Read Online Killer Instincts v5 by Jack Badelaire - Free Book Online
Authors: Jack Badelaire
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bullshit I would have imagined; there were no trophy animal heads hanging from the walls, no paintings of wolves or snow-capped mountains, no bearskin rugs or chandeliers made of antlers. The inner walls were paneled, the floors hardwood, the ceiling low and open to the rafters, with a low sloping roof. There was a brick fireplace with a large pile of firewood taking up most of one living room wall.
There were a couple of small paintings hung here and there, but nothing garish or tacky. Instead, most of the wall decorations were photos set in small collections of two or four to a frame. Looking closer, I saw that they were all of young, lean men in fatigues with weapons, photos Jamie must have taken during the war. I found my uncle in a couple of photos, and his appearance was a little shocking, the way the war had made him so feral-looking. I’d seen photos of Jamie in high school, and you could have mistaken us for brothers. We had the same straight black hair, the bright blue eyes, fair skin, straight nose and boyish smile. Just a few years later, the same features were there, but the boy had been replaced by a two-legged predator in jungle fatigues.
There were other items framed and hung around the cabin, including a faded bit of unit insignia and a uniform patch, as well as a tattered military-style contour map. There were even a couple of what I assumed to be propaganda leaflets printed by the North Vietnamese, in broken and barely understandable English. The leaflets attempted to convince the American G.I.s that their government was throwing their lives away on a cause their families and loved ones would never approve. Guess the joke's on us, I figured, since those propaganda leaflets were just about spot-on.
I noticed that Jamie didn't have a television set, but he did have a very retro-70's high-fidelity stereo system with a turntable, 8-track deck and AM/FM tuner, big silver dials and all. In the corner next to the stereo there was a bookshelf filled top to bottom with dozens upon dozens of vinyl records.
"No television?" I asked.
"Television never tells me anything I want to hear anymore. 'Sides, the reception up here is shit, and I don't feel like paying for cable. I want news, I tune into the right station, or just pick up a paper on my way to the shop."
There were a few concessions to more modern living. I saw the bulbs in most of the lights were fluorescent, and although Jamie didn't have a microwave, his refrigerator and gas range were both very nice and very modern. A toaster oven and a little espresso machine occupied the polished granite counter top. I looked at Jamie with a raised eyebrow and gestured to the espresso maker.
"Vietnamese coffee gets brewed really strong, and I got used to it. Espresso machine makes it the way I like it,” he replied.
"I might join you, then. I loved the coffee in France. Americans can't brew a cup of beans to save their lives."
"The French introduced the Vietnamese to coffee."
"Cool."
Jamie didn't have a guest room, but one of his couches was long and comfy enough to suit me just fine. I didn't have much luggage to begin with. I just tucked my suitcase in a corner and threw my bookbag onto the couch.
I turned to Jamie. "It's weird. This is the only place left for me that I could technically call home anymore, and I've never seen it before today."
Jamie let out an indiscernible grunt. "Want a beer?"
"Thought you'd never ask."
Jamie produced a pair of bottles from the fridge, a couple of Sam Adams lagers. I took one from him gratefully and flopped down onto the couch. Jamie collapsed into a chair nearby. We both sat for a moment, staring off into space. Jamie raised his beer into the air.
"To family."
I raised mine. "To family."
I took a long pull off the bottle, then another. There is something strangely comforting in the simple act of two guys sitting and having a beer together, no need for idle chitchat, no attitude or posturing, just enjoying a cold beer
There were a couple of small paintings hung here and there, but nothing garish or tacky. Instead, most of the wall decorations were photos set in small collections of two or four to a frame. Looking closer, I saw that they were all of young, lean men in fatigues with weapons, photos Jamie must have taken during the war. I found my uncle in a couple of photos, and his appearance was a little shocking, the way the war had made him so feral-looking. I’d seen photos of Jamie in high school, and you could have mistaken us for brothers. We had the same straight black hair, the bright blue eyes, fair skin, straight nose and boyish smile. Just a few years later, the same features were there, but the boy had been replaced by a two-legged predator in jungle fatigues.
There were other items framed and hung around the cabin, including a faded bit of unit insignia and a uniform patch, as well as a tattered military-style contour map. There were even a couple of what I assumed to be propaganda leaflets printed by the North Vietnamese, in broken and barely understandable English. The leaflets attempted to convince the American G.I.s that their government was throwing their lives away on a cause their families and loved ones would never approve. Guess the joke's on us, I figured, since those propaganda leaflets were just about spot-on.
I noticed that Jamie didn't have a television set, but he did have a very retro-70's high-fidelity stereo system with a turntable, 8-track deck and AM/FM tuner, big silver dials and all. In the corner next to the stereo there was a bookshelf filled top to bottom with dozens upon dozens of vinyl records.
"No television?" I asked.
"Television never tells me anything I want to hear anymore. 'Sides, the reception up here is shit, and I don't feel like paying for cable. I want news, I tune into the right station, or just pick up a paper on my way to the shop."
There were a few concessions to more modern living. I saw the bulbs in most of the lights were fluorescent, and although Jamie didn't have a microwave, his refrigerator and gas range were both very nice and very modern. A toaster oven and a little espresso machine occupied the polished granite counter top. I looked at Jamie with a raised eyebrow and gestured to the espresso maker.
"Vietnamese coffee gets brewed really strong, and I got used to it. Espresso machine makes it the way I like it,” he replied.
"I might join you, then. I loved the coffee in France. Americans can't brew a cup of beans to save their lives."
"The French introduced the Vietnamese to coffee."
"Cool."
Jamie didn't have a guest room, but one of his couches was long and comfy enough to suit me just fine. I didn't have much luggage to begin with. I just tucked my suitcase in a corner and threw my bookbag onto the couch.
I turned to Jamie. "It's weird. This is the only place left for me that I could technically call home anymore, and I've never seen it before today."
Jamie let out an indiscernible grunt. "Want a beer?"
"Thought you'd never ask."
Jamie produced a pair of bottles from the fridge, a couple of Sam Adams lagers. I took one from him gratefully and flopped down onto the couch. Jamie collapsed into a chair nearby. We both sat for a moment, staring off into space. Jamie raised his beer into the air.
"To family."
I raised mine. "To family."
I took a long pull off the bottle, then another. There is something strangely comforting in the simple act of two guys sitting and having a beer together, no need for idle chitchat, no attitude or posturing, just enjoying a cold beer
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