Five Miles to Paradise

18

Heck never had the heart to tell T-Bone how his neighbors felt.

It wasn't his job. He never talked about this minor riff with anyone. It wasn't worth the breath that would be wasted.

Still, it never failed to turn the crotch of the sheriff's underwear inside out that some of the most vocal complainers were people who wanted you to believe they were perfect saints.

Heck had observed, over the years, that for the most part, it was these starchiest members of their fine, upstanding little group who could be the biggest hypocrites. They were the ones who walked about town with their noses in the air, kings and queens of a little ant hill, but who carried with them their own set of publicly-known dirty little secrets.

These were the very men and women who had in their twenties, thirties, and later middle and old age years carried on like there was never going to be that final reckoning at Judgment Day.

A closet drinker. A secret philanderer.

Heck personally knew of many who had stepped out on their fine, upstanding family to have a little fine, upstanding snort once in awhile, or worse, a little fine, upstanding snookie in an out-of-the-way flop house or roadside motel over the county line once or twice a month.

God forbid that anyone would ever call any of these folks to the rug about their secret sins. Those upstanding pillars would swiftly and vehemently deny any wrong doing with their last gasping breaths.

They were not candidates to cast the first stone, yet these very same sinners were the ones that always caused the most headaches. Especially where T-Bone was concerned.

T-Bone was just a harmless old man who drove around in his ratty vehicle, lived in a shack on the north side of town out by the county dump, and minded his own business. Yet, because of those flags, T-Bone was a burr in the bonnet of most of the people who had lived around here for generations.

If it hadn't been the flags, Heck had often thought, they would have found something else to torment him about. Maybe, most folks were just irritated that the old man lived on the wrong side of the county. The smelly side. Heck would be doggoned if he knew. But the old man had never hurt a fly.

Being a small town sheriff with hours to waste had left him plenty of time to hone his skills in philosophy, Heck guessed. But, for the most part, when these headache-causing citizens came to complain about Bone's disgraceful display of flag-waving tastelessness, he bit his tongue, gave them a look of 'hey-guy-I-know- where-you're-coming-from-but-my-hands-are-tied' look, and sent them on their way.

No one knew much about the old man. He kept to himself. But Heck had, over the years, learned that Bone had fought in World War I and had been honorably discharged from the army – private first class.

And because T-Bone had fought during that perilous time, Heck felt he'd more than earned the right to fly those flags on the back of his pickup. Maybe they were monument to the boys he'd known, a memorial to the ones he'd never met, or who hadn't come back from overseas.

The flags were things of beauty. They added class to his old truck. Heck liked to see those red and white stripes flopping and fighting with the breeze. There was something comforting in their sight.

As Heck drove behind the wrecker, something about those them just didn't look right. He popped on his flashlight, and the wrecker slowed to a stop.

"Hey, Heck," the driver stuck his head out the window and yelled. "What's wrong."

"Dunno. Something doesn't look right about those damn flags. One of them is fluttering lopsided or something."

He closely examined the flag on the truck bed's right side. Heck was right.

"Lemme take these down. It looks like a chunk's been cut outta this one. I'm gonna bag both."

"You think that matters?"

"Dunno. But I sure as hell ain't gonna take a chance in case T-Bone don't show up."

"Man, I hope he's okay."

"Me too," Heck said, thinking that he wouldn't bet the farm on it.