Brush Creek Charlie, D. B. Reynolds [top non fiction books of all time TXT] 📗

him as much. As he stood in the mirror, almost shameful to observe the hideous scars on his face, he experienced sudden symptoms of shakiness, muscle aches, sweating, cold and clammy hands, dizziness, fatigue, racing heart, and dry mouth. Feelings of worthlessness and guilt bolted through his head.
“War has no beginning, and it has no end!” Charlie grumbled in his most boisterous voice.
Both strong fists went bammed against the wall. The strength of his legs stomping on the fragile wooden floor made a frightening impact for the neighbors below.
Fists bamming and feet stomping created a disturbing ruckus for the other residents at The Rosenburg Apartments.
“War has no beginning, and it has no end!” Charlie cried out a second and commanding time.
Traumatic events from the Vietnam War reoccurred through his own illusions, hallucinations, and flashback episodes. Charlie lived, fought, played, and ultimately got severly wounded in Vietnam. Residents at The Rosenburg noticed the outburst of anger and hypervigilance coming from the upper level. Peace and quiet were the mainstays at the apartment complex in the heart of The Country Club Plaza. Management didn’t tolerate those who played loud stereos and televisions or fought with their spouses and family members.
Charlie failed to realize he lived right above a gay male couple. Unconventionally, the gay couple were also an interracial couple. Derrick Thomas happened to be the African American half of the two committed gay men. Derrick sported a short kinky hairstyle, had two front teeth missing, and a large mole plastered to the right side of his face. Mitchell McNally turned out to be the white half of the loving gay couple.
Mitchell wore thick, coke bottle style bi-focals. He always brushed his patchy thinning hair to the right side and wasn’t too proud to smile since his dental work were tarnished dark brown from excessive smoking. The proud gay men celebrated ten years of homosexual bliss. The bamming and stomping from up above irritated the last of their sensibilities.
“What is Charlie up there doing now?” Derrick asked Mitchell, nursing a warm cup of hot cocoa.
“Trying to wake up the dead, I suppose,” Mitchell disclaimed, stirring a half-cup of straight black coffee.
“Everybody here at The Rosenburg complains about his noise all the time.”
“I’d like to know what goes on inside his apartment.”
“Charlie’s the weirdest man I’ve ever lived around.”
“He’s never been married, and he doesn’t have any children.”
“Why you think that’s so?”
“I really don’t know. I do know that he did time over in Vietnam.”
“Lots of people come back from wars with their minds all messed up.”
“Shell shocked and filled with all kinds of poisons and diseases.”
“Jumping up out of their sleep from hearing guns and helicopters and all kinds of other stuff.”
“You know, I’ve seen Charlie coming into The Rosenburg talking to himself. He walked up the stairs mumbling things to himself.”
“Vietnam could’ve made him certified insane.”
One flight above Derrick and Mitchell, inside the lifeless and hollow apartment of Charlie, he continued staring into the bathroom mirror. Feelings of worthlessness and guilt wrapped the mightiest grip around him. Fear of loss and abandonment burned through the core of his soul. Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome best described the torture Charlie went through night and day. Sweat burst through his pores. Tears streamed down his scarred face.
“War has no beginning, and it has no end!” Charlie yelled once again with fury. The bamming of his fists and the stomping of his feet started up again. Maybe he forgot what was meant to respect his neighbors. The tremors from his aggressive behavior disturbed every other resident inside The Rosenburg. People throughout the three-story complex were fed up with his outburst of anger. Complaints poured into the manager’s office on a weekly basis. Charlie threw himself on the mercy of the manager by pleading his case of being a war torn Vietnam veteran. The pounding of fists and feet intensified.
One story below Charlie, inside the freshly-decorated apartment of Derrick and Mitchell, the gay couple had enough of the nut disturbing the entire apartment complex. The homosexual duo took a trip upstairs to do some investigating of their own. Derrick demonstrated how he too could pound a hard fist against solid objects. He knocked and knocked until he got the attention of someone inside.
“Coming!” Charlie said, leaving the bathroom with his face drenched.
More aggressive knocks vibrated through the wood of the door. Nosy neighbors peeked between the cracks of their doors. Dogs barked and cats purred after being stirred up.
“Who the fuck is it?” Charlie angrily inquired, his face inches away from the door.
“It’s Derrick and Mitchell from downstairs,” Derrick announced, one hand on his hip.
Charlie conjured up enough anger to blow dragon fire from his nose.
Using voice control, he whispered from the other side of the door. “What in the hell do those two fucking faggots want?”
“Charlie, could you please open up the door?” Derrick requested, his patience worn thin.
Charlie cracked the door with enough space to stare into his neighbor’s faces. “What can I help you guys with?”
“First, we’re wanting to know what’s with all the bamming and pounding and unnecessary noise coming from inside your apartment.”
“Working on a project in here.”
“What project stirs up that much noise?”
“Something that requires lots of hammering and sawing and moving.”
“Are you building something?”
“Trying to put together this wood oak table.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Charlie, but it sounds like you’re using your fists and feet to build this wood oak table.”
“Requires of a lot of hand and feet work.”
Mitchell stepped around his cherished gay lover to speak to Charlie. “Charlie, don’t you know that there’s a big stack of complaints against you down in the manager’s office?”
Charlie threw Mitchell one of the nastiest stares.
The stare conveyed a message which begged him to go back downstairs and pump his faggot boyfriend.
He cracked the door a little wider and told Mitchell, “Sure, I’m aware that a lot of these nosy people here at The Rosenburg have complained about me. And yes, the management has threatened to kick me out a whole bunch of times. I’m a veteran and I have rights just like everybody else.”
“True, you have rights like everybody else. But it’s not your right to disturb people who have to go to work the next day, or people who enjoy quiet reading time and meditation.”
Homosexuals, especially gay men, annoyed Charlie into irritable frenzies. Men being intimate with men were the worst form of abomination for him.
“If I disturbed you or anyone else, I do apologize for inconveniencing you.”
“Forgive me for asking, but are you on some type of medication?”
“That’s none of your goddamned business!” Charlie lashed out, his blood pressure having tipped the scale. “But since you asked, I’ve been on medication for anxiety attacks and high blood pressure. Let’s see you go to combat and watch innocent women and babies and children killed in cold blood. I’d like to see you run through trenches and dive onto dead bodies filled with thousands of maggots. These people here at The Rosenburg don’t know what I’ve been through. Nobody knows what I’ve seen.”
Derrick and Mitchell locked eye contact. Frowns of sheer disgust faltered upon their faces. A million stories about the horrors of Vietnam were told by those who experienced the hell first-hand.
Mitchell studied the visible wounds Charlie earned from his brief battle with Sandy. “Charlie, what happened to your neck and arm?”
Charlie angled his head sideways. He swung his arm backwards. Too late for him to hide the cuts he deserved. “Fooling around with saws and knives, accidents tend to happen.”
Derrick moved Mitchell aside to get a closer view of the cuts. “Those cuts don’t look like they came from using a saw or a regular house knife.”
Again, Charlie wished the two faggots would’ve gone downstairs and pumped one another. The idiots worked his last good nerve.
“This is the price you pay when you don’t have a steady hand.”
“Are you hiding something from us, Charlie?”
“Nothing that should concern you.”
“We’d hate to see you get kicked out on the streets.”
“The Rosenburg Apartments aren’t the only residences left in the city.”
“True, but bad rental history isn’t the way to go.”
“I appreciate you guys being concerned, but I can handle myself. The noise, I’ll cut down on it, and I’ll learn to respect my neighbors.”
The door to Charlie’s apartment cracked open wider. Derrick invited himself closer to the doorway for a better view of the weirdly designed apartment.
The framed pictures lined along the walls awakened his inner senses.
“Charlie, why do you have all those framed photos of Brush Creek on your walls?” Derrick questioned Charlie, the same man he considered the weirdest person alive.
Charlie looked back into his apartment and scanned the walls. “Brush Creek is the greatest marvel ever known to man. As a kid, I became fascinated with the creek, right from the start to the very end.”
“What’s the fascination?” Mitchell tried to fathom. “Brush Creek is nothing but a bunch of concrete with sewer water and tree brush and animals running wild.”
“You might see it that way, but let me be the first to tell you, Brush Creek is like the Eighth Wonder of the World. To me, it’s greater than The Great Wall of China, The Taj Mahal, The Statue of Liberty, the pyramids in Egypt, and Angels Falls in Venezuela, all put together.”
“Wish I could see things through your eyes.”
“You don’t have an eye for beauty and greatness.”
“Besides, with the creek being so old, and us living so close to it, I get