THUNDER

“Okay, Jack, do something!” said Mr. Clark.

Jack was my father. Not a big man but not a small one either. Mr. Clark was egging my father to do something. Pushing his shoulder, and then putting his fists up, ready for something to happen. But like always, all my father did was stare.

The other men in the saloon hooted and hollered as they sat drinking their beers. Their faces gleamed with excitement -- all wanting to see something happen. They were all hungry for entertainment. Nothing much ever happened in town, so when two guys went at it, it was a show.

“Go on, Jack, show’em whatcha got. Teach the mother a lesson,” said one of the men.

My father lifted his glass. He threw back the last few ounces of dark brew. He put the glass down and wiped his mouth with his arm and got up.

Mr. Clark took a step back. He still had his hands up and was beginning to move them like he was pedaling a bicycle. He was ready to fight.

“Come on you, chicken shit, show me something,” jeered Mr. Clark. He was a tall fat man with a round red face, and a nose that looked like it’d been stung by a nest of bees. He was always trying to get my father fired up.

“Come on faggot! Do something,” said Mr. Clark.

My father took a step towards him, then looked around at the other men at the bar. Most of the men were guys he’d worked with all his life, and some he even grew up with here in the town of Washburn. Mr. Clark was actually fairly new in town. Only been here about four months, but ever since, people never seen my father the right way anymore.

Whenever we go into town, I hear ’em talking, whispering to themselves about my father. I never really hear what they’re saying, but they always laugh a bit as they point at him. My father’s so slow at times, I think he misses it, but I catch it all. Sometimes I just wanna get a stick and whack them people in the skull, to show’em I ain’t like him. I ain’t no coward. I ain’t yella.

I watched my father and Mr. Clark. They looking at each other eye to eye. Even though Mr. Clark was a bigger than my father, I just wanted my father to give him a good one. To bust that bee-nest nose he had and to stop these men from always calling him a coward.

The men at the bar instigated the situation more and more, “Go on, Jack, show the cocksucker a thing or two. Show’em what your made of, if you got anything that is.”

The men drank thier beers and laughed as they pointed at my father, making gestures like he had a little willy.

“Let’s go, Johnny,” my father said. I was surprised. I downed my coke and wiped my mouth with my arm the way my father does when he finishes his beer.

My father got his hat and left a ten dollar bill on the bar. As we left, the men made chicken noises at my father.

“Jack, you fucking loser. You showing that boy of yours how to runaway. Next, go teach him how to squat when he take a piss,” said Mr. Clark.

The men laughed.

My father walked out. I turned around. I gave them all a stare and gave them the finger, but it only made them laugh more.

***

We were both silent as we got into the old Chevy pickup truck. I was sore about this and could feel the soda in my belly coming up my throat. I wanted my father to go back into the saloon and whack Mr. Clark’s skull. To make them respect him.

We rode home in silence, neither of us looking at each other. Still, there was something being said. Even without words. We don’t talk much in our family, but somehow we always know what the other is thinking.

As we drove down the highway, I watched the sun go down past the cypress trees. I looked at my old man, and he looked as if nothing had happened.

“Why you let them talk to you like that. We ain’t cowards, you and I,” I said.

“I reckon it just ain’t my way. No need to get all heated up over nothing, J.J.”

“Don’t seem right not sticking up for yourself,” I said. And that’s where I left it. Wasn’t much else to say.

The truck slowed down. My father pulled over to the side of the road. He got out and walked over to a large tall cypress trees. I figured he had to take a leak, with all the beer he’d drank and all. I would have gone too, but I just didn’t feel like following his footsteps.

I threw my head back and closed my eyes. I could already see the boys at school teasing me about this. About how my father was a coward, and weak, and how I was too. But I’d show’em. I’d show’em all. Just because my father was a coward, didn’t mean I was. And if Mr. Clark’s boy came at me, I would thump his skull.

“J.J., looky here!” my father shouted.

He stood next to cypress tree. About thirty feet high and with a six-foot around. My father let out a loud noise as if someone had hit him in the nuts, and then he punched the trunk of the tree.

CRACK!! BANG!!! BOOM!!!

A loud clap of thunder echoed so loud I had to cover my ears. It even shook the truck. It was like a load of dynamite going off, as loud as a cannon blasting in my ear.

Then I watched as the tall cypress tree creaked and fell over and landed in the thicket. My jaw dropped. I damn near pissed myself. My father walked back to the truck. He got in the truck without evening looking at me, but I looked at him. I stared at him with my eyes wide and my mouth open.

“How?” I said.

He started the truck. He put the truck and gear and as we drove of he said.

“Next time you think I’m nothing, you remember than tree.”