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violation been committed against him? And how does it come about, these god damned violations? Is a violation done to you—are they made—or do you commit them? And he growled deep down in his throat. He opened the door, put one foot on the running board and leaned out, yelling down Franklin Street.
    Look out, you bastards. You can’t challenge me that-a-way. I got a pass. Signed by the old Provost Marshal himself. Yeah. Ole Chicken Shit Williams. Ker -nel Chicken Shit, I mean.
    He got back in the cab and gripped the wheel with both hands, lowering his head and glaring through the windshield.
    Look at ‘em. Fuckin’ bastards. All lined up and
blinkin‘ their bloodshot eyes at me. In a perfect enfilade position too. If I had me a BAR—. I’ll show ’em though. Violation, huh? I’ll show ‘em some real violations.
    Putting the truck in gear, he started forward with a jerk, stalled the motor, cursed out loud and started it again. Roaring ahead for half a block, he slammed on the brakes, skidded to a stop and leaped out of the cab, the motor still running as he dashed over to the curb, spit at one of the parking meters and fumbled in his pocket for a ring of keys. There was a big metal tool box bolted to the side of the truck just behind the cab. Jackson leaned forward to put the key in the padlock, lost his balance, swore and kicked the door of the box. He tried it again, got it open and noisily turned over the heap of tools inside, a clattering pile of wrenches, hammers, taps, dies and star chisels. He found the pipe cutter, pulled it out of the clanking heap and slammed the door of the tool box.
    Trying to hold himself erect, he marched forward, his shoulders slanted over to one side as he stumbled over the curb holding the heavy tool in his hand. He stood in front of one of the meters that had a square sign attached to the pipe that supported it, listing in green letters the regulations about parking in that spot. Jackson grinned, then scowled with cunning malice.
    O.K. Mister General, you son of a bitch. Sir. You think you can straighten everything out with an old beat-up silver dollar with a peppermint stripe ribbon hangin‘ on it? Is that it? Speak up, manl Chin in! Chest out! Count cadence, loud and clear. So you gave me your
fuckin’ medal and now everything’s just copacetic. Well, I gotta cut your god damned head off. It’s a matter of principle. It’s my god damned patriotic duty. But don’t worry. They’ll give you the Medal of Honor. For sure. Posthumorously. With crossed turds on a field of gold.
    Jackson clamped on the pipe cutter, screwed it up tight, pulled it around two or three times, tightened up the adjusting handle a bit more and turned it again. In less than half a minute the meter came loose in his hands and he threw it into the back of the truck.
    O.K. Load up, General. The convoy’s movin‘ up. We gotta make contact with the enemy before dawn.
    Jackson staggered up to the next parking meter.
    O.K. Helen. Off comes that pretty little head.
    Quickly he adjusted the pipe cutter, made two jerking turns, missed when he grabbed for the handle and staggered backwards a few steps. He wobbled back and forth a little, got his bearings and wagged his finger at the next meter in line.
    Don’t worry sergeant. I’ll be with you in a minute. Stand at ease there while I settle a domestic situation over here.
    Breaking out in a sweat in the hot, sticky air, his breathing became labored, his voice hoarse with the ferocity of his exertions.
    O.K. Kitten. Sorry to do this. But I lost my head over you. Now it’s your turn.
    So he went. He left the motor of the truck running, the door open, the headlights illuminating his work. One
after the other he proceeded south down the main shopping district of the town. Methodically he piled the meters together along the curb and every so often went back to drive up the truck, throwing in the