Every dog has its day
a short story
Rob Bartell spent sessions with his post-traumatic stress counselor discussing methods to channel his anger. Now he focused on cranking the window down in his cheap rental. The cool air refreshed him. The folded American flag and medal they tossed him at the capital were in a backpack on the passenger seat. He still felt the governor’s handshake, which tried to match his.
[You were there, Bro.]
He could not recall what the governor said, but instead remembered that Pataki, considered a tall man, looked up at him. Bartell stood a stocky six-foot-seven. His Army recruiter told him that he represented the poster boy for the Lynyrd Skynyrd song that went, “lean and mean, and big and bad, Lord.”
He sat cramped in the little car and breathed consciously, slowly, in and out.
“Fuck it,” he whispered on exhale. Parked, with his head on the wheel, his hands remained unaltered from the mad grip that connected skill and anger in road rage.