Read Sharpshooter for Free Online Page B

bit less now.
    â€œWell, young man,” Dad says, “you do deliver a quality apology, I’ll give you that.”
    â€œThank you,” Beck says. “With my mouth, I’ve had to learn.”
    Dad bows, then gestures to the chair again.
    Sheesh. No cease-fire yet.
    â€œSir, I just want to wear my hair a few more days. I want to wear it through the doors of induction and pledge my allegiance. I want to say my small piece for freedom of speech, which we Americans hold dear. Let’s call this my First Amendment hair.”
    Holy smokes, do we have the two superpowers of blowhard going at it here?
    Then suddenly Dad steps away from his barber chair. He walks, stern as Cochise, right up to Beck’s face. Beck’s face doesn’t go anywhere, but I see the shakes on the inside of him threatening to come trickling out his eyes. I feel unable to move a muscle, and I am the toughest nonveteran here by some ways.
    â€œSir,” Dad breathes into Beck’s face. Never thought I’d feel like feeling sorry for Beck but, yup.
    â€œSssir?” Beck responds, clearly pronouncing those extra S’s.
    â€œFirst Amendment Hair certainly has a better ring than freak flag. ” Beck definitely catches a bit of the spittle of contempt on the end bit there.
    We do a group exhale.
    â€œThank you, sir.”
    â€œAnd you have got a certain amount of courage. You will most definitely need it.”
    â€œYes, sir,” Beck says.
    Dad extends his hand, Beck takes it. Dad holds him in his famous manly military death shake for several seconds.
    Then the sound of the electric clippers, like a tiny little fighter plane, as Dad swings his left hand from behind his back, over his shoulder, swooping down on Beck.
    Beck breaks away and stumbles toward the door and back into the kitchen.
    I laugh, and Morris and Rudi join me as Dad proceeds to sweep up. It is mostly the laugh of relief, but it feels good.
    â€œGo ahead in, boys,” Dad says. “I’ll clean up.”
    Morris holds the screen door open as Rudi goes in, then me. He puts a hand on my shoulder, pushing me in.
    â€œWho says your dad doesn’t have a sense of humor?” he says.
    â€œWho says he was joking?” I say.
    For the record, he wasn’t.
    Off the record, I’m ready. I’ve got my orders and I’ve got my baldy cut and I’ve got my head of steam. I want Boston in the rearview mirror and Vietnam in my sights. I want to get on with it.
    I want to get these guys out of my house.
    Rotten, right? I can’t help it. This phase is over. This moment is over, and the moment I know that is when Rudi gets up off my couch, trailing oatmeal-raisin crumbs across my mother’s nice carpet, and rubs Morris’s head and makes a wish for the sixth time tonight. Everybody laughs. Again. Mom whips out her trusty carpet sweeper and cheerfully collects crumbs before they get ground in. Again. Dad addresses the troops, again, on one more of the many indigenous peoples of Southeast Asia and what we had better be on the lookout for. The guys hang on every word like they all add up to one greasy pole of dear life. Yes, for sure, The Captain has done his homework, but come on now.
    â€œDo you see any parallels between any of these tribes, sir, and the ones you know well among the American Indians?”
    That question could come only from Beck.
    And it could only bring me to one conclusion, as this is the only time in my knowledge that anyone has had to prod my father into more of this kind of thing.
    They don’t want to leave.
    I should have seen it earlier, and I should be understanding about it now, and sure it makes some kind of sense, and yes these are my best pals in the world, but jeez, like I was saying, I am ready.
    â€œRight,” I say, standing up and clapping my hands twice, crisply. “I don’t know what any of you are doing tomorrow, but I for one have an early and long day ahead. So