by K A Bryant
Her face blood red. I don't know why it's not enough for her to be the little rich girl-slumming it. Her daddy owns everything with an 'R' in it. But she always has to be the favorite. Beth plus jealousy equals trying to get me fired.
Alright dad, I did my due diligence. I still don't trust anyone, except Lou. Yep, it's safe. The bottle's still in its brown paper bag with my hand wrapped safely around it in my jacket pocket.
It's against everything dad taught me. Everything he was. Stay in control. Think clearly. Run your race. Not someone else's. Think ten steps ahead or you'll find yourself behind.
When he was away for work, I spent my time after school and on the weekends sitting alone in his work shed. I 'felt' him there. The shelves had my ship-in-the-bottle projects, even the bad ones. He kept everything. I miss him. I miss my mother too but I had more time with her. There's too much incomplete. Like an unraveled rope, we never tied up the ends.
He didn't get to teach me how to drive. Take me to the baseball game. He missed my graduations, birthdays, first Flu. Thought I was going to die and prayed to see him one more time. He couldn't come. Now, he expects me to use all that stuff he taught me. I'm not strong like he was. I've never known him to not do something he said he would do. Once we went for a burger in a thunder storm. Why? Because the day before, he said we would. "A storm can't dictate your actions," he said, "there will always be storms".
Here I am, my favorite spot on the sidewalk beside the waist high stone wall surrounding Central Park. I like sitting facing the street and watching the traffic zip by.
I can't feel it, hold on, there it is. I leave it on the inside of the Park between the bush and the wall. For me, reaching over the wall to pick up my foam board is easy. It's curved from me sitting on it night after night on top of a pile of snow drift. With my back against the wall, I've got my perfect view.
Directly across the street is the small store front toy store. The owner always mans the register and is usually alone. Old fashioned register, rings when the metal drawer shoots out. He's probably got a dent in his gut from it. He's usually closed it up by now, but Christmas, New York foot traffic, goldmine. Fred won't close until his eyes cross. I gave him that name. He looks like a Fred.
And here she comes, the money-pit. Like clock work, just before closing time when she knows the register is full. Over-sized purse swinging from her arm, new high heel boots and curls bouncing behind her. What's this? She's broken out the mink. Figures.
The brick wall is cold against my back but that won't last long. I've got a little friend that fixes all of that. I keep it in the bag and just roll down the top.
Quick inhale before the sip sets up my taste buds. I can't help but pause. It always precedes. Guilt. I can see my father's face. Disappointed, looking at me. I can feel my mother's hand on my shoulder, pulling at me trying to tell me to stop, don't do it. But I'm alone. I've never touched drugs. My only vice, the drink.
"You left me. You wanna stop me. Come back."
The tree branches covered with snow look beautiful against the gray sky. It slides down warmly but burns. That's it, a few more swallows will swirl reality away.
The Toy Store owner is falling for it again. It's like watching a movie. The glass store front trimmed with twinkling Christmas lights outline my live television screen. The poor sap. How many times will you fall for the same trick. Your wife doesn't need anything from the back store room.
"S-She's in the r-register, Fred!"
Too bad. My snow ball only made it to the middle of the street. Splattered on the side of a taxi. The driver looks pissed.
"Hey! You want some of this!"
"No thank you. Your momma might!"
Even drunk, I couldn't resist. Whatever. Probably wouldn't feel it if he hit me.
"I won't f-feel it!"
"What? Stupid drunk."
I can hear his wheels squeal as the taxi pulls off. Already? The bottle's finished already? Leo sold me a small one.
"That's right. Just dr-rive away. Take that!"
What's all that finger pointing? Oh snap. She's busted. Here we go.
"I can't... I can't read lips Fred! Not while I'm drunk."
I'm drunk. Just hearing myself say it sounds alien. I never imagined it would pull me in this far. I felt invincible just six months ago, then, the line blurred. I have to get back to 'him'. I can remember 'him'. That part of me that seems so far removed. I was the guy that smiled, that people loved to see coming. I loved waking up every day and stood up for people who couldn't stand up for themselves. I remember him vaguely. He had a vision and his missions were clear and pure. I liked him. I want him back.
Is this what they call the first step to a turn around? Admitting you have a problem? I think it is. You know what, it feels good. And that's not the liquor talking. I do. I want him back. Are these tears? Tears, stinging the corners of my eyes. Yes. I've heard about this and it is exactly as people describe it. As I put the bottle down on the sidewalk in the snow, I tip it, purposely. The liquor empties out into the snow. I exhale. That felt good.
What is that? I can't-. The lights are too close, too bright. What's screeching? I hear boots, someone taking big steps.
"That's him."
An unfamiliar voice says. I can feel my feet dragging on the ground.
"Wait! I can't see! Get off me! Who... ouch, my neck!"
Sounds like van doors closing. The screeching again. Even inside this black hood, I can feel the room spinning. I'm gonna throw up. I feel like I'm on a boat. Rocking. I have to get up.
"Ouch!"
My head. It feels wet. I just have to let the sleep take over.
CHAPTER TWO
WASHINGTON D. C.
Wilkes
The fresh snow that fell last night is already speckled with dirt trampled from every angle. Not an opinion, it truly is the harshest Winter storm in D.C. in the last twenty-five years. However, I will not be here for its climax.
I truly adore my decision to move to Woodbridge Virginia. A stone’s throw from Washington D.C. and the wind is no more forgiving on the Keystone Bridge in Northern Virginia. Thankfully Collins warmed the cabin of my stretched black government vehicle. It’s large. On my last ride in, the heated seats make the snow beautiful, erasing its cold. I turn the lower vent toward my knee.
At my age, heat feels good everywhere, particularly at my joints. A key motivator for what I've been planning for years.
"Collins, the scenic route, please. There's no need to rush anymore. At seventy, I find few reasons to rush."
"Yes, Sir."
The leather seat squeals as I reach for the television remote. I actually want to hear what CNN has to say about me today. Muted, the CNN reporter is actually smiling while she talks.
"They are smiling, Collins. They reserve those for important good deeds. Agnes was right, they are definitely glad to see me go."
I can't help but chuckle.
"Sir, coffee stop as usual?"
"Absolutely, at my age, small pleasures, Collins, small pleasures."
My name always did look good scrawled across the screen. At one point, they eliminated the John Wilkes and just gabbed away using 'The Secretary of Defence'.
I didn't mind, there's a certain anonymity that went with that, however, there is an absence of the man still in there allowing a cruelty to slip in.
Here we go again. The same bone. They get their teeth into it and don't let go. I'm used to it but I can't help but hope that my accomplishments would shine a bit brighter. The panel bats my life's work like a ping-pong ball.
"He's done some good, right? You can't overlook those two soldiers coming home. If it wasn't for his decisive actions, they'd still be in that Afghan prison."
Jake Tapper, great.
"True. However, the Secretary of Defence serves at the pleasure of the President and his handling of this project is suspect at best. If this were anyone else-"
"-suspect is a strong word. You're basing your conclu
sion on a leak, a White House leak claiming that The Secretary of Defence, a credited war hero who survived horrific ordeals for his country behavior is 'suspect'. We have yet to validate the facets of this leak."
One point.
"An audio recording, Phil, a verified authentic audio recording with the Defence Secretary of the most powerful nation in the world heard giving directives that contradict his boss, who just happens to be The President, to continue a project that cost the American people twenty-three million dollars but produced no viable achievement. Validate what? This is as cut and dried as it comes."
I hope you fall off your stool, Tapper. One point.
"We'll see. Today is the final day of his deposition."
Yes, it sure is.
"Gentlemen," the host interviewer interjects, "any predictions of the outcome?"
"He has a long hard run of it," adjusting himself in his seat, "he's a war hero. I wish him all the best today and a well-deserved retirement."
Sorry I wanted you to fall off your stool.
"Agreed. Next, Breaking News from the White House..."
That's the other cell phone buzzing. Collins' eyes are glued to the road. Flipping it open is a bother compared to my other one. Is it that time already?
"Yes?... fine. (Pause)... Thank you. I'll be in the office in five."
Collins' eyes are still glued to the road. I will miss this. Mr. Fletcher's coffee. The best coffee stand in D.C. The only thing better is his genuineness. A rarity in the Washington, especially on the Hill.
"Get two."
"Yes, Sir."
He always waves. Even when the window is closed. He's happy. Another rarity. Truly happy fiddling around behind that long counter fussing over magazines and newspapers people rarely buy anymore. There's something grounding about holding a good old newspaper in your hands. Black ink on your fingers and the crinkling sound when you turn the page with your coffee at hands reach. His hand goes up.
As soon as the window descends the cold floods in. It takes my breath away.
"The offer still stands."
"Bricks and Mortar, not for me. They're talking about you're in the news again."
"Nothing new."
"It's good, my friend. If they stop talking, it means you're dead."
Fletcher truly understands D.C. I lift my hand and force a smile. I have to close the window. Why is it happening again? I've never been sentimental.
"Here you are, Sir. Two."
"One is for you."
"Thank you, Sir," taking a sip, "oh, man. I'm hooked."
"I asked him, what makes your coffee taste so good? You know what he said?"
"No, what?"
"I never wash the pot."
Collins laughs. I didn't wait for him to catch on.
"What? Really?" looking at the cup.
I almost threw up trying to hold in that laughter.
"No."
For some reason, I can't get the image out of my head. Every time I pull into the Pentagon parking lot, I see it as it was on 9-11. I don't think I ever want to forget. It reminds me what I have to do here and why I don't care what they say about me in the news, I'm glad I did everything. All of it.
Every soldier has a war story. I've got many but I know the one they'll be asking me about today. The one that stabs me in the ribs at night and makes my knee ache. Old school. I knew they would save the best question for last.
I fought using it, now, I appreciate the air of distinction it lends. There is something that gives people pause when I enter a room with my cane. Guilty, I fought it, thinking it made me look weak, dependent and off balance. I've matured realizing it offers me strength, independence and balance. This hilt is perfect. A gift from the President.
"Is there a queue, Collins?"
"Not for you, Sir."
"I'm not so sure. No one bows to a dethroned king. They only look for the new one."
"Here you are, Sir."
I'll miss this brief case, a gift from the Speaker of the House. Sometimes, I feel like a walking shrine. Just twenty years ago, I was a Captain in the Army with a blown out hip thinking life was over. Now, I have a strong retirement plan, a closet of shoes that cost more than my father made in a year and great memories of serving my country.
This building is humbling. The logistics and brilliant people who line these walls. Where did all the sentiment come from?
Everyone seems to have moved on but I keep seeing the graves of the one hundred and twenty-five people who died here. I watched on television. I didn't cry. I couldn't. Not one tear. The pain of it engraved itself in my bones. Whenever I step on those grounds I pause. My tribute.
It's nice to know, I'm still on the throne. At least for today.
"Mr. Secretary, good morning."
Look at him. Security. The heart of this country’s Defence. New. What is he twenty, twenty-two?
"First day, soldier?"
"Yes, Sir."
A salute? I'm honored. He's short, wide-eyed and clean in heart. I know that shine anywhere. The shine of loyalty and respect for the country you are willing to die for.
I want to punch them in the face for laughing at him under their breath. The regulars.
"Your name, Officer."
"Rodriguez, Sir."
I set off the metal detector. It's the metal pin the surgeons had to put in my hip. It will stay there for the rest of my life. I am accustomed to it. A gift from war. Unbuttoning my jacket is tricky with a cane.
"Mr. Secretary, Sir. You don't need to-"
"Rodriguez, every time. Everyone."
My concern must be showing. His expression is scratching on fear.
"Even me. No one can be above your search. You're the front line for every life in this building. You trust no one. Got it?"
"Yes, Mr. Secretary. I won't forget."
He's got it. I can tell. Where is it? There it is. One last rub on the immaculate silver.
"For you, Rodriguez. Today is my last day as being the Secretary of Defence for the greatest nation in the world," I can't help but chuckle, "just think, if I gave it to you tomorrow, it would have a weakened story. Enjoy."
Tears?
"Bite that, son. What's your goal, Officer?"
"One day, I want to be a special agent, Sir. Like my dad. We have a little girl, just moved to D.C."
"I think I can help with that."
"I really appreciate it, Sir. Thank you."
From the elevator, I could hear them.
"Rodriguez, don't hold your breath. They have short memories. I was promised a spot on the E.R.T. (Emergency Response Team)."
They don't know they insured his promotion. I feel hope warming my chest. Rodriguez may never know what he gave me. Hope, that my legacy will go on.
The elevator beeps and the doors open just as I hear my pseudo name.
"Mr. Secretary."
I'd know that voice anywhere. Phillip Cummings. I hear his steps quickening and he steps into the elevator with me quickly pressing the button to make the doors close. He wants to speak to me privately. He's a good adviser but when that video leaked, he seemed to be functioning with his nerves ready to snap at any minute. He never could just come out and ask me a straight question.
"Last day," says Phillip.
Ah yes, the White House whisper. He's served me well and he's a skilled fisherman. I think he's more comfortable in his role of fisherman than Adviser.
"I wanted you to know, they're bringing him in," Phillip says nervously.
"Jason Jones?" I nod.
"Yes. We had no say. He's leading the deposition."
"I thought he was on leave from his divorce?"
Phil wipes his forehead with his handkerchief. He always sweats profusely.
"If I were her," he says, "I would have left him too."
I threw him a look and he caught it.
"Sorry, Wilkes, I forgot how you feel about family." He says.
"It should be until the end, Phil, remember that. All
of this politicking will go on." I loosen my jaw and take my eyes off his crooked tie and watch the numbers on the elevator. "Well, they must truly think there's something to be heard."
"Is there?" Phil mumbles, stuffing his handkerchief back into his pocket.
I pat him on the back as the elevator dings.