Bobby spent much of his youth hiding under the bed. His parents thought he would grow out of it. He never did. His wife, Joyce, tried to be understanding. But she needed the car keys to go shopping.
Bobby taught World History at the local high school. Sometimes his mind wandered and he imagined his students as fighter pilots readying for a mission. In the faculty lounge he saw the other teachers as generals debating strategy. At red lights he became a double agent about to be exposed. On the toilet he was a gunner on a fighter plane.
Leaning back in his recliner, he was a mule Skinner driving his team across the prairie.
Now, lying under the bed, he was crawling under barb wire, German bullets strafing the air.
After a couple of hours, he crawled out and saw a note from his wife. She had gone shopping with a neighbor. Heat up a casserole, she said.
He went downstairs and did just that, pretending he was with the police bomb squad and the casserole was the bomb. He couldn't mention that to Joyce. She would be hurt.
Bobby saw the mailman coming up the path. An assassin. He grabbed a rolling pin in one hand and a frying pan in the other.
This scenario could get ugly fast.
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