Your Pain My Sorrow

Jim pulled his Toyota 4X4 into the parking lot of Safeway. He had gone mudding the week before and the 4X4 showed it. Splatters of brown covered the doors and front of the truck. But Jim did not mind, it was the first time he was able to go mudding since getting back from Iraq.

Jim rolled up the his window, letting the acrid smell of old spit settling in the used water bottle take over the cab. He chewed Cope.

His blond hair was still military style, a short high and tight, sides shaved but starting to grow. His body was packed with muscle, and the t-shirt he wore showed off his combat ready physique.

He waited by his 4X4 for his friend Bill. Bill did not serve, and never would - he had a physical problem. But Bill kept his body in the best shape he could out of respect for soldiers like Jim, and would do anything for Jim out of a sense of honor for serving America.

It was evening time, the sun was already setting, and it was a few minutes before Bill showed up. Jim flagged down his buddy, his best friend since high school, and Bill pulled around and parked next to Jim's truck.

"Let's get some beer. I need to do some twelve ounce curls," Jim said.

They talked as they walked into the store. Jim mentioned how odd everything was, but he was thankful to be back.

"You'll adjust," Bill said.

"It's not adjusting," said Jim, "It's not looking over my shoulder everywhere I go, carrying my rifle just to take a piss."

They found a nice case of Miller, a twenty four pack of bottles sitting in the cooler. Jim would have gotten Corona, but wanted something truly American for the first few decades after returning.

They stood in line, waiting for their turn. In front of them stood a man, paying for bread and tofu. He had a beard, and wore a funny fur lined hat. He spoke with an inflection on his voice that grated Jim the wrong way.

"There goes the neighborhood," Jim said.

Jim watched the man, watched him smile and be polite. Damn Muslims, he thought to himself. This one was grungy looking, his beard unkempt and hair all messed up. Just like in Iraq, living around a bunch of dirty Muslims.

They paid for the beer, and walked out of the store. The Muslim was walking slow, using a dirty cane to support himself.

"I didn't come back to live with this," Jim told Bill.

"I know what you mean, buddy. I wonder if he likes rock and roll," Bill said.

It was something Jim had told Bill a couple of weeks ago. The Iraqi's, without any sense of self respect, would kiss ass to the soldiers, spouting their love of all things American in their thick and disgusting accents, including their love of rock and roll.

"Seriously, I don't care," said Jim.

Bill and Jim got in their cars and pulled around. Jim wanted to see the Muslim one more time, and pulled around into the lane the bearded, dirty man had parked. As he did, the Muslim was backing out of his space in a rundown Honda, dirty like a Muslim's car was. Just like in Iraq. They almost collided.

Jim cocked his fingers into a gun, and mocked shooting the Muslim. He wished he could do it for real.

II

It was a week before he saw the Muslim again. It was at the same grocery store, in mid afternoon. Jim was pulling into the parking lot while the Muslim was leaving. Bill was riding with him, and they both shit themselves.

"There's that fucking Muslim," Jim said. He slammed on his breaks and turned his head to get a better look. The Muslim looked back and kept driving. Jim wished the man would have stopped.

Jim gunned the engine, and drove through the first lane he came to, turning left to the second exit out of the store property. The dirty Honda with the grungy Muslim drove past on the road, and Jim waited for a few seconds, before pulling out.

He kept back about a hundred yards, one lane over, following the Muslim. The Honda turned left, and Jim followed. He followed until the Muslim turned into his apartment complex, which sat next to a Mormon church.

Jim slowed, and stopped his truck. He waited for the Honda to disappear into the complex. Jim pushed on the gas and drove on, following the path of the Honda. He saw it parked and the Muslim getting out, maybe checking his mail with his dirty cane and funny hat.

"Take a picture with your cell phone," he told Bill.

Bill whipped out his phone, and turned on the video function. He filmed the car, the license plate. When Jim parked, he turned in his seat filmed the man from out the back window.

"Now all of us will know what to look for," Jim said. "We gotta tell the other guys."

"Are you sure you want to go that far?" Bill asked.

"Man, I don't want these dirty sand coons in my city."

"Alright," Bill said. "Let me send the video to everyone right now."

In the days that followed, everyone who had returned spotted the Muslim. Once at the same gas station, once at Bel Air, a number of time at a local video store. Sometimes he would be seen driving, and a text message would go out to everyone.

One night a number of them all met for drinks. It was Frank Jones who mentioned something odd.

"He was in Wal-Mart," he said. "He bought a sub sandwich."

"Big deal," Jim said, sipping on a Miller.

"Yeah, but it had pork in it," Frank said.

"So what? He's a reformed Quranist."

"Man, I'm telling you he's not Muslim."

"Fuck off," Jim said, and turned to the game on the t.v.

The other guys started talking, and came up with an idea. It was John who thought of it.

"Hey, Jim," John said, "Why don't we put a tracking device on his car, you know, and maybe spend some time watching him. We all have a bunch of money saved, we can do this."

"Yeeeah," Jim said. "I'm still waiting for the Sheriffs Department to call me back. I got a lot of time on my hands. Let do it."

And so it was agreed that the Muslim would be tracked and put under close watch. If he so much as sneezed anything that sounded like Jihad he would be brought down.

But Jim had different plans, ones he kept to himself.

III

It was at the Chevron that they put the tracking device in his car. He had walked inside with his woman, an American woman who just didn't know what she was getting into with that dirty Muslim. But as soon as he was out of sight, they ran over and attacked the car. Here a camera, there the locator, here a mike. They made quick work. They learned it in Iraq. The stuff was easy to come by, there was a spy shop over off Highway Fifty near Bradshaw.

Then they waited, and watched, and waited some more.

It was one Saturday night that he and his wife went downtown. Friday had come and gone and not once did the Muslim go to mosque. He just sat there at his computer, typing away. No doubt for some jihadist bullshit, Jim thought.

But that Saturday, they left their apartment, the Muslim and his wife, and headed downtown in their Honda. They smoked the entire way, talking, and Jim was growing to hate that odd accent of the Muslim. He couldn't place it, but it wasn't American.

The car passed by the Loaves and Fishes, passed by the light rail, and made a u-turn around an entire block. Parking, the couple got out and went inside a church. A Russian Church.

Jim knew it was Russian from the amount of people blabbing in that language outside. It was just too good to be true, literally.

"It's got to be a trick," Jim said.

"Jim, maybe we got it wrong," Bill.

"Bullshit. He probably knows we are watching him, and is trying to throw us off his trail."

"Man, we should go," said Bill.

"We're staying right here."

"I'm out," said Bill. "This is just fucking nuts."

Jim watched Bill get out of the 4X4 and head towards the light rail.

Jim waited.

It was dark before the Muslim and his wife came out of the Church. Jim was alone, and there was no one around. He had his plans for a while, and didn't tell anyone. He was a combat vet, a Ranger. It would be a shame to let his training go to waste.

He got out of his truck as the couple was getting into their car. He walked fast, shooting an azimuth across the parking lot.

"Hey," Jim said.

The Muslim turned.

When Jim was finished, the wife was crying, and he spit on her.

IV

Jim waited for the obituary to appear in the paper. He looked every day, and sure enough, the man's picture was there. As Jim read, his lips went numb. His hands were shaking.

...He was a veteran of the US Army, born and raised in Sacramento, and member of the Holy Ascension Orthodox Church...

Jim sat down. It was all a trick. Damn Muslims were sneaky. He continued to read.

...in lieu of flowers, donations may be made to Sacramento Homeless Veterans at the request of his wife...

"Bullshit," Jim said. He threw the paper down.

The damn Muslims had now moved in next door. They were at every store he went to, at every light. He had a plan, but he kept it to himself.

His friends said he had PTSD, but that was bullshit. He was fine, just sick of the Muslims that were everywhere. His buddies were going soft, but Jim wouldn't allow himself. PTSD? Didn't anyone care what he was going through more than they cared about the Muslims?

He dropped counted out seventy pushups, just a warm up for the day. Had to stay in shape, you know. You never knew when the enemy would attack.