"Sir, does this streetcar stop at Davenport?"

"Sure does, Mac. Hop on."

The fare handed me a nickel and I gave him his ticket in return. 1943Same cas all the other fares riding my car on the Blogworth Line. Same trips, twelve times a day, six days a week with an dinner break. And then it was off to the depot to check in and clean my car.

I was already getting flack from the boss about needing to hire a substitute yesterday. It was important – I had another appointment with the Army men and wanted to see if I could pass the physical this time around. If only I didn't have this constant pain from applying and releasing the streetcar brake like clockwork.

The administrator hardly even looked up at me at first. "Name," he said. As if he was just saying it, not asking for it.

"Shiny, sir."

"Mr. Shiny, your file states that you've been here before?"

"Yes, sir. I want to serve my country, sir."

"And you said you would come back when your leg was feeling better?"

"Yes sir. My leg is in perfect condition now." I lied. But lying for the sake of service for my country was past any shortcoming the Lord would see in me.

"Okay, Mr. Shiny, here's what you will do." The administrator looked up at me. He took out an Army-issue stopwatch. "At the back of this building is a steel toolbox. When I say to do so, you will run out these here front doors, run to the back, get the toolbox, run back and bring it to me. I will be timing you. You'll need to do this in less than 30 seconds. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir."

"You may begin. NOW." The stopwatch clicked. I started my run, pain searing through my leg as if a branding iron were being pressed upon it. I tried to put the pain out of my body, thinking only of the
Krauts and the Japs whose destiny it was to meet me on the battlefield.

The toolbox was heavy. But I continued my run, almost collapsing but still motivated to run. I entered the room and slammed the toolbox on the desk, standing at attention.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Shiny. That will not do."

"Sir, if I may..."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Shiny."

"But I need to go! My country needs me!"

"I'm sorry Mr. Shiny."

"I'm a sure shot with any rifle! Don't make me have to beg..."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Shiny. You'll have to leave now."

---

"Change for a quarter?"

I hated him. That slanted-eye, hot-shot Oriental shoving his money in my face. Mocking me. Mocking my country. I ought to have pounded him something fierce. I would have, too – but I knew I couldn't, lest the boss have any reason to let me go.

So I forged a smile and gave him two dimes and a ticket. But steam was building up inside me. The pain in my leg burned with every press of the streetcar brake. But I kept on working, knowing that my dinner break wasn't far away. And I could get some time with 3rdplanet, this girl who is sweet on me. She worked at Laughwithme's restaurant down near the warehouse district.

And then it happened. I'm eating my grilled cheese sandwich, chasing it down with a tomato juice spiked with some of the good stuff I had in a flask in my coat pocket. And this hussy of a dame gets in my face at the counter. I'm about to put her in her place when Burl grabs my arm and stops me.

I'm ashamed. Why can't I just serve my country? It would be better for us. Better for this town. Better for 3rdplanet and her son. Better for the streetcar bosses. All I know is that I've got a pounding
headache and a throbbing leg. And the flask in my coat pocket is empty by now.

The lock on Poonannypie's general store is a flimsy one. I've picked it many times before. The old rascal hasn't got much in the register, just a few dollars here and there. I pick up some of his finest
whiskey and head to his back storeroom, closing the door behind me. It's going to be one of those nights.

Some would call me a thief, a burglar – for stealing Poonannypie's wares and money. I just called it a loan.

Because that's what brothers do – loan things to one another, right?