So near the beginning of Guardian’s War, the semester ended and summer hung over me hot and heavy. My film class had a big guy who sat next to me, and we became pretty close. He was a cool guy until I invited him to my house and he parked on my lawn. He pulled his Camaro right onto the grass and hopped out. This told me a few things about him right away.
He was rich. His parents had money and they gave him pretty much anything he wanted.
He was arrogant. He wanted to make a show of himself and let the entire neighborhood know he was better than them.
He didn’t respect me. You don’t pull up to a guy’s house that you hardly know and drive onto his grass and right up to his door. You are making a sport of him, his neighbors, and his own car.
He was not going to go away. He had in some way marked me. Dominated me and he needed to hold that domination.
But through all of this, I still needed him. See, I didn’t know him. He was the only person who would never ask any questions or want any details about the life I was living. He liked that I was miserable. Made him feel better about his life, and he wanted me around.
This is when he invited me on the trip.
It was the end of his freshman year, and his parents decided he needed to go on a long vacation. He was given endless amounts of credit and he was to hit the road, and they really didn’t care where he went.
But he had to bring a friend. First sign that I wasn’t the right guy for this trip was that I was his only friend.
I knew this dude for one semester. Only talked to him in films class, and two visits to my house and he wanted me to go on this trip with him. No other. Me. I should have known then that he was intolerable. That he was impossible to get along with. But I didn’t. It didn’t click with me that his best friend in the world was a guy he had spent an hour and a half with every Tuesday and Thursday for sixteen weeks.
So his parents wanted to meet me and they took us out to dinner. I don’t remember anything about it except they asked me a lot of questions, and Servant answered them all. Servant is, above all else, a people pleaser at this point, and he knew exactly what he needed to say to make them love him.
The guy called me when I got back home and told me he got the thumbs up. We were to leave that Friday, and we were going south.
That was all he told me. We are going south.
First notable mark on this trip was in Arkansas. We were driving back roads. But I am pretty sure the entire state is made up of about 80% backroads. The countryside is gorgeous. It’s some of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen. It was about three in the afternoon, and he laid out the plan for the trip pretty quick.
“We stop everywhere.”
“Excuse me?”
“If we see anything cool, or interesting at all, we immediately stop and check it out. Diners, museums, stores, any place that looks even kind of cool, we pull over and we check it out. Anything.”
Well this trip was already sounding pretty amazing. I realized we had indeed unlimited funds. We could go anywhere we wanted to and nothing was off the board. That was when I saw the sign.
“Dude, Revolutionary War museum. We have to stop.” Should have noticed that it was painted on a board nailed to a tree. Should have noticed that there was no city of note anywhere around us. Should have noticed that every face we saw looked as if they wanted to take us in the woods somewhere, and take us off the map, just wipe us away from civilization. They hated us here. They did not want us in their county.
But we stopped anyway.
When we pulled up, we should have immediately turned right around and walked away. But I was a history major and convinced that I could find something cool to bring back to my professors. The museum was a one-room wooden shack attached to a trailer that had a big sign on the front that said BAIT. And a little sign under it that said: Revolutionary War Museum.
Car parked and we are inside. It had two walls covered with eight-by-ten frames filled with printer paper articles that had been run through an old and very tired copy machine. A counter with a huge bin on it, with a lid made of a door screen that was filled with crickets. And that counter was a display case that had items for sale.
Horribly painted tiny figurines of Confederate soldiers and a string thong with a rebel flag printed on the front. We were in for a great time, and I can tell you, we had one.
Behind the counter was a big hole, bigger than a doorway for sure, and above it hung a Confederate flag. The flag was huge and I looked at my friend and smiled.
“I’m from Milwaukee,” I said.
He cursed. “Keep your mouth shut.” He hissed as a big filthy man with a wife beater that needed a wash, and basketball shorts that needed to be thrown away, emerged from the hole.
“Bait?” he shouted. He motioned to a fridge behind him. “You fellas looking to fish?”
“No, we are here to learn,” I said.
His face lit up and I instantly loved this dude. My favorite thing in the world to do is to get people talking about things they are passionate about. At the time, I was fighting a war against my entire life, so I wanted that passionate thing to be something that could cause me a lot of trouble.
“Sound like Yankees. You hear to learn the true story?”
True is a button word in the history community. They call themselves True Historians, and this usually means they approach the subject with their minds already made up. Their witnesses and sources are people who live near them that want to tell a story they want desperately to hear, and these types of historians do not look for facts. They look for a story that makes them feel a certain way, and they assume they know the world better than professional historians.
As soon as I heard the word “true” I shouted out, “I’m a history major.”
His frown was loud. “Think you know my country better than I do? Because you sure as hell don’t!”
Now I was in the mix of it. Shadow stepped forward and his eye caught on the rifle hanging directly under the Rebel Flag. He grinned.
“A good historian wants the story from the people that lived it. Not from a book. That was what I was taught. What were you taught?”
He grumbled and pointed an ash-covered finger at me. “Then shut up and let me tell you what the Revolutionary War was really about.
“Civil War.”
“Well shit, you must not be any kind of historian worth a shit if you want to call what we went through civil,” he snapped.
“Well, after the war the South was treated like shit, right?”
“Yup,” he said. He had a bit of a grin on his face now.
“And the North took everything they could possibly get their hands on after they won,” I said. “Right?”
“Let me tell you the true story, kid.” The man leaned over the counter to get right in my face. My big friend laid a warm hand on my back. I am not sure if he was preparing to pull me back so I didn’t get in this guy’s face, or pull me away so this guy didn’t snap my neck. Because with the bulk this guy was carrying, if he was fast and mad enough, he could have done just that.
“The North didn’t win that war at all. They took the land, but we took it back from them just as fast.”
Then my friend did pull me away. Let’s look at the displays.
Every piece of copy paper was so dark that reading anything was impossible. There were tables in front of each that were about two-foot by two-foot with figurines of Confederate soldiers on tiny hills, and next to blue construction paper stapled to green felt. These were the depictions of the battles, but each held about seven soldiers and, every one of them was a Confederate.
“Get some real knowledge while you’re here, Yankee,” he snapped.
My friend stepped in real fast. “We aren’t Yankees, sir. We are from Missouri.”
“Well,” he said begrudgingly. “Y’all were half right anyway.”
“Missouri?” I said.
“Yes mutha fucker, you’re from Missouri right now, ass,” he whispered.
“That war never ended, you know. It is going to this day,” the guy said.
Well since the pages were illegible and the depictions of battles were impossible to get any real information from, I turned away and walked straight back to the BAIT slinging tour guide.
“Not over, you say?”
“No, not at all. We are still fighting that fight. See that rifle right there,” he said, jerking a thumb behind him.
“Dude, I think we have learned a lot on this excursion. Maybe we ought to get back in the car,” my friend said. But he didn’t realize that at that point Shadow’s main goal was to die. Get shot right here in this bait store and end up in a shallow grave in a forest somewhere. Guardian’s War was sucking the life right out of him and suicide was a viable option at all times.
“I see the gun.”
“Shit kid, it’s called a rifle. Where you from in Missouri, you don’t know that?”
“Still learning.”
He yelled out a name. To be honest, I do not remember the name, but a boy walked out of the hole behind the counter. This kid was everything a boy is supposed to be. He was dirty, barefoot, had a hunting knife on his belt. Had no kind of comb of any kind in his possession, I was sure, and he looked just about as amazing as any country kid should.
All of my barely held aggression disappeared when I saw the kid. This kid looked like a down home country badass, and I nodded in respect.
“What do you do if anybody comes for that flag, son?”
“Fill his ass with lead, poppa. Fill his Yankee ass with lead, then reload, and keep shootin’.”
Greatest answer to any question I had ever heard. This kid was my hero.
“War is not over ’til we say it’s over, Yank, and we ain’t close to done fighting yet.”
Before we left, Shadow had flipped his aggression to charm, and the guy had invited us to stay late and come down to a local bar. They had a band, and he played the fiddle, and they were the best in the state. They played everything from bluegrass to hip hop, and he wanted to buy me a beer and a steak.
This dude playing hip hop was not a show I wanted to miss, but my friend pulled me back to his Camaro pretty fast.
And we were on the road again.
Arkansas, Mississippi, Alabama, we would eventually get to Georgia, Tennessee, Kentucky, and back home before he wanted to. It was going to be a month-long trip, which he had not mentioned. And he wanted to see it all.
We stopped in Atlanta at a gas station, because I had promised Bekah I would call her every night at nine. When we got to the parking lot and he was filling up, he realized he was in a section of Atlanta he did not want to be in. My big friend wilted in the face of the gang bangers that pulled up in the car and asked us if we needed anything.
He looked at his feet and shook the gas handle, hoping that shaking it would make the gas pump faster.
Shadow walked right up to the car.
“Nah man, I don’t need anything. We are passing through and out of money. Gas we are getting is about all that we have. You know any good places for us to stop tonight?”
They looked at each other. They looked at me. They waited for a long moment, then looked at each other again, and the driver said, “You know where you’re at, Honky?”
“God no, but if you don’t mind, the kids in Milwaukee called me White Bread, so let’s stick to that.”
They all burst out laughing, and the two guys in the back jumped up and sat on the trunk, their legs still in the back seat.
“Milwaukee?”
“Went to elementary school on the north side. Mostly black kids.”
“Damn, White Bread, you must be hard as shit.”
“Had to be,” Shadow said. “I’m a knife guy.”
They laughed.
“Been carrying one since I was six. Got three on me right now.”
“Nut uh, show me,” the passenger said.
“I stopped playing show and tell in elementary school. And I’m not pulling a knife on you guys, no, fuck that.”
“This is my knife right here,” the driver said, pulling up his shirt and showing me what looked like a nickel-plated nine millimeter.
“See.”
“Fuck, White Bread, you want to head over to a party we are going to? Show you a good time.”
“Okay man, okay man, we gotta go now,” my friend said, jumping in the car and starting it immediately.
“Shit, nice car,” the passenger whispered to the driver.
“Fuck brother, you’re not gonna take my friend’s wheels and leave White Bread to strut his ass all over the place, are you?”
“Nah man, just don’t be here when we get back. We’re cool.”
“Thanks.”
In the car and my friend didn’t talk to me for twenty minutes. When he did he said, “What were you doing talking to those guys? Did you by drugs from them? I can’t have drugs in my car, not on this trip.”
“Black guys in these kinds of neighborhoods are more than just drug dealers.”
“Those guys asked if we needed anything.”
“Yeah, they were definitely drug dealers, but they are more than that.”
“Dude, just don’t get me killed.”
“Not the plan.”
Holiday Inn. Dude loved Holiday Inn, and he took a shower every night. I would be laying back in bed, watching some such shit, and out he would come. The towel didn’t fit around his waist, so he would cover the front and give me a great big shot of his ass crack every night before bed.
It was great.
That night I grabbed my hotel key and went for a walk. Walked for a while, out of the neighborhood the hotel was in, and I realized pretty quick that I was lost. Ended up at a diner.
That is when I saw him.
Wore a silk shirt under a suit coat. Slick back hair, crooked nose, hard face. Looked Italian, and it took me about four seconds to know what I was looking at.
I looked away.
Guy in a track suit came in before the waitress got to me and dropped in the seat in front of him. The new guy slapped an envelope on the table and pushed it across to the other guy. Slick Back took it and looked up at me. We locked eyes and I turned to the waitress.
She looked Italian, too.
Burger, greasy fries. No Dr. Pepper, so I got questionable water.
The guy in the track suit jumped up and was out the door. The slicked back dude looked at me. Lit a cigarette and I locked eyes with him.
He stood. He walked over to me and dropped into the seat in front of me. The waitress immediately brought all of his food and his coffee to him.
“What you looking at?” he said.
“Nothing that has anything to do with me.”
He grunted. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Jesse.”
“Jesse what?”
“Jesse Passing Through.”
He laughed at that.
“Well Mr. Passing Through, what are you doing here?”
“Went for a walk, now I’m lost. And, from the look of you, in pretty deep I would say.”
Laughed again.
“What are you carrying?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t bullshit me, kid. I’ll leave you behind a dumpster somewhere.”
“What do I call you?”
“Streets call me Pug.”
“Do I have that right?”
Laughed again. “Yeah kid, you can call me Pug.”
“Getting out of here alive?” I said. There was no real fear. Again I didn’t really want to live, to be honest, and being shot by a gangster seemed like a good way to go out.
“Yeah kid, I don’t want anything to do with you. So Passing Through, what you got on you?”
“What makes you think I’m carrying anything?”
He looked at me hard.
“Two folders and a throwing knife.”
“You any good with ’em?”
“Fair.”
Burger was not good, but I was nibbling on my fries.
“Look kid, you seem like you’re cool. But this here, this ain’t none of your business. What are you doing on my streets?”
“Wanted to see what was out here. Nothing like this in my city.”
“Where you from, Passing Through?”
“Milwaukee.”
“Shit, I know Milwaukee. Where about?”
“Lincoln. Kosciuszko area.”
“Yeah, I see you,” Pug said. “I see exactly what you are.”
“Used to be.”
“No kid, your neighborhood gets in your bones. It’s with you all the time.” He put his finger to his temple and tapped it slowly. “Your streets are right here. Flip of a switch, you’re back home again.”
“Not gonna flip that switch tonight.”
“These streets, you better be ready to.”
“Nah, show someone decent respect and they will leave you about your way.”
“Not how crack heads think, man.”
“You let crack heads around here?” I said. Another fry in the mouth, and I shook my head. “This is the last place I’m gonna find a crack head.”
“I’m gonna let you go. Gonna give you a pass. Don’t be here when I get back.”
“I keep hearing that tonight. I’m not going to cause you any problems, brother. ‘m a civilian.”
Pug looked at me and shook his head. “You ain’t no fucking civilian. If you were a civilian, I wouldn’t be talking to you.”
He stood and pulled a money clip. He dropped a hundred dollar bill on the table. “I’m buying his dinner.”
She nodded.
“Finish the burger. The cook is terrible, but no reason to insult him. He’s a friend of mine.” He pointed at the waitress. “Tip her.”
“You got it.”
He pointed his thick finger at me. “Own who you are. Don’t run from it.” He turned and walked to the door. “And don’t try to hide it. You’re shit at it.”
Waitress gave me directions back to the hotel.
Was a pretty cool night, all told.
Of course I changed Pug’s name in this story. I may not be a civilian, and I’m not an idiot.
For more about the series Reality of the Unreal Mind, visit Amazon.
Jesse Teller 
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