Larry

There was a remote cabin, tucked away like a secret near the foot of a mountain. You know, like the ones near a river; where you have smoke poppin’ from the chimney, and it’s raining outside while the cat slowly paces up and down the fireplace casting shadows around the room - you get the picture.

       There’s our friend, comfortably nestled in the sofa nearly facing the fireplace. He has his head buried deep in some Clive Cussler novel about a lost Buddha or something. I don’t know, he’s just read past page 25. He is lost in his fictional world; one leg over the other, and one hand supporting his chin in a classical reading pose.

       And in front of him is some old furniture matching a coffee table, and on it - his favorite white mug. It had been 10 pages ago since he last picked up the mug; the coffee must be cold by now I guess. But he took a sip anyway.

       Taste buds now dissatisfied, he put the mug away and buried his head back into the book. That’s what happens when you travel into another dimension; you lose sight of the real one.

       It’s oddly fascinating how he can just sit there and – and what is that delicious smell? 

       It smells like...?

       Sniff. Sniiiiiiiff…

       “Eli? What’s cooking in the kitchen?” He called out. 

       The atmosphere suddenly broke off. The stubborn silence that followed, gave attention to the beat of the knife cutting against the chopping board. He took his reading glasses off the pages and began monitoring Tom, who was aimlessly strolling up and down the fireplace for whatever reasons only known to a feline.

       The silence grew; growing louder every millisecond. His nose could no longer endure the delicious hints, allowing suspense to drift in slowly like a lone canoe out in the lagoon.

       “Honey, you need a hand?” a second time now, with a tone of indirect referencing to his initial asking.

       “I harvested a few vegetables from the backyard this afternoon,” a half-response merrily floated out from the kitchen without missing a beat. Her voice sounded like someone who had their attention fixated on something else rather than who they were speaking to.

       “We’re also going to be missing one chicken from the hen-house. But...” she paused a second to concentrate on stripping the papery sheath off a clove of garlic, “it’ll be ready soon; just hang in there.” Her soft maternal voice mingled with the aroma and bonded perfectly in the household air like two award-winning couples ready to dance the tango.

       Entering the 70’s age bracket had caused a few discrepancies to Elizabeth’s vocals. But each time she exposed her voice in a still surrounding, the moment quickly paused for her 78-year old husband, Larry Epi to time-travel back to 1972 in Fortitude Valley, when he first laid his eyes and ears on a then 24-year old Elizabeth Arlington singing sopranos at The Tivoli.

       Almost five decades and twelve grandchildren later, the old couple has since retreated to Larry’s native land on the foothills of Sogeri near the Rauna hydro station. This was how Larry wanted his retirement from the army to be; away from the bustling city life, the sound of traffic, and all the noise pollution. He wanted serenity; a view of a clear night sky rather than shining city lights.

       No one dared to disturb their peace and tranquility, and I mean no one. Their small community knew well of a retired army colonel living among their midst, except those children born within the last six years or so. They’ve only heard the name and not seen the face. He’d become more so of a bedtime story for them at night.

       One group of youngsters wanted to see how far they could piss Old Larry off. This high school boys club was led by the infamous Brownwin twins, whom the community has heard so much of. There were odds in favor of a stand-off between them and Old Larry. 

       One day, the loud gang decided to venture further up the river bank on the outskirts of Larry’s property. They were on an experiment with 'Firewara.' The JBL speaker in their possession sent a stern warning to all the birds in the trees that the atmosphere would no longer be silent. They had to find some other tree canopies to chirp and sing to each other.

       The boys drank, they danced, they swam, then they drank some more and made merry like it was nobody’s business. 

       I wonder what made them think it would not have been Larry’s business if it was right in his backyard.

“What in the bloody hell is that noise?” Larry scoffed as he looked up from his reading book, cursing underneath his breath at the same time. He’d made progress with the pages and was onto page 260. This time the plot was clear; the Dalai Lama wanted to restore normalcy in Tibet, struggling against the Chinese-invoked protests that wanted to overthrow the regime. The key to restoring peace lay with the enormous Golden Buddha statue that was in the possession of a wealthy tycoon in Hong Kong. The CIA had secretly intervened to engage a team of highly trained mercenaries to retrieve the statue in a classified covert operation that would keep Washington above suspicion from Beijing.

       Larry had had enough. He made effort to put up with the echoes of their frequent weekend bashes down the river but this time around, they were fifty decibels louder. The Brownwin twins and their cousins or whoever was very loud, but Old Larry knew someone – or rather something, that could compete with the noise.

       Retired Army Colonel Larry Epi took out his Winchester Bolt-action rifle from its hiding spot and decided to show up at the party uninvited.

       The first shot rang through the air to grab some attention before the second one lowered the JBL’s volume. A third round escaped the barrel seconds after a few F-words and obscenities escaped Larry’s mouth. One last warning shot hit like the final nail to the coffin and drove home his point; pack the hell up and leave this area. And don’t ever come back!

       How many of Larry’s dogs with him that moment seized the opportunity to beat their chests and brag on with proud barks. The boys had barked up the wrong tree. They knew then and there that Old Larry was not just a faceless name; he was a legend, a myth, and a bedtime story.

       Word got around about the incident, much to the delight of the other community members who anticipated it to happen. It was reaffirmed once again that Larry and Elizabeth, along with their two cats and seven dogs, and all the chickens in the hen-house, were not here for a vacation. They did not settle down under the foot of a mountain so they could giggle and flirt with some noisy neighbors.

       They were here for peace, and the old couple just wanted to live happily ever after for the remainder of their lives.

       

The End.