The three young men, were sitting atop one of the two picnic tables,

in the square, as the last of the parade passed by.  People carrying lawn chairs, bags of whatever they had bought, kept a close eye on their kids, especially the ones not yet tired enough to decline another kid's invite to spar with their glowing green plastic swords, or red wands of the same material - or various other toys purchased from one of several street vendors, pushing - what had been earlier - top-heavy grocery carts.  

One of the teens was gouging at a thorn still lodged in his palm with his penknife, while the other was looking at his phone.  The third was waiting in a nearby line to get a soda, before they too shut down.  The two, talked about this and that, the tractor show, the motorcycles, a company of old soldiers, and the teens' future plans.

"Army." The teen, finally dislodged the thorn and wiped it and the blood on his jeans...and dislodging a pamphlet he'd earlier picked up while visiting the recruiter's booth.  He reached for it and put it in his other pocket.  He'd have to wait a few years, of course, but that didn't mean he couldn't get ready.  He looked up and over.  Two guys were taking down the hot dog stand.  He didn't recognize the one, but he did, the one who looked about 30.  Glen, yeah, that's his name.  The kid liked him.  Glen was cool, he wanted to "kill me a few more of them kurgan b-tards."

The teen remembered, when he was still a kid, his dad, mom and sis were eating supper at the VFW.  From the bar area, hearing, "Go home!"  Why Glen got kicked out for that evening, the teen didn't understand.  From what he heard, Glen wasn't even drunk.  In fact, Glen was a one-and-doner...maybe two, if that.

The third returned with soda in hand.  The crowd continued to disperse.  The three conversed among themselves, called to friends passing by, one or two joining the group, then heading out.  The teen with the phone said he was taking off; phone guy headed up the street with one of the young men who had stopped by.  

Soda king sniffed.  "ARMY??"  He shoved his buddy off the wall.  "You'll get 20 years in Levinworth for that." Soda got up from his brick seat, and stood a few yards away.  "Dude, UGH!!!"  Pen then shot back, the two began roughhousing.  Both were oblivious to a young girl's voiced dismay; her cashmere sweater being struck - and ruined - by a flying armament of orange soda.  

A few minutes later, soda king - now demoted to water baron, because that was all he could get, from a stand the two had just passed - exclaimed, "Fonda?"

"Who?"

"The chick you were just talking about."

"Not her, are you kidding?  She's like 30 by now."  Pen unwrapped his jacket that he'd had tied around his waist.  "I'm talking about someone like that missionary lady."

"Missionary?"

"Yeah, someone like her."

Her, who?"

"I don't know her name, but she's hot dog lady's kid, and their last name isn't Fonda."

A few places behind the two teens, a woman, on the verge of middle-age eyed Pen's every move.  Oh, he was a dish, and then some.

"Oh comeon, Ellen," her partner nudged.  "We should get gone, from this HICK town."

What partner didn't elaborate on, was: they should have left hours ago, having had brought upon themselves a bit too much attention.