Foxholes and Hooters – BETWEEN THE TRACKS – Short Stories Now Available

“If you want to know a man, spend time with him in a foxhole or providing executive security for an a**.” L. Darryl Armstrong

We sat at Hooters at ten P.M., eighteen hours on our feet behind us. Before me, a dozen fiery wings and the coldest and sweetest iced tea I’d ever tasted. The orange neon made everything look urgent. Peanut shells crunched under our chairs. The grease hung in the air like a promise. I’d take this over paperwork any night.

Hardy lowered himself onto the stool beside me. Six-foot-six, three hundred pounds of living muscle. His skin shone under the lights. His hands could have palm-pressed a man into a fist. His eyes swept the room like a sentinel.

I, in comparison, was five-eleven and one-eighty, stuffed full of book learning and itching to earn my Ph.D. and head back to quieter pursuits. We were Laurel and Hardy in body armor, earpieces, and Glocks, rather than bowler hats.

“Chief,” he said in that low, steady rumble, “I figured it out.”

I bit into a wing, flames dancing on my tongue. “What’s that?”

He leaned close. “You keep me in front of the Old Man because I’m a target. If someone shoots, they hit me. You get that half-second you need to shield him.”

I laughed and the stools rattled. “Your MBA at work again?”

He cracked a grin. “Exactly.”

I nodded, scanned the dining room. Always watching. Always waiting.

Three hours earlier, I had the wheel of our unmarked sedan. The Old Man sat in the back, glancing at his watch. Seven P.M. sharp for the dinner speech. No excuses. Traffic crawled like a wounded snake. The Old Man cleared his throat. “I trust we won’t be late.” Not a question.

“Never have been, sir,” I said. I flipped the mic. “Hardy, traffic’s dead. Going scenic.”

“Roger that, Chief,” he answered.

I cut across three lanes, leaving rubber on the asphalt. Blue lights in my mirror. Metro. I stomped the gas and keyed the radio. “Package en route. Meet me there.”

“On my way, Chief.”

He peeled off. I smoked the engine the rest of the way. We pulled up at 6:59. The Old Man stepped out smooth as a catwalk model. Two cruisers screeched in behind me. An officer yanked my door open.

“Face down! Hands behind your back!”

My credentials hit the pavement. “Federal protection detail.”

Cold steel locked my wrists. Tourists formed a circle around us.

Hardy appeared like a shield wall. Badge up. The officer glanced, shook his head, and held me there. Hardy shrugged, eyebrows arching, and in a deadpan voice said, “Look what you got us into now. What’s the play, Chief?”

I let loose a laugh that scared half the block. The officers tightened their grip.

Then the Old Man came forward. Italian leather shoes on concrete. One sharp word from him, a nod from the sergeant, and I was free. The sergeant grumbled, “Coordinate with PD next time.”

“Crystal clear, sir.”

Back at Hooters, our waitress dropped the check by the bones of dinner past. I slipped her a hefty tip. Hardy tore into his last wing, grinning through sticky sauce. “Worth the price of admission,” he said.

I held up a wing in salute. “To you, brother.”

Hardy’s send-off in the Ninth Ward had all the brass and soul he deserved. Trumpets wailed notes that climbed like ladders to heaven.

My wife and I stood there, our faces two pale moons in a constellation of mourners who knew how to turn grief into celebration.

When I stepped up to speak, my voice cracked like old floorboards. I told them about our secret handshake—three slaps, two grips, one finger-snap—and how his hugs left me checking for fractured ribs. And I explained, “Truly, we were brothers from another mother.”

The minister’s eyes met mine with the gentle understanding of a man who’d witnessed a thousand griefs, his weathered hand resting on my shoulder like an anchor as my voice splintered into silence.

In that moment, I felt both utterly alone in my loss and completely surrounded by the shared weight of remembrance that filled the church—each of us holding a different piece of the man we’d come to bury.

By the end, when dementia had erased my name from his memory, his arms still recognized me, still pulled me in every time I saw him.

And even now, when I think of him, I feel the weight of his arm across my shoulders, hear his laugh that could fill a cathedral. The space he left behind isn’t empty—it’s filled with everything he taught me about standing tall when your knees want to buckle.

Some nights, I wake up reaching for the phone to tell him something only he would understand.

Being a brother isn’t just blood; it’s who catches you when the world drops you.

And Hardy caught me every time.

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FIVE STARS KEEPING ROLLING IN FOR BETWEEN THE TRACKS

***** Todd Erskine says: A Must-Read Book! This is a genuinely gripping read with an authentic voice. I loved the vivid descriptions the author gave of the people and places he has experienced. The descriptions made me feel as if I were there with the author when he had each of these life experiences. Many of these stories hit home with me, but Carroll and Darryl’s Great Adventure took me back to a Great Adventure I had when I was 10 years old!! Reading these short stories made me happy, made me sad, made me cry, and made me laugh, and most importantly, realize “LIFE GOES ON!” I highly recommend this book. P.S. “ On a side note, I gave my copy to my 88-year-old mom. She finished it in one day and said the stories warmed her heart.” 

Read more inspiring stories of faith, resilience, and love in Darryl Armstrong’s newest collection of short stories – BETWEEN THE TRACKS.

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