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Got a devil's haircut on your mind?
269 N. Hull St, Ste 2, Athens, GA 30601 706.546.9902
Awww.cvolutionhairsalon corr Hours Tuesday EflcJav lOAm 7PM Saturdays TOAm 2PM
MY JOHN WAYNE MOMENT
I read recently about a former Murine who
was attacked by four armed thugs—two of whom
had guns—as he walked home from his job at
an Atlanta restaurant. Thomas Autry, who is 36,
was jumped as he was walking home from work.
He called for help and pulled a knife out of his
backpack, and got busy. The upshot: one at
tacker dead, one in critical condition and two in
custody.
Only a Marine would take a knife to a gun-
fight and walk away the victor. Police, sensibly
enough, did not charge Autry. Of course, Atlanta
is the South, where I grew up, and, for good or
ill, the South has always viewed weapons of any
kind as educational tools and instruments of at
titude adjustment.
I guess every guy dreams about having his
own “John Wayne Moment." I had one once.
There is a song that says "life is different than it
is in your dreams."
My John Wayne Moment came late one sum
mer at the end of the 1960s. My wife and I lived
in a little wooden farm house on Turkey Creek
Road in Clarke County, GA. The house sat back in
a clearing in thick pine woods, at the end of a
long dirt driveway.
right past the bedroom window. In the moon
light, I could see he had a knife.
It was hot, so the door was open, the screen
latched. I heard him cut through the screen.
I don't remember this part, but Mary said I
rose up off the mattress, cursing and praying in
the same breath, and, scooping up the rifle, ran
toward the porch.
I was a good shot back then. My buddies and
I used to hunt rabbits with .22s. This was a fat
man in a white shirt on a moonlit night. I fig
ured he was mine.
The man jumped off the porch and ran toward
the far side of the clearing. I ran out into the
yard, raised the rifle, and fired all 15 rounds at
him.
At that point. I remembered the Falcon wag
on and the fat man's three friends. The car was
about 10 feet to my left.
This was my John Wayne Moment. One bad
guy, I thought, perforated in the piney woods.
Three drunk bad guys and a ton or so of steel
to my left. And me, long hair sticking straight
out every which way, wearing nothing but a St.
Christopher medal, a Timex watch and an empty
rifle. Not even a cowboy hat.
We were hippies, sort of, and the house was
small and isolated, but had most of the modern
amenities. Well, there was an outhouse that you
had to chase the copperheads out of when you
needed to go, and the electricity was limited to
a single light bulb hanging from the center of
each of the rooms. But it did have running water,
though no water heater, and we had to bathe in
a washtub on the front porch.
Still, it was S50 a month and we liked it—un
til the strange car started showing up.
It was an old white Ford Falcon station
wagon, not in good repair. There were always
three or four guys in it. The car would drive to
the edge of the clearing, stop, and just sit there,
idling.
The men sat there, watching. I approached
them the first time, thinking they might be lost.
They backed up and left. They came back several
times over the next few weeks. I didn't like the
way they looked at us, especially the way they
looked at Mary. They always had beer. We did not
have a telephone.
After about the third visit from the Falcon, I
drove to my parents' house and dug out my old
Stevens .22 automatic rifle and a couple boxes of
cartridges.
And a good thing, too.
In the small hours of the next day, the Falcon
was back. This time, it drove right up into the
yard. A man got out of the front passenger side
and strode right up onto the porch. He walked
It was a moment, all right. I don't know if
I've ever felt more naked. I don't know how long
we all stood or sat there, respectively. Seemed
like a long time to me, but I didn't check the
Timex. T he driver of the Falcon threw the bat
tered old heap into reverse and tore down the
driveway without bothering to turn around. I
»;uess he didn't realize my gun was empty.
Suddenly, there I was, all alone, under the
moon in the piney woods, standing barefoot in
the red clay dust, wondering if I had made the
whole thing up. I mean, it was the '60s, after all.
I think Mary came and got me back into the
house. I don't remember, but I'm pretty sure I
did not sleep.
Nothing ever came of it, except that the
white car stopped coming around. I never called
the Sheriff to report the event. The guy was, af
ter all, running away from my house, so if I had
hit him, 1 would have been the one going to jail.
I got a bunch of friends to come over and walk
around looking for a fat guy with a lot of holes
in him, but we never found him. I finally had to
admit that I was so angry and afraid that all my
shots had gone wild. I have to say, though, that
I never saw a fat man move so fast.
T.W. Burger
Terry Burger is a reporter for the Patnot-News in
Harrisburg, PA, but he is solely responsible for his Burger
To Go on-line column.
10 FLAGP0LE.C0M-JUNE 21,2006
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