RENEGADE

RENEGADE

BY JOHN TUFT

Henry sits on the sidewalk, back against the wall, the broom cradled in his arms in a unique way, resting securely across his knees. The swirls and furls on his arm identify him as a Marine. The tattoo on his neck says he’s done some hard time upstate. And the small cross tattooed in the middle of his forehead tells me he’s on a journey. I stop and nod. He nods in return. “Scout sniper?” I ask. He nods again and sheepishly adjusts the broom handle away from the ready/fire position. “Keeping watch on the intersection?” I ask, nodding toward Van Nuys and Kester Boulevards juncture nearby. “You got overwatch somewhere, Marine?” I ask. He smiles, “Every good gift and every perfect gift is is from above, coming down from the father of lights…” I pick it up, “…with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change. James 1:17. That’s some hell of an overwatch.”

He laughs and eases his weapon back to ‘safety’, but ready, always ready. “You a sky pilot?” he looks me in the eye. I smile back. “Your daddy was in Nam, I take it.” “Sir, yes sir. Two tours.” He conveys the ache of history in two short words. Not one more is needed. “Semper fi,” I respond. “HooRup, sir. You serve?” it’s the universal question of those coming back from battlefields. I shake my head, “No, but I’m still putting them in the ground, son. Still covering them over for all time.” We are both quiet for a moment. Finally, I ask, “You got a name, Marine?” His body tenses. “Renegade, sir. Given name is Henry, but everybody with me in Fallujah calls me Renegade.” I ask permission with my eyes to sit beside him and he nods.

“Everybody with you…they around still?” He looks at me with eyes that don’t want to see any more but cannot stop remembering. “They’re all gone now, sir. It’s just me, Renegade, standing watch.” I ponder that for a moment. “Are they out there still pounding, or…” I look to the sidewalk, “Or in the ground?” He sighs and it’s like hearing ghosts passing through a dark room. “Ain’t much difference, sir.” He brightens a bit and nods upward. “But I’ve got this sir. Me and Overwatch.” Across from Renegade’s position are two parking spaces for the vans used by the bakery in the strip mall behind us. They pay Henry twenty dollars a day to keep those two spaces empty and policed. Hence the broom. The area is remarkably clean. You need a job done half-assed, call the Navy. You want it done right, call a Marine. You want to see it get blown up, call the Air Force. You want to waste your time, call the Army.

“You got any help, Henry?” I ask. “For what, sir? I am at my post, I have my weapon, and I have my orders. What else do I need?” I’m dumbstruck at first. “A friend?” I ask. His head slowly turns and his eyes are almost blank. “Friends die, sir. All I got now is the Corps.” “Do you mind if I watch with you for a while, Henry?” He shrugs. “I’m Renegade.” I nod. “Renegade, tell me about your old man. Please.” He brightens. “My old man loved the ocean. He took us to the beach every chance he got. My momma said he was part fish. He said when he died, he was going to the ocean instead of heaven. It’d be a lot more fun.” His eyes soften. “That sounds about right to me.”

Turns out Renegade takes the twenty dollars each day and the McDonald’s across the street gives him a deal of 20 burgers for 20 bucks. Then Renegade takes them to a location that is not to be disclosed and distributes them to those less fortunate than himself. Because as he puts it, “You do overwatch in layers. I’m the man on the ground, closest to the action, so I take care of what I can take care of. The rest…?” he gestures up to the sky, “That’s you and the Big Guy, Sky Pilot.” He laughs. He laughs and it is a glorious sound. I wish that I could play it for you here.

A few days later, I’m making my way past Renegade’s post and it’s abandoned. There is trash in the gutter and the broom lies abandoned. One of the regulars at the corner sees my confusion. “You looking for Renegade?” I nod. The man steps closer. “Night before last he went to the beach. When it emptied out at night, he took off his clothes and walked into the water. And just kept walking…” He takes me by the arm and leads me to Renegade’s post. He gestures for me to get down close to the wall so I can see. There in rough scratches, I read, “every good gift and every perfect gift is from above…” I kneel there and weep… for I know some gifts are right here in front of us.

Words are magic and writers are wizards.