I always thought Shrapnel sort of wanted people to think he got wounded in a war.
I was there the day he got hurt, some dickweasel in a wanna-be Monster truck peeled out at Nollar Bend and sprayed gravel all over Markie Wallace’s face.
I was drunk, we all were, we always were when we were at Nollar, nothing better to do.
Someone tried to take Markie to the hospital, but he made them stop so he could get a pint of Southern Comfort, bleeding and everything, with his older brother’s ID.
The guy at Carousel Wine and Liquor said “What the fuck, man, you get hit with shrapnel?”
I wasn’t there, I was still in Nollar with Amber Zetzel, but that’s how the story went, and from that day on Markie Wallace was Shrapnel.
Somehow they never wound up at the hospital, and Shrapnel never got stitched up, and I swear I think he kinda liked it, his face looking like mashed potatoes with some of the skin still in ‘em.
Shrapnel was kinda famous then, always drunk, most of us were.
I called him Shrap, once, years later, and he corrected me. Shrap-nel, he said, like I had disrespected some family name his grandfather brought over from Europe or something.
I moved down to Mississippi after Katrina, got a roofing job, lost track of most of our old Nollar Bend crew.
Came back up to Michigan to visit, I was driving down Telegraph Road, there was a guy on the median bumming change.
Had a sign.
Disabled Veteran, Please Help.
I started to roll down my window, give the guy a buck because my brother had been in Afghanistan.
I about shit two bricks and slapped ‘em together with Oreo creme when I realized it was Shrapnel.
I knew he hadn’t been in the service. I didn’t know, know, but I knew. Markie Wallace couldn’t stay sober long enough to sign his name at the recruiting office, much less serve his country.
I wanted to beat his ass, is what I wanted to do, but I kept driving.
Got madder, turned around and drove up to Shrapnel again.
Said “Hey, Shrapnel, it’s Kaparnis, man, I haven’t seen you in fifteen years.”
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