What Happened Before He Shot Him

A work of fiction, shot full of truth.

Joe always wanted an RV. A recreational vehicle. Even before the pandemic. He wanted someplace to keep his fishing rods alongside a case or several of his preferred microbrews. Nothing like driving a spell, parking the RV some no place, and hiking to the nearest trout-packed river. Every time he wades hip deep in the clear, chilled current and dances his line over whitewater, he understands what the word recreate means. Zone out. Unplanned. Just him, the fish, a brew, and the river.

His next-door neighbor doesn’t understand the whole RV thing, but he’s a competitive SOB. Biggest house. Flashiest car in the neighborhood. Walk-in humidor stocked with stogies. A gun room. An outdoor kitchen with an eight thousand dollar grill. (Joe knows the price because Clint’s one of those guys who measures his dick by how much his toys cost.) But they’ve lived next door to each other for two decades. He’s lost count of how many cook-outs and Clemson games and single malts they’ve shared. Joe even dragged himself to Clint’s daughter’s graduation. That’s the kind of stand-up guy he is.

Still, Clint is downright pissed the first time he sees the RV.

Joe parks it on the street in front of his house. A single-wide on wheels, but hey, he sprung for the camo paint job to blend in. As he locks up for the night, cooler stuffed with trout swimming hours ago, Clint bolts out of his house, jumps the sprinklers, and body-blocks him in his own driveway.

You can’t park that fucking thing on the street, Clint huffs.

Joe feels his shoulders knot at the base of his neck. Six trout in his cooler, crying to be stuffed with herbs and butter, and this is the shit he has to deal with? Come on, man. I already told you. The whole neighborhood’s fine with it. You’re the only one complaining.

A heavy hand grabs his shoulder and Joe spins. Man, Clint is unhinged, like red-faced, veins popping out of his neck irate. I see that fucker more than anybody else on the block. It blocks my view, so I get the biggest vote. And I say park it someplace else.

Joe sighs. I’m beat, Clint, all right? You wanna come in and have some of this trout?

Clint brings his nose a couple of inches from Joe’s. Spittle stings Joe’s cheeks. This isn’t over, he hisses. I’ll bribe the whole street to vote that fucking thing out of here. It makes the whole street look like white trash.

Whatever, Joe. Call a hundred and twenty five grand with granite counter tops and a garden tub white trash if you want. I’ll see you later.

Joe’s known Clint forever. He’s jealous he wasn’t the first person in the whole damn HOA to drop six figures on an RV. He’ll stew, but he’ll get over it.

Only Clint doesn’t get over it.

Every time Joe works in his yard, he listens to Clint’s abuse and invective shot like bullets from the screened porch next door. He finds threatening notes under the RV’s windshield wipers, gets random flat tires. Once, the RV won’t start because a hose to the engine is cut.

And he lets Clint do his passive aggro bullshit without confrontation or complaint, because maybe he needs to flush it from his system. Give the guy enough time, and he’ll wear himself out. They’ll be back to puffing stogies next to the big ass grill by spring.

Joe takes the RV for a long weekend fishing West Virginia’s New River Gorge. And it’s epic, right? Like the end of his line is the only virgin in a room full of horny guys. They can’t resist his bait. He stuffs his custom cooler with his limit for four days, even spending his last morning on the river before the long drive back to Easley, South Carolina. By the time he glides to a stop in front of his house, it’s almost midnight but boy, was it worth it.

Joe hears a click behind him as he locks up the RV.

He wheels around to face a pajama-clad Clint. When he squints, he sees the velvet smoking jacket and silk cravat. Seriously, what unpretentious southern bro wears a fucking cravat? How was he nice to this asshole for two decades?

He sighs. Come on, man. Why do you keep doing this, huh? You brought my RV up at the last five HOA meetings, and nobody fucking cares, all right?

I care Clint snarls.

Whatever, man. I had a long drive. I’m heading in. You want some of this fish?

Something hot and metallic rams into his ribcage. The force knocks him on his back, spread-eagled in the street. Light-headed, he grabs for his chest to try to stop the white-hot flame, but his hands come back sticky with blood and gore.

You shot me? he sputters.

I told you, Joe. Don’t park your fucking RV in the street.

Joe can’t feel his hands, his feet, his nose. Why is he so cold? He lies back on the pavement. The stars spray across heaven like shards of glass. A voice shouts, Somebody call 911!

But Joe knows it’s too late for an ambulance. His life seeps through his fingers, bleeds into flattened tar. He’s shot and he’s already dead.

*********

I’m angry.

I’m angry that I live in a state where this happens and nobody gives a shit. South Carolina just passed the most restrictive anti-abortion bill in the country, a charade of caring about life. Few of those hypocrites care that almost 9,000 of their fellow South Carolinians have died of Covid-19, a preventable disease. They don’t care that shootings like this happen every day, multiple times a day, in South Carolina and all across America. Because the right to bear arms is more important to them than having any sense.

People ask me why I expend so much energy, money, and time on overseas residencies when I live in paradise and have a perfect husband. THIS. THIS IS WHY.

I walked through a dark, empty Reykjavik alone last night. Ate dinner inside a restaurant. Went to a bar for the first time in a year. And never, NOT ONCE, did I fear being mugged or shot or raped or even bothered. While a version of this story actually happened last week in South Carolina, it’s too commonplace to make the news.

I am sick of living in a country that values nonexistent lives over actual lives. That glorifies guns and violence and hate and fear over civility and empathy and actually giving a shit about other people.