The Ex-Patriots

The late March Mississippi humidity was as thick as the sugar in his sweet tea.  Pollen swirled around in dust devil on the sidewalk, signaling a change of seasons. Conn Hurley was a million miles away from Dublin, Ireland.  But he loved springtime in the Southland.  The greenness reminded him of his former home.

His accent had faded with time, being replaced by a soft Irish/Southern drawl. He even said an occasional “y’all.”  His freckled skin, accent and red hair was a great conversation starter. If he had a dime for every time he had heard, “You ain’t from around here, are you?” he could buy the golden eagle on the top of State Capitol.   He took another sip of his sweet tea — an exotic concoction that he had learned to love.  The waitress, an attractive lady in her fifties, brought him his lunch.  “Here ya go honey.”  His heart beat slowly looking at all the fried chicken. He loved living in Mississippi.

The pace was so much slower here. In fact, for the first six months, he had walked into the automatic opening doors. But he loved the slower pace, the friendly smiles and the soft Southern accents.  Even the racial tension seemed mild compared to what he had grown up with in Ireland.  No one understood hatred quite like the Irish and the Brits.

“I’m surprised  you didn’t order Frosted Lucky Charms. They’re magically delicious.”

His buddy Rick sat down at his table.

” ‘ello Rick. ‘Ow are you?”

“Aw, doin’ fine.  How’s my favorite Leprechaun?”

Conn never tired of Rick’s corny Irish jokes.

“Did you think that one up yourself? You should be a writer. Oh you are?”

Both men were now writers. But both had had much different careers in their former lives.

Rick waved over to the server. “Ginger, bring me what the Leprechaun is having.” Ginger smiled a knowing smile at Rick and headed back to the kitchen.

Rick looked at his Irish friend and said, “Hope you don’t mind if I join you for lunch.

Conn said, “Do I have a choice?  Didn’t think so.”

“You know I used to go out with your server when I first moved here. She’s got skill. Hey, I have idea. Let’s go get that pot of gold you’re guarding and go to the casino.”

“I thought you rednecks said, casina.” Conn still couldn’t understand a damn word former Governor Haley Barbour said. But casina was one word that made him laugh.  “Get your sister, I mean you wife, or whatever you Southerners call your spouse and let’s take a drive to the Coast. I want seafood for diner.”

“Shrimp. Sounds like a plan. Free your girlfriend from the Jackson Zoo and we’ll double date.”

Conn flipped his friend off. And then laughed out loud.  I’m going to tell Gloria you said she was a wildebeest.

Conn loved Mississippi. In the span of the day, he and his friends could have barbecue in Memphis, go to a game in Starkville, Hattiesburg or Oxford, listen to the blues at Ground Zero in Clarksdale or eat seafood on the Coast. Or they could go to downtown Jackson where Conn would play guitar at a local club. It was a fertile land full of creative people.

Ginger brought Rick’s chicken.  He ate like a wolf with a thyroid problem.

“Did you skip the day in school when they taught table manners?”

Rick looked up from his chicken leg and said, “You Brits are so civilized.”

Conn immediately went cold. “Don’t. Call. Me. A. Brit.”

“Sorry Leprechaun.” Rick had been a Navy SEAL.  After numerous secret missions and four tours of duty, he had hung up his military career.  And like Conn, he had randomly chosen Mississippi as his new home. After a career of war, he was looking for some peace. As a SEAL, Rick specialized in fading into native populations. In retirement, he had done the same.

Conn had his own secret. He had been in the Irish Republican Army before he walked away from it all.  A spin of a globe and a quick jab of his finger had found his new home. A Boeing 747 and a commuter jet had taken him to Jackson, Mississippi. He, too was looking for some peace. Probably the two toughest men in the state sat finishing off their plate of fried chicken.

“Hey Leprechaun, pay the pretty lady and let’s blow this fried chicken stand.”

Conn paid for both meals and Rick plunked down a $20 tip.  Rick winked at Ginger and both men headed toward the door.  The brilliant sunlight blinded them as they walked outside.

Drugs make good people do stupid things.  Alex Washington had been an honor student until a series of bad choices had hooked him on drugs.  He saw two men walking onto of the restaurant and thought, “Easy prey.” The beast needed to be fed.

He shoved the gun in their faces and screamed, “Give me your money!”

“Whoa, settle down there little fella,” Rick said quietly.

Alex, not used to someone challenging the power of his gun, screamed again, “GIVE ME YOUR MONEY!”

Conn smiled and said, “You REALLY don’t want to be doing this.”

Alex waved the gun back and forth between the two mens’ faces. And when he looked back at Conn, Rick knocked the gun out of his hand.  And just as quickly, Conn swept the kid’s feet out from under him.  Alex Washington fell backwards and hit his head on the pollen-covered asphalt.

Thud.

A yellow cloud rose up and floated off into the spring air.

Rick walked over and picked up the kid’s gun. “I told you didn’t want to do that. What’s your name kid?”

“Alex Washington,” Alex said in shock.

Conn looked down at him. “Here’s the deal, Alex. We won’t turn you into the cops but in exchange you have to join Rick’s gym. We’ll get you there after school.  Rick will train you.  It’s time for you to make something of your life. If you don’t, we’ll find you. And then you will wish we had called the cops.”

Rick cracked his knuckles and both men gave Alex a menacing look.  Alex scooted backwards.

Rick walked forward and handed Alex his card.  “I’ll see you there on Monday.”

“Awright Leprechaun, let’s spring your girlfriend from the zoo and head down to the Coast. We have some shrimp to eat.” Rick helped Alex to his feet, stuck the boy’s gun in the back of his pants and patted his Irish friend on the back. “I want to hear more about where you learned those moves.”

Conn smiled. “Back at you, Rambo.” He sure loved living in Mississippi.

Alex Washington watched as the two men walked away and wondered what storm he had just run into.

He had met the ex-patriots.  Two men looking for peace and making it on a springtime Mississippi day.