Not For Sale

A Short Story

It’s Sunday. The week has been wild. Time to relax, grab that cup of joe, and read with me this morning. Shall we?

It was 1971, and Franky Moretti couldn’t help but stare at that beautiful hunk of metal in his neighbor’s driveway—a Ford Falcon GT-HO Phase III. Jack Decker owned it. Jack had been out of town for some time, and Franky nor Jack’s parents could ever guess when Jack would return. Jack was a strong young man, a great ball player, and a stick on the golf course. Franky wanted to grow up and be like Jack, but he wanted that Ford Falcon first.

Eight-hundred-some days from now. Not too long, he thought. He’d drive it to the drive-in theater under the neon sign, Patty Reynolds under his arm. Patty would love that car, too. He couldn’t wait to show her. What a beauty, that car. He imagined the steering wheel under his hand—He cast himself out of his reverie, spun his bicycle around, and peddled back down the narrow, maple-lined street.

Kirby Strawsen, Franky’s best friend, was the only one who waited for Franky to return. Kirby was used to this. Let him look, he thought as Franky skidded out his tire before him.

“She’s a beaut, Kirby. She’s a real beaut, that one.” Franky said.

“She’s always been that way, Franky. She ain’t done changed one bit, and you see her for the first time every day.” Kirby said.

“When you know, you know.” Franky said.

“I know you ain’t gonna even think about her in all them years from now when you’re allowed to drive one of ‘em anyhow.” Kirby said.

“I know you ain’t making any sense. Know that.” Franky said.

“You ain’t never affording no car like that anyhow.” Kirby said.

“I got dreams, Kirby. You’ll see.” Franky said. “You’ll see.”

“My Daddy says you can dream in one hand and spit in the other. See which one fills up first.” Kirby said. “I reckon it’d be the other.”

“Yeah. I reckon you’re right. Your Daddy always seems to know.” Franky said.

“He don’t drink himself asleep by noon like yours, that’s why.” Kirby said.

“I know it,” Franky said. “But she’s a beaut though, Kirby. Ain’t she?”

“She sure is, Franky. She sure is.”

They turned to peddle away as a green military vehicle with a white star painted across the side turned the corner. It droned from afar before it crept up the maple-lined street. Dolly Jefferson, on her daily afternoon stroll, stopped dead in her tracks, her hand slapping over her heart as the vehicle crumbled atop the pavement and crept closer.

“You see that, Kirby?” Franky asked.

“I saw it alright. Saw Dolly Jefferson touched by the Grim Reaper.” Kirby replied. “That’s what I saw.”

“I dunno bout all that. But she sure as shit touched by something.” Franky said.

“Yeah, something not good, Franky.” Kirby said.

They watched as the military vehicle stopped before the Decker’s house. Right in behind the Ford Falcon. Two Officers in formal uniform, accompanied by a Chaplain and a Medical Professional, step out. Men dressed in what Franky deemed right then and there was the most spectacular suit a man could own. They buttoned their coats and fixed their hats under their arms. Stern. Pressed. Rigid with finesse. The men walked up the narrow cobblestone path, carving through the immaculate front lawn beset with Kentucky Bluegrass. No further a step than the middle garden gnome did they hear a terrible cry from inside the house that shrieked and wailed down the street. Despair, hurt, and sacrifice echo in every household along the way. His nerves splintered, and the hair on his neck stood tall. Franky wasn’t entirely sure what these men were here for or why Jack Decker’s mother had screamed like that at the sight of them.

What Franky did know was that Mrs. Decker must have spotted the men in uniform through the paned glass of her front door. Franky remembered the paned glass well. The pattern, the small cracks that spiderwebbed down the left corner. It was fresh in memory as he was there the other week, as usual, asking if he could sit in that beautiful hunk of metal—that Ford Falcon GT-HO Phase III.

Franky never did buy that car. He never asked to sit in it again. It never went up for sale. After that day, it sat in that spot for two years and seventy-nine days. Then, it was covered and pushed into the garage.

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We love our troops. We love our country. We will never forget what so many have sacrificed.

I hope you enjoyed this short story. Thank you for reading.

Now get out there and kick this week in the ass.

Catch y’all on the flip side.

-BM