Missile

By Jason Jordan

Lodged in my backyard is a bomb. Well, perhaps missile would be a more accurate term. This must be a mistake. I don't have any enemies – at least none with access to a fighter jet. Nevertheless, there's a missile in my backyard, so I continue to stare as the sun beats down on us both. Then I wonder why I hadn't heard it earlier when it burrowed its way into the earth.

There's nothing else to do but inspect it, because if it didn't explode on impact, then it must be a dud. I walk slowly towards it like I'm sneaking up on someone whose back is turned, all the while eying its dull gray paint. I can't tell which kind of missile it is, but it does have fins, similar to what I've seen on rockets and sharks.

"Nothing's going to happen," I say aloud to reassure myself. "If it didn't blow up when it hit the ground, then it's not gonna blow up if you get close to it. I mean, c'mon. Don't be an idiot." I tiptoe until I'm able to squat beside the missile to get an up-close view, and it's apparent that not only do I not call the police, who would probably then summon the bomb squad, but, rather, I must in fact dislodge the missile myself. Still, it's a task that calls for more than one person since it's wedged in deep, and getting it unstuck seems difficult.

Once I glance around to make sure neighbors haven't noticed it yet, and haven't noticed me noticing it, I walk inside all casual-like and make my way down to my closet where I store my dad's old Marines stuff. I don his jacket and vintage helmet he got off eBay – you know, the kind they used in World War II – and march into the room where we keep the cats.

"All right you worthless fucks!" I shout upon entering. "Line up you devil dogs!" Secretly, I think it annoys them when I call them dogs. Or maybe I just imagine it does. Biscuit, the oldest of the three and the only one who's all black, is lying down, sunning herself by the window and looks up at me with her big green eyes as if to say, What do you want this time?

"Get your lazy ass over here before I have to kick some motherfuckin' ass," I say. She raises, stretches, and hops onto the bed separating us. "That's better," I say. It is then that The Grey One, who is partially white, emerges from the pile of shit that's stored in the room, and walks over to me. I tell her, "Get yer ass up on that bed right now." She concedes with a meow.

The Black One, who is also partially white and the heaviest at an even 20 pounds, is at the food bowl eating one of her several meals per day. I simply point at the bed and she knows what to do.

"Your mission – should you choose to accept it, and you will accept it if you know what's good for you – is to extract the missile from the ground," I tell Biscuit, The Grey One, and The Black One. With the combined efforts of the four of us, we should be able to dislodge the missile. One by one I place harnesses on each of us so we can extract the bomb like strongmen tow semi-trucks.

I'm holding the reins but as soon as we get out of the backdoor, Biscuit darts off like a horse out of the starting gate, dragging her reins behind her.

"You damn cat!" I yell. The fatter, lazier Ones simply watch their mother race around the front of the house until she escapes from view. "I guess the three of us is enough for the job." I tie each of our reins around the missile itself in hopes that the fins on the back will support our lines. Otherwise, they'd just slide off.

After turning to face the remaining troops I see they're both lying on their backs absorbing the sunlight. Their eyes are closed, and it's obvious they're relishing this whole event, which, to them, is known simply as going outside.

"Lotta damn help you all are." I hear the sirens and my first instinct is to run, so I take off for the house, and when I begin sprinting, so do the cats, but we're all caught on this stupid missile and we aren't making much progress. We can feel it give a little with each pull, and we continue struggling because untying our reins would probably take longer. The sirens are getting louder and so quickly that I figure it's all or nothing at this point – no turning back.

The sirens reach the corner, which means the cops are definitely in the subdivision now and close to my house. As we pull with all our might, I glance around to see who might've tipped them off. And when I see old Ms. Jenkins, my next-door neighbor who's peering out her window while talking into a cordless phone, all I can do is grimace before I resume staring ahead, pulling harder than ever.

We've done it!

"Stop!"

I fall to the ground.

"Don't move!"

I stand back up.

"I said don't move!"

I pick up my helmet.

"Hands behind your head!"

I leave my hands at my sides.

"On the ground now!"

I continue to stand.

"Be smart about this, and no one gets hurt, son."

"Isn't it weird about this missile landing here?" I ask, intimating a rhetorical question. "Having to watch out for bombs just seems so…foreign. I mean, I'm an American. This is America." Whether I will submit to the police and do as I'm told, or begin walking with the missile and cats trailing behind, I have not yet decided.

Either way, I foresee this ending badly.

© Jason Jordan 2007

• << TEX Home