The bypass had choked off the little Mississippi town of Hollyhock. Tourists traveling to the Florida beaches zoomed by it at a comfortable 65 mph, never giving the dying town a second thought.
Off the main road was the Hollyhock General Store. And on its front porch sat an old man whittling a stick. In his 80’s, he was a relic from another era. He had fought in the Pacific and would forever be a Marine. He had seen so much hatred in that war that when he laid down his rifle in 1946, he vowed to never think a violent word again.
But like during the insane charge across the runway during the Battle of Peleliu and the climb up Mt. Suribachi, there are times when you have to put fear aside and stand up for what is right. And for the next 70 years, he had done just that.
The locals thought he was just the crazy old man who sat on the store’s porch and told funny stories. Little did they know he was a true-to-life hero who had killed hundreds of men and then changed the lives of a thousand more. He still fought the war when he slept. For 70 years, he experienced nightly bonsai charges. The screams were as fresh as they were all those years ago. He had came home with a chest full of medals and a head full of nightmares.
When he stepped off the train in 1946, he had helped build this little town. He had stood up to racists. He had started the local Lions Club. He had helped make the local school one of the best in the state. Now like his generation, his town was fading into history.
He took another swig of his RC Cola and looked out at the empty buildings. Most of the businesses had moved out to the bypass. He couldn’t exactly blame them — you go where the money is. And then they built the big-box discount retail store out there. That was like kinking a garden hose. Everything dried up at that point.
He took another sip of his RC, wiped the sweat from his leather-like brow and watched as a car with four young kids pulled up the gas pumps. He didn’t know these kids — and he knew about everyone’s mama around these parts. They began pumping gas into their Camaro and throwing racial slurs at Mrs. Juanita Jones who was filling up her husband’s Ford truck.
“You boys watch yo’ dam’ mouths.”
His voice cut through the air like a mortar round. The boys turned their heads and stared at the old man. “You say something ol’ man?” The leader, a kid who as about 6’3″ and 240 lbs. , said with a sneer.
“You heard me son. Show the lady some respect.”
“She ain’t nothin’ but a ni….”
“Son, don’t you say that word in this town.” The old man felt a familiar anger boil up to the surface.
The kids laughed. “This fossil is going to make us be nice.”
The leader of the kids walked up to porch of the store and approached the man. “I don’t like your attitude ol’ man.” The other kids followed behind him.
“Aw come on Brian , he’s a dinosaur.”
The leader of the boys ignored his friends and walked up to the ol’ man. He then kicked over his RC.
“Son, you really don’t want to mess with me.”
The boys burst into laughter.
The kid reached into a pocket and pulled out a gun. He then put it to the old man’s temple and said, “Now, what do you have to say to me?”
The old man smiled and said, “Son, pull the trigger. I’ve lived a long life and I’ve paid for my sins. But you — well, you’ll pay for this day for eternity.”
“Wooooooo. I’m scared!” The leader laughed and turned his attention from the old man for just a second. It was his mistake.
Seventy years had slowed his reflexes, but not that much. He grabbed his walking stick and knocked the gun out of the kid’s hand. He then crushed the kid’s thick skull and sent him crumpled to the ground. The second kid rushed at the old man, and once again, the old man sent him to the dirt, bleeding and moaning in pain. The next kid rushed at the old Marine and for a third time, paid for his mistake. The fourth kid, obviously the smartest of the bunch, ran back out to the car and drove off.
The old man picked up his RC bottle and took the last remaining swig from it. He then walked over and picked up the gun. “Idiots. They thought they could do to me what the Empire of Japan’s best couldn’t.”
Mrs. Jones had called the police and Police Chief Frank Johnson arrived just in time to see the old man standing over the crumpled bodies of the thugs.
“We have a cleanup on aisle four,” the old man said without emotion.
The Chief looked at the moaning kids and shook his head, “They didn’t know who they were messing with, did they Granddad?”
Gunnery Sergeant Sam Johnson, USMC, had lived his life standing up for what was right. And on that day in that dying Mississippi town, he had taught four kids the meaning of respect.
