Bonner's Fire: An American Revolution

CHAPTER 1

You don’t know what thing will start a war.

That’s what John Bonner thought, studying the glow of the stub of his cigarette, his mind on the notion of individual freedoms even more today than at most times. Like, for Christ sakes, you almost needed a permit to smoke.

The air was still, like it was often in July here. To the west, the sky had a heated iron glow of fading sun. There was a rumble in the earth of people celebrating, the crackle of state-approved fireworks fizzing on hot asphalt. Another Fourth of July in the United States of America.

Bonner waited at the stop sign, his arm on the window sill, tapping the side of the Chevy Chevelle, the metal band on his ring finger keeping time with the cannon whump and the bursting, multi-colored sky.

The radio was playing a public service announcement from the federal government, a woman with a schoolteacher voice lamenting how fifty-four percent of parents didn’t have rules against smoking in their homes. Some federally funded think tank had found that running three PSAs in a row increased the take-rate for what they called democratic education, whatever the hell that meant.

Bonner blew smoke, waiting through the next PSA. The government actor was asking in his condescending government tone if the family pets were in his Emergency Preparedness Plan. You don’t have an EPP posted in the hallway of your home, the guy was saying, you may be subject to a $1,500 fine and up to a year in jail. Christ.

Vehicles were passing, the bright orange patches on left bumpers telling other commuters that these vehicles met all federal codes. Safety, fuel economy, car seats, preparedness kit, mobile communication, satellite tracking and no cigarette lighter. The last government bulletin scolded him for giving kids blue bikes, cool skateboards and global warming. It made him crazy listening, and Bonner rolled his eyes in time to catch some screaming missile ending abruptly in cascading sparks.

Scanning the road, he saw a brown Ford pickup way down, the last car in the long line. Now there was breaking radio news, another National Guard deployment. Last week it was in New York over the federalization of the nation’s ports. This one was Nebraska farmers standing off troops over wheat imports from Argentina. It was a quick report, just routine. Then Tom Petty was free-falling on the radio and Bonner thought it was fitting for the USA.

The Ford went past, Bonner seeing custom rims and no orange bumper sticker. A yellow one instead, like on his Chevelle: Pass, with qualification, what federal law called a PWQ. He let go a thick breath out the window and put a boot on the accelerator. The Chevelle’s eight cylinders growled.

Lights flashed at once behind him. He squinted in the rearview mirror and blew a remnant of cigarette haze there, seeing the side street where the unmarked cop car had been waiting. Seeing his own face, the two-day blonde stubble muting the reflection, seeing patrol lights winking from his blue eyes, the black felt of his Stetson faded by rain and sweat. He pulled the Chevelle over, pushing dirty blonde hair behind one ear.

In the mirror, he saw the cop getting out, the guy in a suit, cop lights hidden in the grill by the radiator shimmering red and blue, the car’s headlights strobing in cop fashion. This guy didn’t look local. ATF, U.S. Marshals or somebody, now in the traffic-violation business? Cops everywhere these days.

He’d looked it up. Over twenty thousand local police agencies, a hundred or more gun-wearing federal agencies, and every state in the union with at least ten agencies. In California even the attorney general had his own police, the AG Strike Force. Well over a million cops nationwide, half the entire goddam armed forces. Fruited Plain? Shit, more like a gulag.

Bonner sighed, killed the engine, and turned to the window. He stuffed his cigarette butt in the ashtray. He could hear gravel crunching.

Happy Fourth, Bonner said. What are you, a detective? He grinned at the officer, the guy in dark sunglasses, gray suit. Tan leather strap of his underarm gun rig against his white shirt as the suit flap fell open.

The cop offered the hint of a response, more facial twitch than smile. Bonner watched him standing back and to the left the way cops are trained, even this one in a suit doing the cop stance.

Let me see your Department of Energy Chits, license and registration, please.

Bonner got them down from behind the sunshade, the hologram driver’s license, the bar-coded registration and insurance, electronic DOE Chit card. Get caught without your Doe Shit – what people called it – you’d pay big bucks. The cop scanned the Doe Shit with a reader on his belt and got a green light. He was studying Bonner’s license now. He said, You aware, sir, that smoking in public carries a $400 fine?

Bonner stared. At the stop sign?

Public road, public access, public use. Plus, it’s bad for your health. The government can’t afford to pay for your care should you become sickened and diseased as a result. Don’t you follow democratic education?

Bonner worked his jaw, biting off what he felt like saying and looking past the cop’s shoulder as something fiery flowered and smoked into the dusk. You stopped me, he said, because I was smoking at a stop sign? That’s a new one.

The cop stared for a long second. I stopped you because I observed multiple apparent violations.

You profiled me.

You are aware, sir, that Executive Order 21984 gives Law Enforcement the power to exercise discretionary vigilance as defined therein.

As defined therein? The hell is that?

The cop offered a thin smile. Bonner was thinking, Jesus, the closest the guy comes to a sense of humor is condescension. Sir, the cop was saying, you’re operating a federally substandard vehicle, an excessive consumer of DOE Chits – which condition I am willing to overlook this time. And you, like your vehicle, are expelling carcinogens into the common air, in direct violation of the principles behind the Common Air Law.

The Common Air Law. Who’d believe you’d get that in the United States of America? Bonner said, Yet officer, I’m in fact violating no law, correct? The Common Air Law doesn’t prohibit smoking in automobiles or private residences—

The language against such practices is very strong, however.

So, what are you saying? Implication is the same as explication?

Are you trying to impress me? Ignoring recommended practices is nearly the same as violating explicit rules.

I’m not required to drive a federally compliant vehicle. I just got to advertise to the damn world that it ain’t, put that yellow piece of shit on my bumper. Thanks for your discretionary vigilance.

Bonner saw the cop’s face harden. The cop said, It’s my prerogative to exercise discretionary vigilance.

Well, we agree there, I guess. The Executive Order you mention, that’s federal. This is within muni—

It extends to the municipal level. Sir.

Sweet Jesus, it was happening. There goes local control. Bonner said, Why have a municipal level at all? Doesn’t that strike you as unconstitutional?

Bonner observed with widening eyes the color coming to the cop’s neck and cheeks, slow-spreading anger. This kind of cop, if he could do it, he’d say something like, You’re one of those thinks the Constitution sits on a pedestal? Well, I’ve got news for you. The Constitution won’t bring you happiness, and it won’t bring safety to our society. Look at all the civil unrest. It’s up to those of us who understand the dynamics of the times and recognize that most aren’t capable of independent thought to take care of the rest. They have to be guided.

Shit, this kind of cop, if he could, might just shoot you for the good of society. Discretionary vigilance.

The cop said, I advise you to exercise control over your attitude. And show proper respect.

Easing his voice down a notch, putting a little velvet on it, Bonner said, You run into lots of unhappy people doing your job, officer?

Maybe it was tone that took an edge off the cop’s heat. He shifted his feet and said, I suppose. Why?

You ever put two and two together, come to a conclusion?

Poor word choice, Bonner thought, watching the cop go rigid and hearing him say, Failure to comply will result in a conclusion all right.

This club-footed journalist, worked for Hitler, would’ve agreed with you.

What?

Never mind. I know you’re busy, all these unguided people smoking in cars, setting off illegal fireworks, ruining the air. So let’s get it done, huh?

An uncomfortable silence passed, Bonner staring and the cop glaring. The cop said, I’ll be right back.

When the cop returned to his car, Bonner heard him say to Dispatch, Federal Oversight Officer. Give me a 10-27 on Bonner, John William, California license L5031229 . . . .

Bonner moved the ignition key a notch, turned up the radio and lit another cigarette as Tom Petty finished free-falling.

At least it wasn’t a Doe Shit violation. That group in Nevada that cut up their cards in protest had got $23,000 Doe Shit fines on top of civil penalties and jail sentences. It was becoming a Reich, you ain’t got your papers you’re fucked.

The cop came back with a citation and Bonner’s Doe Shit, license and registration. He said, You need to sign here. He eyed the cigarette.

Bonner snuffed the smoke against the mirror and almost dropped it out of spite, feeling the cop’s burning stare. Instead, he pressed it into the ashtray and said, I don’t need to. You’ll stick it on me anyway.

I cited you for a bad taillight.

Taillight? I don’t have a bad taillight.

It’s nonstandard.

This is nonstandard.

You want me to change it back?

Give me the goddam thing.

The cop smiled and handed him a pen. Bonner took it and signed the ticket. He said, It ever bother you, make you toss and turn at night?

The cop frowned and said, I don’t follow.

Being a jack-booted thug.

You better watch your attitude, the cop snapped, with your record and all. He held out his hand. You ought to thank me. This address on your license current?

Thank him? Bonner gave him the pen and the ticket. That address is right. What do you mean my record?

Grand Theft Auto, B&E.

Bonner glared. Breaking and entering was the cars, man, it was the same thing. And I did Reform School. That’s gonna drop off my record at 25.

The cop took his sunglasses off and surveyed the Chevelle. Made in 1971, the SS model, navy blue. He said, This car doesn’t belong on the road. You think about that.

Under discretionary vigilance?

The cop put his sunglasses on again. Your attitude, sir, is the kind we don’t need.

That a threat? Bonner asked. The cop opened his mouth, but Bonner lifted a hand and added, I know. ‘It’s a promise.’

The cop went back to his unmarked Lincoln sedan and sat looking this way out the windshield. Bonner stared in the rearview mirror. Flash him the peace sign or something? Shit. Shaking his head, Bonner stuffed the registration and Doe Shit back behind the sunshade, put his license away and started the engine. When he pulled the Chevelle back on the road, the cop followed for a quarter-mile before accelerating past. He pointed two fingers at his eyes and over at Bonner as he went by.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 2

Can you believe that? Bonner was saying. He got a Corona out of the refrigerator. He could hear music from the house across the street coming through the open screen door. Someone laughed shrilly, and muffled profanity followed. Looking out the kitchen window he saw other windows glowing yellow in the twilight.

Aria handed him an opener and a slice of lime. I have not heard of the discretionary vigilance.

You’re telling me.

Bonner popped the beer cap, a pleasant hiss with the fragrance of hops. He pushed the lime down the longneck and took a swallow, eyeing Aria, appreciating her easy smile, the flash of white teeth past full lips, her olive radiance, long fingers, long hair, long legs.

Then he would have the right, yes?

He liked her voice. He said, Whose side are you on anyway, wife?

She turned her head. John William. There is no side but the one with the might. Is this not correct?

Hell, there was truth to that. He said, It’s ‘might makes right,’ Aria. The thing about America, it’s supposed to be the people have that.

They do. You can vote. So next time in the elections, change the sheriff.

God, she was literal. Well that ain’t gonna solve Executive Order 21984, now is it?

Hm.

Think about it, Aria. State-approved fireworks, state-approved taillights. State approved Doe Shit so you can run your car, but then if you don’t have the goddam orange sticker, you’re a pariah—

Impressive word, John William.

Thanks. You got to listen to democratic education coming at you in threes, hear your government more on free radio than music. Cop pulls me over gonna cite me for smoking in public, I’m sitting in my own goddam car. I can’t be on the road without discretionary vigilance staring at me in the rearview mirror. Was a Fed to boot.

Smoking is bad for your health. What do you mean ‘afed’?

Bonner sighed. You hear anything I’m saying? I mean he was a federal cop, like FBI. Can you believe it, feds doing traffic stops? And if he’s a fed, how am I gonna vote and change it?

Aria took his beer and sipped it, Bonner used to how she sized things up before speaking. As she gave the beer back, she said, I value freedom. But you make it a grudge. There is something always to make the pressure rise in your blood.

You saying I should shut up and take it? Like the people under Tito in Sarajevo? Okay no look, I’m not talking about your experience. Like it says in our Declaration of Independence, people are more disposed to suffer evils while they’re sufferable than to set things right by abolishing the forms to which they’re accustomed. But not us, that’s the point, see?

She raised her eyebrows, studying him. Do something then.

Bonner gazed back, the beer against his chest. Careful what you wish for.

It was later and Aria was curled up on the couch asleep. Bonner had the TV on, some superhero movie to offset the sustained party sounds outside. Hearing the racket, jeez, it could make you think the cop was right. People were past caring, the ones there beyond the window holding reality under the chemical surface, saying with their actions ‘let’s eat and drink for tomorrow we return to our deaths.’

That was almost funny.

Twice, he got up to close the windows, but then the crickets and tree frogs would get past the neighbor’s basso profundo subwoofer and he’d start appreciating the noise of the night and would sit down again. His mind was mostly on the book in front of him, a biography of Henry Knox by North Callahan. Some part of him drifted elsewhere, to memories and events, to times and places where he’d felt free, no matter if death was running beside him.

Lights flashed through the curtains bringing the pieces of his mind back together.

Bonner muted the TV and went to the window by the front door. Parting the curtains, he saw some kind of cop car behind his Chevelle, its high beams cutting white shafts in the black night, red and blue blinking through the grill, the driver’s door open. The cop was leaning forward with a foot on the bumper of the Chevy, a guy in plain clothes, shit, just like earlier, using the light to write in a citation book. Bonner went outside, letting the screen slap shut. The cop looked up at him.

The same fucking guy.

What’re you doing? Bonner called out, coming down the steps.

The cop aimed his flashlight. You didn’t fix your taillight.

Bonner lifted his hands, a bewildered gesture. There’s nothing wrong with it, he said, his voice rising. That was just today. Listen, what’s your badge number and name?

Are you refusing, the cop snapped, to cooperate with a federal officer? He tore off the citation, coming forward to slide it under a windshield wiper.

Bonner watched, disbelieving. You can vigilantly kiss my ass at your discretion, he yelled.

The cop snorted and pointed a finger and said, You want, I’ll tack on a drunk and disorderly. Smells like you’ve been drinking? I suggest you put a lid on it before I find probable cause to come in your house, see if it’s federally compliant.

Taken aback, Bonner swallowed and stared.

The cop laughed. Then he went back to his big Lincoln, Bonner hearing gravel crunch. The bastard hit his siren twice – bwoop-bwoop – before backing out and accelerating away.

Bonner stood there after the cop’s red taillights were gone around a corner, a sick pit forming in his gut. Powerless was the word in his mind. He kicked his boot, spraying gravel.

The next morning, Bonner called Big Sports. He would be a few minutes late coming in for his shift, he said. At the auto parts store, he told the clerk behind the counter about needing different taillights because his were nonstandard. The clerk, a tall kid with acne, greasy hair and the name Rick sewed over his heart, followed Bonner to the rear of the Chevelle.

Hands in his pockets, his belly tight against a yellow car-racing t-shirt, the kid said, Same ones my friend Mitch has. He ain’t been ticketed. Goddam Doe Shit’s getting pricey, though. What you got in her, three-twenty-seven?

Four-fifty-four, five hundred pounds of torque. Can I put something else on?

The kid shrugged, rocking in his untied high-tops. I guess. I don’t see the difference though. Five hundred? Shit. Must run you six Doe Shit a week.

Seven, eight, depending.

Sweet Jesus.

Bonner offered a weary nod, thinking how the government had gotten in the habit of making things it didn’t want people to have or to do more expensive. Shit, your basic pack of smokes ran ten bucks, better than seventy percent of it taxes. It beat hell out of him how it was legal.

Same with Executive Order 21984, Feds in charge of local police, discretionary vigilance. On top of that, you got the mandatory privilege of paying for it with your taxes and your mandated Doe Shit, doled out at the government’s discretion.

Bonner bought a kit with sealant, bulbs and fittings. Then he worked his shift at Big Sports, saying, May I help you? and checking people through the stand. He kept his long blonde hair in place with a red bandana today, the boss telling him last week he looked funny wearing a Stetson in a sporting goods store. He rang up Spaldings and Wilsons and gym bags and jogging suits, fishing tackle, a backyard briquette barbeque, badminton birdies.

A retiree from Sun City bought a Beretta 682 Gold E over-under 12-gauge shotgun, the Sporting Clay model with extended chokes and scrolling on the stock. Retail price, $3,397.45. Seeing that guy in thick glasses and gray polyester pants with a monster gun was priceless.

Bonner took the guy’s fingerprints and registered the gun with MAWD, the federal multi-agency weapons database, as required by law. It came with a 30-day hold on ammunition tied to the old fellow’s social security number. He could walk out the door and get robbed by some illegal immigrant with a pocketful of 12-gauge shells and be shot dead with his own gun. But Uncle Sam would sure protect you from Sun City oldsters, by God.

After work, Bonner got in the Chevelle and pulled onto Auburn Boulevard, thinking he’d take the freeway. Anonymity for the taillights. Plus, freeway speeds took less Doe Shit.

He was merging at Madison a half-block from the onramp when he saw the cop in his mirrors. The asshole touched his siren, a sharp yelp, and stuck an arm out the window, his finger pointing over the cab of his unmarked sedan at the parking lot of a furniture store.

Swearing, Bonner cranked the wheel and pulled into the lot. He got out fast, slamming the door. It was the same goddam guy. The cop got out, too, his suit jacket off, the palm of his hand on the butt of the gun in the underarm rig.

Sir, the cop said, I told you to change your taillights. Bonner whirled around toward the Chevelle and heard the cop snap, Go easy, boy. His voice sharp.

I’ve got the damn lights right here, Bonner growled. He reached in the back seat and came up with the bag, and stopped short, nearly dropping it. The cop had his gun out, Christ, a big Glock 40-caliber if you knew your guns. Even from way over here the thing looking mean.

The cop had one foot back, the gun in his right hand and resting in the palm of his left. Put the bag down, the cop said.

Bonner dropped it and lifted his hands, saying, Can’t you see the logo right there? He aimed the toe of his boot at the bag’s blue and yellow imprint.

Step back, the cop barked, bearing down with the gun.

Bonner felt his breath go and sweat come under his arms and along his forehead. He couldn’t think of a swear word. I think, he said, you’re overreacting.

On the ground, the cop snapped. Do it!

Bonner saw the traffic stacking up on the street, people leaning out windows and straining their necks for a look. He shook his head and lay down on the pavement, smelling hot tar and desiccated fast food.

Put your hands on your head, the cop said, articulating the words.

Bonner complied. He could hear the cop rummaging in the auto-parts bag. Then his shoes were thumping the pavement, coming this way. Bonner felt one on him now, heavy on his neck, the sole of it warm and pulling strands of his hair, the cop making no effort to lighten his step.

When I tell you, the cop said, come up to your knees, keeping your hands on your head.

Officer, Bonner asked, why won’t you give me a chance?

I said get up. You’re making a scene. Get up.

Bonner rose to his knees. The crazy fuck was chuckling and holstering his gun. Bonner stood and brushed his pants off, seeing a stain on one leg. He started toward the bag.

Leave it.

Bonner stopped and turned. What?

Evidence. I’ll have to take it.

Bonner tipped his head back and sighed, blowing hair from his face. He said, Of what?

It may have been stolen. I’ll need to check that out.

There’s a receipt—look, what’s your name?

I warned you about belligerence.

I have a right to your badge number and your name. Unless giving it to citizens is void under discretionary vigilance. You can’t harass me like this. What agency are you?

You have the right to do exactly as I tell you. No more, no less. The cop was talking as he walked, aiming the words over his shoulder. When he reached his car, he put a hand through the window and brought out a citation pad.

Bonner groaned. Christ, Feds packing ticket books. I’m reporting you, he said. There are witnesses.

Those people on the street? They won’t help you. They want their needs met is all. They don’t get involved. Besides—

Yeah, Bonner barked, cutting him off. You’re operating according to discretionary vigilance, defined herein. Well buddy, I’m not the threat in this parking lot.

Shit, the cop’s face was going purple. You’re angling fast toward a class C, the cop growled, and that’ll earn you a Miranda recitation and a car ride. You want to be a smartass, we’ll kick it up to a serious felony under 1192.7, I got a whole list that’ll have your can riding a steel bench on a no-bail indictment. You got me?

Bonner clamped his mouth shut and waited for the ticket, blood pounding at his temples, little sparks of rage dancing across his eyes, anger slow-cooking, kettle-whistling, the timer winding down and about ready to ding.

Here. The cop held out the citation. You failed to signal entering the parking lot, a moving violation under both Federal Traffic Guidance Standards and the California Civil Code.

Bonner bit his lip. His hand was trembling, hanging there in midair. He snatched the ticket and marched toward the Chevelle.

Get those taillights fixed now, the cop said.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 3

That’s the third time, Bonner said,