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| Realization |
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| That Ugly Feeling |
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| Best Laid Plans The Last Straw Saga |
Chapter II
I jam my foot on the accelerator and roar out of the parking lot of the Work Kare Reproduction Health clinic. In my rear view mirror, I see that the clinic's security guard has his gun drawn and is watching me through his gun site as I maneuver past people coming in for drug tests. I can't watch him anymore. I have to get out of Shreveport before the Division of Reproductive Health notifies the state police and the nation that I have jeopardized my ability to procreate in violation of the VD laws of Louisiana. Why did I decide that today I would go and get that damned exam? Did I have a death wish? Half of my friends have refused to even read the laws and the other half seriously regret being on the productive American list.
"Oh no. Is that police car turning around?" My fear is so great, my eyes feel like they are closed or narrowed to mere pinpoints of light, asphalt and lines. I slow and turn left onto Greenwood, right onto Highway 220, and then veer off onto Interstate 49. It was five miles before I heard the mechanized voice inside my car warn me that my seat belt is not buckled. By the time I get off the interstate at the I-49 Frontage Road and stop for cross traffic, the warnings have given up.
"What the fuck do I need a seat belt to protect me when any jacked up security guard can draw a gun and shoot me. How about a warning to avoid all contact with Reproductive Health clinics. Jesus!" I am furious and terrified, shaking and spitting curses so loud, the driver in the truck beside me almost ran the red light trying to get clear of a madman. "Get a grip. Calm down. Wipe the spit off your chin. Here's your turn, Cletus," and as I try to calm my nerves, I follow the driveway behind The Ranchers Outlet into the shade of elms and cottonwoods. From there, I walk to Mellincone's Storage Center, and so begins step one in my desperate plan.
The repressive VD laws passed a few years ago have added yet another layer of hell to my life. Decades ago, mandatory government health care was considered a god send to the millions of people without insurance and I was one of them.
My father worked as an airplane mechanic for Red River Courier for ten or more years and the company provided health insurance for him, mom, me, Ruby and Bert. Mom used to say that Red River insurance was almost as good as no insurance at all. So she doctored us with all kinds of concoctions gathered from her Osage relatives, the internet, and neighbors. Like the health care system, her cure rate was 50% or less. Usually, we simply crawled in our beds and slept through whatever ailed us. Mom died around the time that Dad lost his job. So there he was with three teenagers, no money, no insurance and nothing but a Southern man's hope - a full fridge of beer.
Mom's sister, Aunt Rebbecca and her husband, Walt, took in Ruby and Bert. I was left with Dad, or Ron as he wanted to be called. Ron, the mechanic, who spent his days taking apart our car and putting it back together again. Oh, he was good. But, mechanical days were long gone and he didn't have it in him to learn the ways of electric or hybrid technology. I was fifteen when I got my first job at an auto parts store and two years later I talked the store into hiring Ron.
Thanks to Aunt Rebbecca, Mom's concoctions, and Obamacare we were able to handle our medical problems without dying. We could handle almost all problems, except for Ron's alcoholism. He didn't feel any pain, true enough, but he leaked beer from every pore and eventually he was let go from the auto parts store. From that day to now, he's been a mean loner, one step away from the gutter. He's the one who predicted that the Obamacare of the 2010s would evolve from a godsend for the uninsured to a government monitoring system.
"Once they get your DNA, they can track you anywhere for any reason and you don't get any say in what they do to you." Ron is a conspiracy junkie and a rabid anti-liberal. The back of my neck begins to itch as I walk past the Outlet and onto the Frontage road. I smell the asphalt and the sharp tang of Cottonwoods and pines. Ron got this unit a few years ago to store the many auto parts he stole from the store. His plan was to sell them on Craig's List or the Southern Man's Auto Exchange websites. After he got fired, he cleared out almost everything except the most valuable auto parts and put Bert's name on the agreement thinking that company investigators would be thrown off his trail of illegal activities. Naturally, Ron wouldn't give a shit about his kids and the trouble he causes them.
Just thinking of Ron prompts me to start rummaging in my pocket making sure my wallet is still there while I fish my keys out. Right on top is the key to the storage unit lock and it fits - no catching or scraping. It opens and there she is - Bert's Honda Goldwing hybrid motorcycle. She's big and black with silver trim. Last year, Bert asked me to get her serviced because he was expecting to come home on leave from his tour of duty in the Sudan. His leave was cancelled and not rescheduled. The last word we got about him was an email to Ron from one of his army platoon members, some woman we've never heard of who claimed that he would soon be promoted to corporal. According to Ron, there were no details about when and where Bert would be promoted. God only knows why he didn't forward the email to the rest of us, but he didn't and that was the last word on Bert. His wife, Shauna, Ruby and I called the base locator to get some information on our brother, but no luck. I guess the military is not obligated to keep track of people once they enlist, or maybe they don't feel obligated to tell family where people are fighting from day to day. Either way, Bert's off the radar, and I have the keys to his motorcycle.
The cool interior of the storage unit smells of oil and old rags, a smell I had learned to love while living with Ron all those years. In the corner, on top of the auto parts boxes was my "bug out" bag containing clothes, money, an unregistered cell phone, a credit card, and a fake ID with the name Jesse John Martin.
"Jesse Martin!" I marvelled, thinking how easy it will be to remember that name and how hard it will be to track me down among the millions. I had done research on this and found that there were not many men with the name Cletus, and hardly anyone with the last name of Lemning. I wondered if Ron's forefathers misspelled a real last name or dredged up some word they used in the swamp and slapped it on us. I have always wanted to change my name, to fit in and get lost in a crowd and now I'm forced into escaping from Ron and the Lemnings, from the Division of Reproductive Health, from Louisianna and its obsessive quest to control its people with stupid state laws, even worse than federal laws as far as I can tell.
I'll miss Ruby and Bert. Even though we were raised apart and we rarely see each other, I still have brotherly feelings toward them and hope they can live okay lives in this state. I'm done with it here. I'm looking at being locked up for five years or more if DRH catches me, so I'm pretty sure they'll wave goodbye with a smile on their faces. Well, maybe not Bert because I'm getting out of here on his Honda Goldwing. My stuff fits perfectly in the storage compartments, including a small tent and basic camping gear. The only thing missing from this escape scenario is my Glock - it's old, but Ron took good care of it over the years he owned it and when he gave it to me, he'd scrounged a sizeable cache of ammo. It's stashed in Oklahoma just waiting for me to get there and be on my way to Barstow, California.
