Page 70 of Doozer

“Marines,” Tackle said, motioning to Boots.

“Oorah!” Boots called out without pausing his search for the best meal in the pile.

“What about you?” I asked Tackle.

“No, not me. I’m an MRE connoisseur because of my dad.”

“He in the military?”

“Not anymore. More like the militia.”

“Gotcha,” I said, figuring the fewer questions, the better.

“I knew he was pissed, but not this pissed,” Boots said, tossing an MRE back on the pile. “Screw this. I’m hitting the rack.”

As good as sleep sounded, I had to eat something, so I decided on the Veggie Burger.

Eight hours later I would learn, first-hand, how MRE got the nickname “Meals Refusing to Exit.”

After the worst breakfast ever, I laid down in my bunk and tried to sleep. Even though I was exhausted beyond measure it took a little while for me to fall into a deep sleep as my brain was bombarded with thoughts of Doozer.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Doozer

EVERY MOVIE AND cartoon ever made would have you believe that a rooster’s crow happens at the precise moment the sun rises over the horizon. Signaling the optimal moment for those on the farm to rise and greet the day. Hollywood always depicts the rooster standing high atop the barn, next to a weathervane, proudly trumpeting the arrival of the new day, no more than a total of two or three times, while being accompanied by an uplifting score of strings and flutes. This is, as Duke might put it, ten pounds of pig shit stuffed into a five-pound sack.

My feathered nemesis began his assault on my slumber around four thirty A.M., well before sunrise, and didn’t stop until sometime around two P.M. I swear to Christ, I heard that little pecker cock-a-fucking-doodling all day long. It is also noteworthy that he didn’t crow from atop the barn, but instead preferred to deliver his early morning serenade from directly outside the window of my first-floor room.

By five fifteen, I’d abandoned all hope of falling back to sleep. I got up, got dressed, and made my way to the kitchen in hopes of rustling up some coffee. I was surprised to find Pearl already there, decked out in an apron, preparing a full breakfast.

“Oh, dear. Did I wake you, sweetie? Or are you an early riser like me?” Pearl asked.

“Neither.” I replied, pointing a thumb back towards my room. “The rooster outside my window told me it was time to get up.”

“Oh, that would be Roger,” she said, before flipping a pancake with expert precision. “He’s a nasty one. I swear he’s going to end up in my frying pan one of these days if he keeps up his nonsense.”

I laughed. My eyes transfixed on Pearl’s griddle. “Are those blueberry pancakes?” I asked.

“Yes, they are, and I’ll have a warm stack for you ready in no time. If you’d like coffee, please help yourself to the pot. Mugs are in the cupboard to the right of the sink.”

“I woke up to the chicken from hell but now find myself in heaven,” I said and poured myself a cup of Pearl’s house blend.

“It sounds like Duke’s got a full day planned for the two of you, and I never like my boys to go to work on an empty stomach.”

“Full day of work?” I asked, just as Duke entered the kitchen.

“Y’ain’t afraid of a little hard work are ya, Doozer?” he asked, before greeting his wife with a kiss.

“No, sir. But I am gonna need more of this,” I said, raising my mug.

“Is last night’s scotch fightin’ back this mornin’?”

“Roger started in a little early this morning,” Pearl informed Duke.

“I’m so used to his racket, I don’t even hear that old sonofabitch anymore,” Duke said.

“You can’t hear anything anymore, you old coot,” Pearl said under her breath.

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