Harry and Bo and Other Stories from a Rambling Mind

By Danny Johnson

Not since Breece D'JPancake has a writer the likes of Danny Johnson emerged from the South with all the glory and hell of life attached and intact in his fiction. Add a measure of Tim O'Brien's stylization of military life and you still have only a glimmer of the storytelling you'll love in the Harry and Bo collection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MilSpeak Books
• Release date: Mar 29, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452403779

Danny Johnson

Danny Johnson writes novels and short stories whose characters tend to represent the disenfranchised in our culture, examining their struggles in a society that does not acknowledge their value. He is an active member of The North Carolina Writer's Network and has served as fiction judge for the Weymouth Center for Arts and Humanities Writing Contest. His work has appeared in Remembrances of Wars Past Anthology, South Writ Large, Sheepshead Review, A Southern Journal, and Fox Chase Review, among others.

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Harry and Bo

and Other Stories From A Rambling Mind

By Danny Johnson

Smashwords Edition

Published by MilSpeak Books

A Division of MilSpeak Foundation

33 Winding Way

Beaufort, SC 29907

Copyright © 2010 Danny Johnson

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

For permissions, contact [e-mail].

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author and the illustrator.

This book contains quotes excerpted in brief form and used in accordance with fair use interpretation of U.S. Copyright Law and the Digital Millennial Copyright Act. Every attempt has been made to attribute and credit excerpted material correctly; any errors or omissions should be brought to the attention of the publisher and will be corrected in future editions of the book. This book is a work of fiction that does not represent actual persons living or deceased, and represents only the author’s opinions, not those of any other organization, institution, or persons.

MilSpeak Foundation is not endorsed by the Department of Defense or its entities. MilSpeak Foundation is a nonprofit organization devoted to raising cultural awareness of creative works by military people. Purchasing this book supports MilSpeak programs and MilSpeak authors. A portion of proceeds from each MilSpeak Book is awarded to the Walter Reed Chaplains Fund, which ministers to the financial and spiritual needs of wounded warriors from all eras; however, this donation does not represent endorsement of MilSpeak Foundation or its programs by the Chaplains or the fund. For more information about MilSpeak Foundation, please visit http://www.milspeak.org.

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Acknowledgements

I have studied with well-known writers Clyde Edgerton, Besty Cox, Lynn York, Paul Mihas, Tommy Hays, and Kevin Watson. An active member of North Carolina Writers Network, and also a member of Raleigh Write 2 Publish, an ongoing group of writers that meet regularly to read and support other members, I am grateful for my readers who have made publishing this collection possible. I am also an active member of the Raleigh Veterans Group which supports Vets with programs to deal with Anger Management, PTSD, Confrontation Resolution, and a great many other issues that Vets from Korea to Iraq experience. Welcome Home, brothers and sisters, and thank you for your service.

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Table of Contents

Harry and Bo

American War Story

The American Dream

When the Rooster Crows at Night

The Learning Curve

And the Winner Is

The Bus to Hell

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Harry and Bo

Harry Wilson was tired. He dragged himself off the subway, dragged himself the four blocks to his apartment building on the Lower East side, dragged himself up the five flights of stairs to his one room, five-hundred square foot, run-down apartment that cost him nine hundred bucks a month. He keyed open the three deadbolt locks he had installed to keep the crack-heads from taking what little stuff he had. It was dark wintertime in New York and cold as the haughty women he worked around in the accounting department at Philas Brothers Investments on Wall Street. Harry was but a lowly accountant, shuffling papers around millionaires. He had seen fortunes made and lost by the wet-haired, Hollywood-style day-old-bearded young wolves that would sell their mother if the money were right. He had kept his job by laying low, never attracting attention. He called it the Wilson duck-and-slide method of self-preservation. The fifty grand a year they paid him was less than most of them would spend for a good-sized dinner party, so, mostly, they left him alone in his little office in the back.

Harry shrugged off his heavy overcoat, his brown sports jacket, and ripped the tie from around his neck. He left the overcoat where it lay, but hung up the jacket because he only had two, the tweed brown and the tweed blue. He drooped the tie over a lamp shade, thought better about it and hung it on the rack screwed to the inside of his closet; he was down to five of these if he didn’t count the ones with grease stains on them. He picked up the remote and clicked on the television that only got six stations since he couldn’t afford cable. He walked the ten feet to the refrigerator, opened it and took inventory of the pitiful amount of items in it. Grabbing a soda, he looked into the overhead cabinets until he found a can of sardines packed in mustard sauce and a box of saltines. Harry sat down at the counter on his one barstool, opened the can and the crackers. The sardines were okay, but the crackers were so stale he could almost bend them. He left them lay on the counter and finished the fish and drank most of the soda.

He swiveled on his stool and watched Brian Williams give the daily depressing news about the economy, terrorism, and the latest crooked banker or politician who had screwed the taxpayer out of millions. The sound was off, but he didn’t need to hear the commentary because it was the same old crap every day. Harry, at forty-five, had thought long and hard about ditching this world, maybe take a bus to Florida or California, but each time he thought he might do it, there would be news of a hurricane or an earthquake or some other disaster that scared him.

Harry finished off the sardines and tipped the can to his lips to drink the rest of the sauce.

Hey.

The voice startled Harry, making him spill some of the juice on his shirt. He turned to look at the television. The sound was still off as best he could tell. He looked around the apartment carefully, and then got up to ease open the door to his bedroom, thinking maybe somebody had managed to get through his locks and hide there. Seeing nothing, he walked back to the counter and sat back down, eyeing the television suspiciously.

Hey!

This time Harry jumped off the barstool. He pinched himself, making sure he was awake. He walked around the room again. Coming back to the soda, he finished it off as the hair on his neck rose, wondering if there was a ghost here with him. Maybe it was his long gone mother, come back to visit.

Hey! The voice came again, louder this time.

Hey? Harry squeaked, fear in his heart. Who are you?

Down here you dummy. Look down.

Hesitantly, Harry looked down, ready to bolt for the door if he saw any ghouls. His eyes covered the floor from the back wall to where he sat. Just below his feet sat a very large rat. Leaping towards the space beside the refrigerator, he grabbed his broom, ready to do battle with the rodent. He raised it and slammed the straw end towards the invader.

The rat dodged under the stool. Stop it, you hit me with that thing and I promise you’ll not get another nights sleep in this apartment. The rat was on his hind legs waving his front ones at Harry. I got the plague and I’ll give you such a bite they’ll have to burn your body.

Harry looked closer. The rat was grey on the bottom side, black on the top, and wore a little red tam on his head. How are you talking to me? He questioned, raising the broom once more, wondering if the sardines had been spoiled and he was having delusions.

The same dang way you’re talking to me, you idiot.

Are you my mother come back to haunt me?

Fool, do I look like your mamma?

But rats can’t talk. Harry felt really stupid, standing here with a broom having a conversation with a rat.

How do you know, you ever tried to talk to one? The rat relaxed, still standing on his hind legs but resting his back against the leg of the stool. He pushed his hat up a little.

No.

Well there you go. Like most humans, you just assume what you don’t know.

Why are you here? Harry lowered the broom, still not believing what was happening.

The rat looked around the room, spreading his arms to encompass the surroundings. Just lucky I guess. Why else would you think somebody would come to this room at the Ritz?

Then why don’t you leave?

To tell you the truth, Harry; here sit down on the sofa so we can talk without me getting a crick in my neck. With that the rat scooted over to the couch and hopped up on the arm. Come on, don’t be shy, I’m not going to hurt you. He patted the back of the couch.

Still in a daze, Harry did what the rat asked and went to take a seat near him, still holding on to the broom. How do you know my name?

Reading your mail.

You can read too? How can a rat read?

Jeez, you got so much to learn, Harry. You people think you’re the only ones who’ve got a brain. I learned while I hung out in the walls of a school back home. Trust me, it ain’t all that hard.

I see, said Harry. He looked around the room again, this time around the ceiling, sure he was on candid camera, and positive somebody was playing a cruel joke on him. What kind of rat are you?

"I’m what’s called a black rat, Harry, Rattus Rattus because I’m a male black rat in the family of true rats. My ancestors came from Asia, and I’m what’s known as a commensal because I live near humans.

Have you really got the plague?

Heck no, Harry, I was just messing with you. That was back in the fourteenth century, and it wasn’t the rats, it was the Tropical rat fleas that carried yersinia pestis organisms and fed on us, and of course we gave it to the humans. Quite a big mess back in the day. Hardly ever see it anymore though.

Well that’s a relief.

Tell me about it. Listen, Har, I’ve been hanging around here for about a month watching what a poor simpleton you are. I’m about starved to death to tell you the truth. Think you could get me one of those crackers you left on the counter?

Harry walked over and brought one back. He watched the rat nibble on one end. These are some terrible saltines, Harry, I got to tell you. Don’t you ever buy any cheese or fruit? Surely, you can afford some kind of decent food.

Well, I’m sorry, defended Harry. I didn’t know I was having guest. I’ll be glad to open the door and you can find lodging elsewhere.

Don’t get your panties in a wad, Harry. Now that you know I’m here, I’m sure you will try and do better.

Why should I provide your meals?

Think about it, Harry. How many other people do you know that have a talking rat as a friend?

I didn’t know we were friends. Harry leaned back on the sofa, figuring since he was sure he must he in a dream, he would try and enjoy it.

Absolutely, we’re going to be great pals. You’re lonely, I’m lonely, what better match could you have. I’m a great conversationalist, I don’t eat much, and I’ll do my pooping in the guy’s room next door. I won’t cause you any butt-pain, Harry, and all you have to do is be considerate with the chow. He smiled wide, his two big buckteeth gleaming; sure he had made a sensible offer.

Why am I so honored with your presence? You could go to any other room in the building, so why me?

To tell you the truth, Har, I don’t really know. You seem like a nice guy, stupid and simple, but nice. And I figured you could use the company. I haven’t seen you with a single visitor since I’ve been here.

How kind of you, Harry sarcastically replied. And what should I call you other than rat?

You can call me Bo.

Are you spelling that B E A U?

No, B O, short for Bosephus. I’m originally from New Orleans.

How did you get here?

It’s a long story and I’ll be glad to tell you all of it sometime, but suffice for the moment that I got tired of eating fish and jambalaya leftovers; the spices got to working on my digestive system. So, one day I hopped a barge up to St. Louis, then worked my way across the country until I caught a ride to the docks on the East River. That was two years ago and I’ve been here ever since.

Harry looked down at Bo who had reclined his back on the upper part of the sofa arm, crossing his front legs over his stomach in a relaxed pose. You’ve been in this building for two years?

Oh heck no. I got a gig down at Carnegie’s Deli in the first month, couldn’t take that sewer life. Now those Jews, they know how to feed a guy.

How come you left?

Mexicans, they’re all over the city now, hundreds of them piling in every day. They ganged up on us and we had no choice but cut and run. We even offered the Italians a cut of our take if they would provide protection, but they weren’t interested; said they were having enough problems keeping them out of Little Italy. There’s a real rat war going on out there, Harry, guys dropping all over the place.

I see what you mean.

Yeah, I tried a few other joints, but I’m getting too old to fight like I used to, just looking for the simple life now. Bo broke off another piece of the cracker. Say, Har, do you suppose you could put a little water in a saucer for me, this stuff is making my mouth as dry as a popcorn poot.

Harry got