October 1940

His third Lucky Strike this morning ashed itself, flicking up and down on his lip as he talked. Jack knew how to shoot the shit with anyone to end up being liked. This fella gets it. He understood the shit life some white men had compared to others; barely better than a _’s. Parents expecting the world of their sons without considering what it takes to be a man during wartime. Jack felt seen. Warmed. He’d come by to sign his draft card, originally pissed as hell he’d be bothered by the U S of A to give up his life. Fuck this shit, he’d thought. Now that he got to see the kind of men he might rub shoulders with, finally getting some respect and camaraderie, away from screaming babies and idiot of a wife, he’d be fine leaving behind old Hoover Motor. He was tired of selling vacuums to housewives that hardly ever slept with him, let alone bought one of the damn things.

He’d thought that he’d show up and give the draft officers a piece of his troubles so they know he wasn’t fit for war: two small kids to feed, a bad knee, and–he’d make up–“emotional problems”. His set jaw had relaxed when Myron greeted him like he felt: important and vital.

“Well, shit, my first born’s name is Myron, too,” he’d told the officer and they went off talking about family, and how women never give them enough credit for the degrading and pointless work they’ve got to put themselves through to keep a roof up and meat on the table in times like these. That being rewarded for that by going out, having some drinks, meeting a fine lady or two, well that ain’t crazy. That’s just right and fair.

Buoyed by his conversation and confident he’d get called up soon, Jack bounced out of the office back to his dusty truck, fourth Lucky Strike fresh, knowing he’s finally going to tell Gladys the truth: he ain’t coming home early tonight, and it’s not because of anyone but his damn desires that he deserves to chase. If she opened her mouth against it, he’d close it for her because she needs to learn her gratitude. He gripped the steering wheel ’til his knuckles turned white and palms slicked up with sweat.