Love, Carry My Bags

by Everett, C. R.

  Anyway, I don’t mean to depress you. I’m sorry I have shut you out. Sometimes I just don’t know what to do. I hope all is well with you and I hope you don’t hate me for not being in touch. I wouldn’t blame you if you never spoke to me again.

  Take care of yourself.

  Love you, Reese

  * * *

  Dear Reese,

  Of course I still want to talk to you—duh. And no, I don’t hate you. Thank you so much for writing. Your letter arrived just in time—Whiskers died the day before. I was so upset, I even missed work. We don’t know what happened, she just stopped eating for a few days and then she faded away in my arms. I’ve never cried so hard in my life. She was the only one besides you and Megan who understood me, now I’ve been reduced.

  I’m so sorry to hear about your dad, mom, Ryan . . . your world falling apart. But I’m still here. Let me help you pick up the pieces. You’ll be out of the Air Force soon (less than a month!) and then you could come to Parks with me—learn to be a commercial pilot. How could your dad not think that was cool?

  I can’t believe it has been seven months since we last saw each other. I can’t wait to see you again. I have so much to tell you when you come home, pictures to show you. We have a lot of catching up to do.

  Take care of yourself and write back soon!

  Love always,

  Camryn

  SECTION TWO

  CHAPTER 12

  “Of all forms of caution, caution in love is perhaps the most fatal to true happiness.”

  —Bertrand Russell

  If it hadn’t been for Glenn’s high-maintenance personality, we never would have crossed paths. I captured his attention by just existing, and moving into the apartment next door.

  “Hi, I’m Glenn,” he said, exuding energy.

  “Hi,” I said, uninterested and intent on carrying my load of three boxes stacked high in my arms to my apartment upstairs.

  “Let me take that for you.” Glenn lifted two boxes and followed me into my abode. I wondered what freak of nature would offer help to a stranger moving in next door.

  “Are you going to school here?” I asked.

  “Yes I am!” He bubbled a little too much with pride. “I was supposed move into the dormitories, but I changed my mind when I saw how small and crowded the rooms were. I came right over here and got an apartment. Lucky, ‘cause it was the last one they had.”

  “You have a two bedroom?” I set my box down in the kitchen.

  “Yes. It’s just like yours, but a mirror image—switched around.”

  “Do you have a roommate?”

  “No.”

  “Me either, but I’ll need one,” I said. Glenn stood between the living room and kitchen, still holding the boxes.

  “Where do you want these?” he asked. I pointed near his feet. “There’s an icebreaker on campus tonight. Want to go?” he asked. I wanted to stay home, unpack, and settle into my nest, but, for my social health I said yes. “I’ve got some things to do this afternoon, but I’ll pick you up. It starts at six,” he said.

  Five to six rolled around. No Glenn. I wandered across campus by myself, searching for other lost bodies. I found them gathered in Kitty Hawk, an old hangar turned student center. Glenn showed up ten minutes late. “Sorry, I got hung up in traffic,” he said. We partnered up for the icebreakers, our ice already broken. After the usual introductions, three-legged races, and other party games, there was a staring contest. We had to look into each other’s eyes. The person who stared the longest without blinking, won. I held Glenn’s gaze for an eternity. Staring into his brown eyes, I could see into the pit of his soul—and I fell in. The stare down was intense. I was the victor. Glenn looked away, blinking a few times to recover. “You’re determined,” he said. An interested grin crossed his face.

  Over the next couple of weeks, we saw each other on campus, exchanged friendly hellos. One night, Glenn rapped on my apartment door. “I don’t have your phone number,” he said.

  “No, I guess you don’t.”

  “Would you like to go to Stooges with me?” He ran his fingers through his neatly parted hair. “I had to come over here to ask . . . since I don’t have your phone number.”

  “Do you want it?”

  “Duh!” Glenn gave me a smart-alecky look. “I need a break from studdin’.”

  Glenn had a unique way with words. He didn’t really have a Southern accent, but it wasn’t Northern either. Sometimes I thought he mutated words just to be funny, but I wasn’t sure. He had to be smart. Idiots didn’t attend aerospace schools.

  Stooges was a dive bar not far from the school, a dilapidated stone building, the roof wet with fallen leaves. We entered through a half-rotted wooden door and into a smoke-polluted entry, but still a quick relief, in from the cold, snow-laden wind. I wasn’t comfortable. I felt out of place. Why had I had agreed to come along, when I should have been home studying for exams?

  As we sat down, Glenn asked, “What kind of beer would you like?” He glanced around with his hand half-raised, hoping to catch the waitress’ attention.

  “I don’t drink beer,” I said, “I’ll have a diet pop.”

  “You don’t drink beer? Do you drink anything?”

  “No.”

  “How do you have any fun?” Glenn quizzed.

  My comfort level sunk lower. I temporarily avoided the question as the waitress arrived. Glenn ordered a beer and a diet.

  “I travel. I spent last summer in Alaska, and before that, I spent a year in Australia.”

  “Really,” Glenn said, intrigued. “I almost went to Australia when I was in the Navy. It didn’t work out.”

  “Where were you in the Navy?”

  “Hawaii. Six years.”

  “Were you on a ship?”

  “Not much. I got into the NMMP.”

  “The what?”

  “Navy Marine Mammal Program. It’s where we train dolphins and sea lions to search for sea mines and stuff,” he said, capturing my interest. “I wanted to be a marine biologist, but my dad wouldn’t let me. The NMMP was the closest I got, that and being in emergency search and rescue, diving. Now aerospace is my passion.” Was this déjà vu? He rattled on, clearly loving to hear himself talk, “They used to use killer whales, belugas and even a pilot whale, but today it’s dolphins and sea lions.”

  “That must have been so cool,” I said, sucked in by the romance of it all.

  “It was. That’s about all I can tell you. Most of the program is still classified.”

  “Why did you get out? It sounds so awesome.”

  “No money in it. Time to move on.” His answer struck me as overly direct and unsatisfying. The romance ebbed.

  “So what do you want to do now?”

  “Have you heard of the SR-71 program?”

  “The what?” I said, again, feeling stupid that I didn’t know anything about the things he brought up.

  “Oh, come on! You can’t tell me you’ve never heard of it? The world’s fastest spy plane? I’d love to work on that plane.”

  “Maybe you will,” I said. He came across as though he could do anything. “How do you know about all this stuff?”

  “I’m interested in lots of stuff.” He paused then took an abrupt turn. “Have you ever thought about the pyramids of Egypt?”

  “Not extensively, no,” I said, sipping my drink.

  “They buried their kings in pyramids because they believed pyramids had special powers. I think there’s something to it. I don’t know what it is, but I think there’s something to the pyramid.”

  “I don’t know.” I gave the only answer I possessed on the subject, and thought Glenn was coming across the twilight zone.

  “You done with your beer? Oh, you don’t have beer. You done?” he asked. I felt like he was rubbing it in. Why did he have to point out that I was different? Why couldn’t he just ignore it?

  * * *

  Kenny Loggins’ “Danger Zone” played in the background whe
n Glenn knocked on the door, interrupting my short break before homework. After enduring a full day of classes, I had been savoring the view from my sliding glass doors while fixing supper, still rejoicing that I commanded my very own kitchen.

  “Want to come over for supper?” Glenn asked, standing in my doorway.

  “Oh, well . . . I just started making tacos,” I said, glancing toward the kitchen.

  “You can make those for us tomorrow.” I blushed at his forthrightness, then gave in, lured by his wanting to be with me.

  “I can’t stay long though. Homework.”

  “Me too,” he quipped, no concern in his voice. I started following him to his apartment. The Breakfast Family, as Glenn called them, our neighbors, passed by. Nora was intimidatingly beautiful, looking like a Scandinavian model, so I never said more than a passing hello, thinking she’d have no interest in talking to me. She carried a coffee-colored tot, careful not to sear him with the lit cigarette hanging from her lips. Her live-in, hunk of a boyfriend followed with stroller in one hand, Pall Mall in the other.

  “How’s it going?” Glenn said to the boyfriend as if they were close pals, then, when they closed their apartment door, he said to me, “Poor kid.”

  “Yeah, I know. Both his parents smoke!” Glenn looked at me as if I had missed the point.

  “People will make fun of him.”

  I gave Glenn a huh? look. Lots of kids had parents who smoked and no one made fun of them, pitied them perhaps, but not made fun of.

  “People should stay with their own kind, easier on the kids that way,” he answered. Glenn called them the Breakfast Family because they were the color of burnt toast, coffee, and cream.

  “Maybe people shouldn’t tease,” I answered back, thinking it a simple solution. The conversation ended there. “Wait!” I ran back to my door, remembering I hadn’t locked it. Rushing in, I grabbed my keys that were lying on the table next to my prom picture with Reese.

  “Where’d you go?” Glenn asked. He had followed behind, catching me at the doorknob on my way back.

  “I needed my keys.” I jingled them, looking for the right one.

  “You don’t need to lock up.” Glenn said. “You’re just two doors down.”

  “I know. I just—” I stopped fussing with the keys. Without locking the door, I joined Glenn, feeling uneasy about leaving my apartment open, yet not wanting to appear anal. “Habit.” I shrugged.

  On the way to Glenn’s kitchen, I noticed that his bed had been neatly made. I was impressed. I was not impressed with the Cow Belle poster on his wall. Barely dressed, her cowboy hat and boots covered the most skin.

  He already had rice cooking on the stove. An empty can of chow mein sat on the counter and another pan simmered on the back burner.

  “Do you want rice or chow mein noodles? I usually only have noodles, but I thought you might like rice.”

  I only wanted noodles too, but, not wanting to be impolite, I said, “Both.” I wasn’t even sure I would like dinner. The last time I had canned Chinese was when my sister made it at least nine years earlier. I thought it was gross.

  We ate in front of the television, me on an old chair, Glenn on the floor. He insisted. The hockey game on TV joined in our conversation. “Offsides!” Glenn yelled at the set.

  “Do you like hockey?” Glenn asked.

  “I’ve never watched it.” I didn’t think I liked it, but I couldn’t say no.

  “I used to play hockey in high school. My dad wanted me to play basketball, but I wasn’t any good at it. My older brother could though.” Reese flashed in my mind. I wondered how he was doing. I hadn’t heard from him since before Christmas. “My dad went to all of Jake’s basketball games, but hardly ever went to my hockey games. You know how it is, being the middle child.”

  “I was the youngest.”

  “Well, you get lost in the middle. Let’s put it that way.” I detected bitterness. Glenn re-focused on the TV, then barked at the ref again.

  “I need to get back,” I said, carrying my plate to the kitchen. “Thanks for supper.”

  “Why do you need to go?”

  “Homework, remember?”

  “You can do that later,” Glenn said with pleading eyes. “You can’t eat and run.” He gave me the look of a begging puppy. I stayed.

  * * *

  “Still making tacos for dinner tonight?” Glenn caught me on the apartment stairs. Dressed in full-coverage sweats, I smiled. Couldn’t help myself. Each time I passed by his door that day, I wondered if he was home or in class.

  “I was going to work out first,” I answered.

  “I’ll go with you.” He invited himself and walked across campus with me to the gym. I walked briskly on the treadmill while Glenn lifted mass quantities on the exercise machines. The room was L-shaped and lined with mirrors. I could watch him watching himself lift weights around the corner while he also watched me stride. A big-boobed bubbly girl wearing short shorts and a high ponytail mounted the treadmill next to me and jogged. Her flowing white-blonde hair looked like a Maltese stuck to her head; her size C’s appeared fixed to her ribs—strong protruding mounds of muscle rather than anything mammary. I saw Glenn refocus on her, particularly her voluminous chest bouncing up and down. A wave of jealousy, which I tried to hide, overcame me.

  Glenn, dripping with sweat, walked over to the treadmills. The bouncy bubbly girl smiled at him. He reciprocated.

  “Ready to go?” he asked me. I was more than ready to go.

  * * *

  “Bring the taco stuff over to my place. You can cook it here. We’ll be more comfortable,” Glenn said, unlocking his apartment door. I thought it a little weird since I was having him over for dinner, but the thought was fleeting and it turned out that he had me over for dinner with my food. He had one more chair than I did anyway. Cooking over his stove, I started to add water to the browned hamburger and taco seasoning. Glenn stopped me. “Here, use this. It tastes better this way.” He handed me can of tomato sauce. “Instead of water,” he explained. I stirred the sauce in and served tacos in front of yet another hockey game.

  “What does your dad do?” I asked.

  “He manages Busch stadium.”

  “He what? Yeah, right. The baseball stadium?”

  “I’m serious. I get free tickets to the games all the time. We can go this summer.” Touching. He apparently regarded our budding friendship as a long-term affair.

  “What’s your last name?” I asked.

  “Conroy.” Glenn spun the conversation around. “What does your dad do?”

  “He’s a minister.”

  “Oh, that explains why you don’t drink,” Glenn said, sarcastically. Inside, I recoiled at his words—being reared a PK was something you never fully recovered from. I told myself that some people had shallow vision and I should give him a chance to expand.

  “That has nothing to do with it. I don’t like the taste. I’m not old enough either.” It was the honest-to-God truth. I wished I hadn’t been so truthful. A disbelieving yeah, sure, crossed his face and he said “Mmm hmm.” I was disheartened that he didn’t take my answer for what it was.

  “You know, I’m pretty tired. I stayed up late studying last night after I left,” I said.

  “Really? I’m not tired at all. I went to bed.”

  I wondered what happened to the homework he was supposed to have done.

  “I’ll clean up the kitchen and then I’ll go.”

  “You don’t need to do that. I’ll take care of it,” he said on his way to the sink. “Just have a seat. There’s nothing you need to go home for.”

  I planted myself in front of the hockey game, bored, yet wondering what Glenn was doing. The blender whirred at full speed. Glenn emerged with two cold slushy drinks. “Try this,” he said, dropping the glass in my hands. I sipped. “You like it?”

  “Yeah, it’s good.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t like the taste of alcohol. Amaretto Collins.” He lifted his
glass high, as if toasting and then took a gulp. Glenn smiled, smug with himself at proving me wrong. It did taste good, yet an uneasiness overcame me, knowing what it was. Maybe taste wasn’t my only aversion.

  “Why don’t you ever study?” I asked.

  “I don’t like reading.”

  “You don’t like reading?” I said, astonished. “How can you not like to read? How can you study if you don’t read?”

  “I’m dyslexic.”

  “Oh.”

  “They didn’t know until a couple of years ago,” Glenn explained. “I wasn’t a very good student, but the teachers said I wasn’t dumb. My parents thought I was lazy and I got in trouble all the time for not ‘applying myself.’ They felt bad when they found out. It wasn’t easy growing up.” He took another gulp. “I saw my share of the belt.”

  He had my sympathetic heart.

  “How did you get into Parks?”

  “I had to take the entrance exam twice. I failed the exam the first time, but I memorized it, so when I took it again, I passed. My dad set me up with the St. Louis Arena working events like hockey . . .” His eyes lit up. “. . . until I could start school here. He thought he owed me. It’s a good money job, but not a career. I’ll still work there now and then when they need me—or when I need them.”