ONE PHONE CALL REGARDING THE GULF WAR

It was 1991, and I was home from school early. Operation Desert Storm had been underway for weeks, and there were tensions in the small town I inhabited. Downtown, by the courthouse, there were throngs of working class men and women standing close to the street, smoking cigarette after cigarette, sticking their chests out proudly. "Support our troops!" they'd yell as other people drove by.
My dad, a well known agitator (though non-political; he just agitates people) was to speak at a march in protest of the war. He was considered to be somewhat of a high-profile liberal by some people. Before long, gossip of a flag-burning ripped through town faster than a Ford F-350 in overdrive. The proud patriots wore dusty blue jeans and American flag t-shirts that read "TRY BURNING THIS ONE!". It was almost endearing the way the brave patriots dissolved their differences regarding Ford vs. Chevy, Bud vs. Pabst, menthol vs. non-filtered, cigs vs. dip, dip vs. chew, and so on, and mounted a protest to protest those flag-burnin' protesters.
Regardless, the march went peacefully and my dad delivered his speech. It agitated people. No flags were burned. The beer and nicotine-soaked mob turned and, knuckles dragging, got back into their pick-ups and drove home. I too went home.
The phone rang just as I passed through the door. The man on the other end sounded old and shaky.
"I think it's just a terrible thing your dad has done," the voice said.
"I'm sorry," I said. "But what did you say your name was?"
This was standard procedure at my house. If the caller was stupid enough to give their name, you locate them in the phone book and, later, burn down their house. The man ignored my question.
"I think your dad is just a'wrong. He should support our troops," the creaking voice muttered.
"Oh yeah? And why is that?" I asked.
"Well, for one, my son is over there," he answered.
"I see, was he drafted?" I asked.
"No. There ain’t no draft," he said.
"Right. There's no draft. So maybe you should wonder why he's over in Kuwait," I said.
The man answered, "Because we ain't the richest people in town. He got a job that pays good money."
"No," I continued. "Why is he in a country thousands of miles away killing people?" There was a short pause. I thought briefly that I might have provoked the man to reconsider his opinion.
"Well, your dad ain't nothin' but a damn commie!" He hung up just as I was about to forget rationale, and erupt with vileness. The call for repartee was deafening.
I have kept that day writhing inside of me for a decade. Now, ten years later, I would like to ask that old man a few resolute questions. Did your son die for freedom? Was he killed or wounded by Friendly Fire? Did your son come home with Gulf War Syndrome? How about Depleted Uranium poisoning? Notice any limbs or external digits missing off your grandkids? Because, if any of these factors did affect your son, I'd just like to say: I TOLD YOU SO! HAHA!!! Put that in your corn-cob pipe and smoke it, you old hayseed! How's it feel to get bent over and reamed by Uncle Sam? And for the millions of gallons of oil wasted in the Iraqi conflict, let us all observe a moment of silence for our next ten-minute Faslube oil change.