughed at the idea, but the officer wasn't as pleased, he hiked up his uniform pants and stated, “I fail to see any humor in that, boy!”

“Boy? You calling me 'boy'? I'll have you know that I've just been drafted to fight for this fine country, I ain't no boy, I'm a man.”

The officer kicked a stone at his feet and raised his head to look Verne in the eye, “Jesus, they take anyone for that there war, so don't get to uptight about how you're a man, they just need a warm body for target practice for the enemy.”

With no thought at all Verne lifted his whiskey bottle and connected with the officer's head. His precious liquid slipped over the officer's hat, but the officer was hardly bothered by any of it. He bent down and grabbed Verne by the waist, easily taking the young drunk to the ground and slapping cuffs on Verne's thin wrists.

“Boy, not sure they make cuffs small enough for you, but I got a cell that's just the right size!”

"Character Sketch"