American Dream - Book 1
Page 6
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Jon fixes his empty Kevlar helmet to his head, clips the strap beneath his chin, leaves Erin’s remains smoldering on his dirt floor and storms out the door in search of Private First Class Moore.
The rest of his squad is geared up out in front of the building they all call home. They’re ready to go... just waiting on their leader. Jon spots the grief-stricken PFC off to the side, separated, alone, and sitting on a stack of sand bags, his head in his hands.
He’d done his best to comfort him the day before, trying to imagine what he must’ve been feeling... but he doesn’t have to imagine anymore.
They’re heartbreak buddies.
Don’t show him your pain, be strong for your Marines, Jon thinks to himself as he walks over to him.
“How ya doin’, Moore?” Jon asks, taking a knee in front of him. “Sleep OK last night? You locked on for today? Got your head in the game?”
“Oh, hey Sergeant,” Moore replies, forgetting again that he’s welcome to address him by first name. “Slept like shit last night; hardly at all. Can’t get her outta my head, so no, I’d say my head’s about as far OUT of the ‘game’ as it’s been since we’ve been here.”
Jon looks to his left and starts walking. “Follow me, Moore. Over here.”
Moore joins Jon just around the corner of the building so they can have a word in private.
“Have you told any of the other guys about what happened with your girlfriend? Or is that just between us so far?” Jon asks.
“Nope, just you, Sergeant. You’re the only one I felt like I could trust with it.”
“Alright, cool,” Jon replies, knowing just what he has to say to get his point man’s head in a better place before they start their patrol. “Guess what, Moore? I’m with you.”
“You’re with me? What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re not the only one in emotional hell right now – I’m with you.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Remember Erin? ...my high school sweetheart, my fiancé, who I was beyond positive that I ‘knew? She mailed me a letter. It got here yesterday... I found it on my rack last night after I’d finished talking to you. And I waited until this morning... as in, literally, three minutes ago... to read it. After reading I had no choice but to torch the only photo I had of her. Great way to start a day, huh?”
“So the wedding’s off?”
“Yeah. That’s actually all the letter said. Oh, wait, ‘have a nice life’ was in there, too.”
“Are you kidding me? I don’t even know what to say, Sergeant.”
“I do. Look, Moore... you’re the only person I’ve told about this – the only person I’m going to tell.” Jon pauses to collect his thoughts. “Life goes on.”
“Kinda cliché, don’t you think?”
“It’s a cliché that happens to be true. What we’re going through... it hurts. Hurts like hell. We can either let that pain control us, and put not only our own lives, but the entire squad at risk... or we can take a deep breath, shove that pain aside, and deal with it later.”
Moore looks like he’s about to say something, but Jon’s not done.
“The women we thought we knew, thought we could trust... they don’t deserve us. So let’s close the book on this. Let’s do what we’ve been trained to do and not let these ungrateful bitches take up one ounce of our head-space. You with me?”
“Roger that, Sergeant. I’m with you... don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Outstanding. You ready to head out?”
“I’m ready.”
“You’re SURE...”
“I’m sure.”
“Mags full?”
“Check.”
“Water topped off?”
“Check.”
“How many frags you got?”
“Two.”
“Smokes?”
“Two. One purple, one yellow.”
“Well alright then. Show me your war face and we’re good to go,” Jon says, his serious expression turning into a shit-eating grin. “Kidding, kidding... I love me some classic 80s war movie quotes, though!”
“Funny, Sergeant... REAL funny,” Moore replies, laughing right along with him.
“There’s that smile. Let’s move.”
NINE
Jon’s squad assembles into their tactical column formation. No orders need to be given; nobody needs to be told where they’re supposed to be or what they have to do. Like a basketball team that’s been playing together for years, everyone knows their place and can move and act as one, without speaking.
Moore takes the lead position, as usual. Point main; tip of the spear.
If Jon could trade places with him, he would, but rank and job description prohibit such a thing. As squad leader, per their training, he’s got to walk in the middle of the patrol order, sandwiched between his three fire teams; one fire team in front of him, two fire teams behind him.
He was supposed to lead from the front without ever being in front. As he walks through the acres of farmland that stand between his squad and the small cluster of houses up ahead, Jon ponders how that’s even possible.
He can’t ignore the landscape, either: acres upon acres of green. More than four months spent walking around on Iraqi soil and he still can’t believe what he’s looking at. It definitely was not what he pictured when he was back in the States imagining and anticipating the experience of a combat deployment down to the last, intricate detail.
As they get closer to the buildings, Jon realizes they’re not all houses. If what they’re about to walk through could be classified as a village, it’s the most civilized-looking village they’d yet to encounter.
They’d seen a lot of them, and never had there been so many two-story and three-story buildings so close together. This was more like a miniature town, something out of a Western movie... two groups of structures pinching a narrow dirt path between them.
Corporal Stone, Private First Class Moore’s fire team leader, three positions ahead of Jon in the patrol formation and walking right behind Moore, gets Jon’s attention by whispering something into his right ear. “Sergeant, you there? Can you hear me?”
Everything had been so quiet up until then that Jon had almost forgotten he was even wearing a radio headset – his direct line of communication with his three fire team leaders. Momentarily startled by the transmission, Jon finds the talk button with his left hand and responds. “I’m here, Stone, what’s up?”
“Moore doesn’t look right, Sarge... he’s turning around to look behind him WAY too often.”
“I’ve noticed that, too.”
“I don’t feel good about him being in front today. He knows how to act up there, he knows he should be focusing on what’s in front of him, he knows we’ve got his back. He’s looked back at me five times in the last minute. Something’s off. You talked to him, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Jon confirms. “He’s fine.”
“He doesn’t look fine.”
“He’s fine, Stone. I wouldn’t have let him walk point today if I wasn’t sure of it,” Jon lied. “Just... keep an eye on him. And stay alert up there. If I was an Iraqi sniper and felt like picking off a Marine I’d do it from an elevated position, and I’d have plenty to choose from up ahead.”
“Roger that, Sergeant, I’ll watch him. We goin’ right up the middle?”
“Affirmative. Right up the middle.”
The conversation was over. Neither Jon nor Corporal Brian Stone came out and said so – it was understood. They had to be quiet now. They were right on top of the entrance to this town, village, whatever the hell it was... and as deserted and quiet as it was, as it seemed... they intuitively knew the smart play was to stop talking and start listening.
Start watching for potential threats.
Moore’s patrol behavior changed as soon as they transitioned from the wide open farmland to the path separating the two groups of buildings, much to Sto
ne’s relief. He was like a different Marine... totally focused on what lay ahead of him, weapon up, ready to engage...
...swiveling back and forth, not letting himself focus on the same spot for too long so he could scan as many potential firing positions as possible, just like he’d been trained.
BANG!
Thirty feet above ground, a single bullet explodes through an open window, closes the gap between both sides of the war at an alarming rate and rips through Marine flesh.
Moore had overlooked one of the third story windows; he’d passed right by it without even a second of hesitation. But he never had a reason to hesitate. He couldn’t have seen the shooter, even if he’d known exactly where he’d be.
This guy was experienced... experienced enough to know better than to stick his rifle barrel out the window – to give his position away and let the enemy know he was there before he’d even had a chance to pull the trigger.
And now he was on the move, repositioning himself as quickly as he could. He was certain that at least one of the Americans below had seen where the shot had come from, so he wasn’t going to just sit there and wait to be found.
No, he had a plan.
He would find another suitable firing position, and take down another Marine.
One wasn’t enough.
TEN
“Get down! Take cover!”
Jon reflexively screams these commands at the top of his lungs, but he doesn’t have to. The instant the deafening gunshot pierces the silence and echoes off the surrounding buildings, everybody in the squad dives off the beaten path and finds cover.
Everybody except Moore, who remains out in the open.
Exposed, vulnerable, helpless.
“Sergeant!!! Moore’s been hit!!!” Corporal Stone shrieks like a banshee, being as loud as he can to guarantee Jon gets the bad news on the other side of the street.
“Talk to me on this,” Jon whispers through the radio headsets that connect them. “We don’t know how many we’re up against, here. Let’s not give away our positions unless we absolutely have to.”
Stone wonders why that hadn’t crossed his mind, then repeats what he’d already said, as if Jon hadn’t heard him the first time. “Moore’s hit, Sergeant.”
“I know he is.”
“Is he still alive?”
Jon carefully pokes his head around the three-foot-high cinderblock wall he’d taken cover behind and forces himself to look at what he’s done. He’d let Moore walk in front today. This was his fault.
“He’s not moving, Stone. I see blood on the ground by his head and shoulders. Wait...” Jon pauses to listen closely. “Do you hear that?”
“I can’t hear shit, Sergeant... ears are still ringing from the shot. Feels like it went off right next to my head. What do you hear?”
“A wheezing sound. I think it’s Moore. I think he’s still alive.”
“I don’t get it. If he’s still alive, why hasn’t the sniper shot him again?”
Jon considers the possibilities and can only come up with two likely scenarios.
“Well, Moore hasn’t moved an inch since he went down. So either the shooter is assuming he’s dead, or he can hear him wheezing just like I can and he’s using Moore as bait to line up another target.”
“Fuck it, he can shoot at me if he wants to... we can’t just leave Moore out in the open like this. I’m goin’ out there to get him,” Stone says, standing up out of his concealed position.
“Like hell you are!” Jon fires back. “Get your ass back down!”
Angry inside that he’s got too much respect for Jon to openly disobey a direct order from him, Stone complies with his squad leader’s request.
Relieved to see his distraught fire team leader fight the adrenaline rush going on inside of him just enough to keep from doing something stupid, Jon pinches his talk button.
“Alright, Corporal Stone, this is how it’s gonna play out. I know you want to be the one to go out and help Moore, and I respect the hell out of you for it, but I can’t let you. You’re twice as far from his body as I am. All I’ve gotta do is sprint about ten yards or so, grab him by the collar of his flak jacket, and drag him another ten yards to the safe side of this wall I’m hiding behind.
“Watch the windows, Brian. Don’t watch me. I can get to Moore without any trouble, but when I start dragging him, I’m gonna slow down. Way down. I’ll be an easy target. Keep your eyes peeled for a muzzle-flash and sling a 40mm through whatever window lights up. Your M-203 is locked and loaded, right?”
Stone unlocks the barrel of the M-203 grenade launcher attached to his M-16 just enough to confirm that he’s got a 40mm grenade in the chamber. “I’ve got one ready to fly, Sergeant. Count me down when you’re ready. And good luck!”
Jon takes a deep breath, collects his thoughts, and gets ready to run. “I make my own luck, Brian. Three... two... one.”
Time slows down.
Vision, sharpened; sounds, muffled.
He’s up, he’s moving.
BANG!
Jon doesn’t even feel the sniper’s second bullet graze his right shoulder on the way to Moore’s body, still motionless, the smattering of blood on the ground next to his head now a puddle.
But Stone saw the flash. Plain as day. It was so glaringly obvious he can’t believe he didn’t see the first one. Wasting no time he pops off his loaded grenade, but it comes up short – well short – and KA-BOOM!!!... It explodes at the second story level, one floor below its intended landing spot.
“FUCK!!!” Stone screams at himself as he scrambles to adjust his sights for the proper yardage – the yardage he needs to hit his mark, and get another grenade chambered and ready to launch before the sniper can squeeze off another round.
Jon makes it to Moore, shoves his slung rifle off to the side and clamps on to Moore’s flak jacket with both hands, totally unaware that he’s already been hit once. Moore won’t be of any help; he’s dead weight; it’s all up to Jon to get him out of there.
But his eyes are open. He’s still breathing, still wheezing. “Can you talk?” Jon asks as he starts dragging him, inching him back in the direction he’d come from as fast as his backward-shuffling movement will allow.
No response.
“Hold on, Moore,” Jon pleads between labored breaths. “You just hold on. You’re doin’ great, you’re gonna be fine, I’m getting you out of...”
BANG!
A ripping sensation on the left side of Jon’s body. He topples over and crashes into the dirt, unable to drag, unable to stand... his entire midsection alive with a level of agony so severe he can’t even vocalize it. He can’t moan, can’t groan; can’t make a sound.
In this moment he’d give anything to release some of this pain, just a little, by producing noise, but it’s clenching him so hard and so tight, twisting and torturing him from the inside out as he admires the pretty blue sky; the puffy, cotton-like clouds.
KA-BOOM!
A thud. Something hitting the ground. The distant hissing of an activated smoke grenade. Footsteps. Someone running. Quiet, at first... but getting louder.
And louder.
A blurry silhouette hovering over Jon, eclipsing his view of the heavens.
“I got him, Sergeant!” Corporal Brian Stone exclaims, catching his breath. “I smoked the fucker.” He looks at the red cloud billowing off to his right, then back at Jon. “Popped smoke and radioed in what happened... bird’s on the way.”
Eyelids... heavy. Too heavy. Must... close...
“Sergeant...”
Closing the blinds... turning off the lights...
“SERGEANT...”
Floating away...
“Damn it, don’t do this, Sergeant. Not now...”
Letting go...
“Sergeant! Sergeant! Wake up! WAKE... UP!!!”
ELEVEN
Jon should’ve seen this coming.
Not Erin’s change of heart, not getting wounded... n
o, what he should’ve been able to predict, if he survived the trip, was that he’d wake up in just as much pain as he was experiencing when he lost consciousness.
But hey, at least he can breathe now.
His eyes creep open to an annoying beeping noise off to his left, not far away at all, and distant voices from across the room – a news report on TV, by the sounds of it.
TV!
He hadn’t watched television in months. Not that he particularly enjoyed watching news, but it could only mean one thing: that he wasn’t in Iraq anymore.
And that was good news... unlike the report he woke up to. Another natural disaster, something about a tsunami in Asia, the anchor going on and on about how horrible it was, how many innocent people had lost their lives.
“Well, at least the news hasn’t changed,” Jon says to an empty hospital room. “Still bad, still negative, still inspiring fear in people halfway across the globe.”
Inches from his right hand sits a remote. On that remote is one lonely, red button... what Jon can only assume is a call button to get a nurse’s attention. He reaches for it, grabs it and presses the button, but even that makes him cringe beyond belief.
A tidal wave of a thousand stabbings pulsate throughout his torso. As the ripple finally begins to subside, Jon catches his breath and wonders just how badly he’s been hurt.
He doesn’t have to wonder for very long.
“Oh, Sergeant Cole, so glad you’re with us again,” an attractive young nurse says with a smile after opening the door to Jon’s room and approaching his bed. “My name is Wendy... how are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been hit by a bus, and, after being hit by said bus, the driver threw it in reverse and hit me again,” Jon groans, shifting his weight on the bed, searching for a more comfortable position.
Wendy chuckles. “Well it’s good to see that you’ve still got a sense of humor.”
“Where am I? What day is it? What happened to me?” Jon is full of questions.
“You’re in Germany, Sergeant Cole. Today’s date is December 10, 2004. You don’t remember what happened?”
“I’m in... GERMANY?? You took me away from my Marines?!?!”
Wendy doesn’t want his heart rate to climb too high, so she tries to cut him off before he gets any more agitated. “Yes, Sergeant, you’re in Germany. I – emphasis on ‘I’ – didn’t take you anywhere. You were airlifted here, to this hospital, two weeks ago today.”
Calming down a little, getting his breathing under control, Jon’s in a much better place to continue the conversation. “Two weeks ago, huh? And I’m just now waking up. So you’re telling me I slept for fourteen consecutive days?”
“It wasn’t a natural sleep, Sergeant; we had to sedate you, keep you unconscious to give your body the best possible chance of recovering from the injuries you sustained. You were hurt very, very badly,” Wendy says, shaking her head back and forth like she’d never seen anything like it. “It’s a miracle you survived the operation.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa...” Jon jumps in. “What operation?”
The second the words leave his mouth the door to his room swings open again and another figure enters. An older, slightly overweight man in a white lab coat, a clipboard in his hand and a twinkle in his eye. Jon can’t figure out why this guy seems happy to be here.
“Sergeant, this is Dr. Flynn,” Wendy says with a quick nod in his direction. “He’s the one who operated on you and he’s much more qualified to answer any questions you may have about the operation; about what happened to you.”
Having introduced the man who apparently has all the answers, Wendy smiles at Jon one more time and exits the room without another word.
“Sergeant Cole, so glad you’re with us again,” Flynn begins.
“That’s the second time I’ve heard that today, Doc. Wendy said the same thing when she first walked in here. Exact same words, exact same way. You guys workin’ off a script or something? Am I on a new reality TV show I haven’t heard of yet?”
Dr. Flynn didn’t like seeing men in situations like Jon’s, didn’t think it was funny at all, but he made himself laugh anyway. It was part of his job, and in his experience he’d concluded that a smartass attitude goes a long way toward recovery – especially with Marines. “No scripts here, Sergeant. And no, you’re not on TV.”
“So you’re the one who ‘operated’ on me. Is that right?”
“That’s correct,” Flynn confirms.
“Can you tell me what happened to me?”
“I can, and I will, but I’d like to know what you can remember first.”
“Well if I knew what happened to me I wouldn’t have to ask, Doc,” Jon says, the frustration clear in his voice.
“Try, Sergeant,” Flynn suggests, almost encouragingly. “Tell me everything you can remember.”
“Ugh,” Jon grunts, struggling to wake up his short term memory. “Fine, Doc... I’ll do my best.”
He closes his eyes, willing himself to remember what got him here.
Then he begins.
TWELVE
“My squad and I were on a foot patrol. Walking down a narrow dirt path between two distinct groups of buildings. Varying sizes... one story, two story, three story. It was a frickin’ sniper’s paradise in there, Doc...”
Jon pauses, closing his eyes just a little bit tighter, emotion welling up inside him.
“Okay, then what happened, Sergeant?” Dr. Flynn asks, helping Jon dig deeper.
“My point man went down... PFC Moore. By the time myself and the rest of my squad had taken cover, I had the shortest distance to travel to help him... and since I had a good, safe spot in mind to drag him to, I told my guys to stay put and let me run out there for him.”
“And then what? What’s the last thing you remember?”
“I remember getting to Moore, seeing that the sniper’s first bullet had struck him in the throat, and wondering to myself how in the hell he hadn’t bled out yet. He was still wheezing when I got to him, I’ll never forget that wheezing sound... and there was so much blood around his head and neck, but he was still alive. He looked at me.”
“He looked at you?”
“Yes. He stared straight into my eyes, like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t. Like he wanted to move, but couldn’t. He looked... lost, but he was still alive.”
“And then you tried to drag him to safety?”
“Correct. I hadn’t so much as latched onto his flak jacket and started inching him back in the direction I’d come from when I heard another loud cracking noise and felt an intense ripping sensation on the left side of my body. I was done. I thought I was dead.”
Dr. Flynn raises a hand to signal to Jon that he’s heard enough, that he’d like to say something now.
“In all honesty you should be dead right now, Sergeant. All my years in the medical field, treating combat veterans... I’ve never seen an injury like yours. Until you came along. But before I get into that, I gotta ask: you don’t remember getting hit twice?”
“Uh, I was only hit once, Doc,” Jon says, thinking this guy must be smokin’ dope.
“Wrong,” Dr. Flynn corrects him. “Look at your right shoulder, Sergeant.”
Jon turns his head ninety degrees to the right and sees his shoulder wrapped in a very healthy amount of blood-stained gauze. “Holy... shit, Doc. Remind me never to argue with you again... ha, but seriously, why couldn’t I remember getting hit in the shoulder?”
“You probably didn’t feel it,” Flynn concludes, “because you had so much adrenaline coursing through your body as you approached your fallen point man. You were so focused on getting to him as fast as you could that a glancing-blow to the shoulder didn’t even register as something to pay attention to.”
“Makes sense, I suppose,” Jon nods in agreement... “But why’d the second shot that hit me stop me in my tracks so fast? I went down like a ton of shit, Doc.”
“The flak jacket
you were wearing... it had Sapi plates, didn’t it Sergeant?”
“It did. Two protective plates, one in front and one in back. There was actually talk about us getting some ‘side Sapis’ as well... smaller plates designed to bridge the gap between the front plate and the back plate, to protect a Marine’s sides... but we hadn’t gotten them yet. Ha, probably would’ve saved me a world of hurt, huh?”
“They most certainly would’ve,” Flynn agrees. “It’s a shame you didn’t have them yet. Well, Sergeant... if you’re ready to hear more about bullet number two and why you’re so fortunate to be breathing right now, I’m ready to explain it to you the best I can.”
THIRTEEN
“Hit me, Doc, tell me how lucky I am,” Jon says with an almost cocky smile.
“Bullet number two,” Flynn begins, “went for quite a ride. It pierced the side of your body, more toward the front than the back, and started tumbling end-over-end, leaving an exit wound roughly three times as big as the entry wound. And I’m sure you already know about bullets behaving like that...”
Jon nods to confirm that he does, and Dr. Flynn goes on.
“...but this bullet had no choice but to go back into your body.”
“What? It went back in?” Jon asks, astounded with what he was hearing.
“That’s right,” Flynn repeats, “it went back in. The angle the bullet entered you was just right... so sharp... that it tore through you, came out, and still had enough velocity, enough force, to ricochet off the Sapi plate on the back of your flak jacket and re-enter your body... where it did even more damage, more tumbling, and finally lost its momentum and stayed there, lodged inside you.”
Jon’s jaw was in his lap. He couldn’t believe it. “So what you’re tellin’ me, Doc, is that the very thing designed to protect me from a bullet actually caused more injury than I would’ve sustained if I hadn’t been wearing my flak jacket at all?”
“Correct... had the plate not been there the bullet would’ve just sailed right through you. That’s how sharp the original angle of entry was.”
“Ha! Well, son of a bitch!” Jon exclaims, laughing hysterically... “I guess I was lugging around all that extra weight for nothin’ then, huh?”
Before Dr. Flynn can react, Jon thinks of another, more serious question. “And it just stayed in me after it bounced off the plate. Is that what Wendy meant when she referred to my ‘operation?’ Was the ‘operation’ you performed on me opening me up and fishing the bullet out?”
“Your mind is certainly in working order,” Flynn begins, “because you’re right again, Sergeant. I’ve successfully removed the bullet.”
Jon thinks that’s good news. “Great,” he says, “when can I get flown back to Iraq to rejoin my Marines?”
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to do that, Sergeant,” Dr. Flynn replies, hanging his head, staring at the floor, knowing how hard this is going to be for Jon to accept.
“What? Why the hell not? I’ve got to...”
Dr. Flynn interrupts with the cold, hard truth. “Sergeant Cole, that bullet really did a number on you. It took out one of your kidneys, which isn’t immediately fatal... you can operate with one kidney, but it also did serious damage to your liver and your stomach, both of which are half their original size. It’s all I could salvage... I’m sorry, Sergeant.”
“It’s not your fault, Doc,” Jon says, “thank you for operating on me, for getting that damn thing outta me and saving whatever you could save.” Turning away from Dr. Flynn and looking out the window, Jon knows the answer to his next question. But he asks it anyway. “So I really can’t go back to my boys? I’m really done being a Marine?”
“Oh you’ll always be a Marine,” Dr. Flynn assures him. “Isn’t that the saying? ‘Once A Marine, Always A Marine?’” The doctor’s smile evaporates. “But no, I’m afraid you’ll never be cleared for combat again, with the injuries you’ve just sustained and the condition they’ve left your body in.”
“FUCK!” Jon shrieks as he chucks the call button remote across the room, not taking the time to realize there’s a chord on it, that it can’t go anywhere but straight to the floor. Embarrassing as that is for him, he’s just as upset that such a small movement caused enough internal pain to bring tears to his eyes. He didn’t want to cry in front of the Doc.
“Easy... take it easy, Sergeant,” Dr. Flynn says, calmly. “Your body’s still very sensitive, you’ve got a lot of recovering to do. I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you I know how you feel, because I don’t. What I will say is that you’ve got every right to be upset, to be angry, and to be frustrated.”
Jon closes his eyes again, pinching the tears that had formed just seconds before and forcing them down his cheeks. He takes a few long, slow, deep breaths... settles back down a bit, and remembers something he’d yet to ask Dr. Flynn. He can’t believe he hadn’t asked him right away. His eyes snap open.
“Doc! What about Private First Class Moore??? Aww shit, c’mon Doc, tell me I didn’t end my Marine Corps career for nothing. Tell me he’s alive. Tell me he made it.”
“He did make it,” Flynn replies, happy to deliver a piece of good news.
“Yes!!!” Jon shouts, raising his arms overhead, ignoring the pain he’s causing himself this time because he’s got a legitimate reason to celebrate. “Where is he? Is he in this building? Can I see him? How’s he doing?”
Dr. Flynn looks like something’s wrong. Like he’s got bad news again. Jon notices.
“What’s up, Doc?”
FOURTEEN
“Well,” Dr. Flynn begins, “first I’d like to say this: it’s refreshing to see your mood change so quickly. I’m glad you’re happy that he made it.”
“But?”
“But I want you to understand something, Sergeant. Even if you’d been able to drag Moore off that road and get him back to a safe place, he’d be in no better condition than he’s in right now. There’s really nothing you could’ve done to help him, the damage had already been done. He’s alive because of you, but the... state he’s in... it isn’t your fault.”
“What are you getting at, Doc?” Jon asks, not completely sure that he wants to know. “What ‘state’ is Moore in?”
“You recalled today that the sniper’s first shot hit Moore in the throat, right?”
“Yeah...”
“Well somehow, someway, the bullet left Moore’s carotid artery untouched. That’s why he didn’t bleed out right then and there. That much we can be thankful for. What the bullet did do, however, was sever Moore’s spinal cord...”
“Jesus...”
“...paralyzing him from the neck down and rendering him, in a word, speechless. He’ll never walk, use his hands, or express himself verbally again, for the rest of his life.”
“Christ, Doc, what kind of life is that?”
“Not much of one, I admit... but hey, he’s still alive. And he’s got you and the rest of your squad to thank for that. Had you not done what you did, Moore likely would’ve bled to death... and had you let anybody else run over there and attempt to help Moore, you’d have their injury on your conscience.”
“I guess you’re right, Doc. Shitty as this whole thing is, you’re right. Is he still here? Can I see him?”
“He’s not here anymore, but he was. He was just a few rooms over from you up until a few days ago, when he was transported back to the States.”
“I just wish I could’ve seen him when he was here. I wish I could’ve told him I was sorry, that I tried my best. I wish I hadn’t slept for two freaking weeks straight.”
“Didn’t Wendy tell you, Sergeant? The two week mini-coma was totally out of your hands. It’s not your fault at all. We had to do that, to give your body the best possible odds at getting better.”
“Shit, that’s right... she did tell me that. Guess I forgot.”
“Anyway, I’m sure Moore doesn’t blame you. I’m sure he knows you did everything you could to help him.”
“Thanks, Doc. I hope you’re right. I just don’t know what I’m going to do now. If I can’t return to my men, my life as a Marine, I’ve really got nothing.”
“I know what you’re going to do now,” Flynn replies, a sly smirk growing across his face.
“Oh is that right? What’s that?”
“You’re going to get your ass back to the States, accept the hero’s welcome you rightfully deserve, and carry on with your life the best you can. I may not know you personally, Sergeant Cole, but I know a strong motherfucker when I see one.”
“Hero’s welcome? For me? Yeah... right...”
Flynn gets serious. “Listen and listen well, Sergeant. The fact that you were over there to begin with, putting yourself in harm’s way day after day after day... that alone makes you a hero in my book. But in your case... you’re looking at a Purple Heart... probably even a Bronze Star for what you were doing for Moore as you sustained your injuries.”
At the mention of the awards he’s likely going to receive, Jon can’t help but think of his father and how much he misses him. And just like that, Flynn’s words of wisdom hit home. They land. They sink in.
Doc’s motivational kick in the ass reminds Jon of how highly his father regarded men who’d been injured in combat, men who’d done heroic things and earned the nation’s highest awards for valor. He was one of those men now, and he was proud of it.
“Sergeant? You still with me?” Dr. Flynn asks, sounding a bit concerned.
Jon hadn’t responded... he was too lost in his own thoughts. “Yup, still with you Doc.”
“You didn’t answer my last question. You looked like you were spacing out.”
“Oh I’m sorry, what’d you ask me?”
“I asked if you had a girl waiting for you back home. If you had somebody missing you and counting the days until you returned.”
“I did...” Jon starts to say. “Wait – I thought I did. We were planning on getting married after I returned from this deployment. No dice. She ripped my heart out of my chest the day I went down trying to help Moore.”
“Well I guess you’ll just have to pick it up, dust it off and plug that thing back in, because damn it, there’s a lot of fight left in you and you’ve got a lot of life left to live. You’re gonna be just fine, Jon.”
Jon.
It was the first time Dr. Flynn had addressed him by his first name.
FIFTEEN
Grand Rapids, Michigan.
December 17, 2004.
Jon recovered quickly.
Faster than anybody at the hospital in Germany could have ever anticipated.
A mere seven days after waking up from his two week slumber, Jon was back in the States, back in Grand Rapids, back home... just in time for Christmas, too.
And what a homecoming they put on for him.
Camera crews from every local TV station broadcasted his private flight home as it made its final approach and prepared to land. Reporters swarmed around him as soon as the hatch had opened and Jon had made his way down the stairs.
Ten microphones shoved in his face at once; questions fired from all directions.
“Sergeant Cole, what was it like over there?”
“Do you agree with the American involvement in the Middle East?”
“Your Marine Corps career is over. What are you going to do now?”
Everybody wanted inside his mind, and not one of them had the common courtesy to give him enough time to think of a response before unleashing the next question.
Overwhelmed, heart racing, feeling cornered, Jon forces his way through the media mob without saying a word and seeks shelter in the black SUV parked just off the runway, waiting for him.
“For what it’s worth, that’s total bullshit... the way they attacked you out there, demanding answers,” the driver of the SUV says, his words sincere. “Anyway, let’s get you out of here. Where am I taking you, Sergeant?”
“Take me home.”
Home was the starter-house Jon and Erin had moved into just weeks before he left for Iraq. How ironic it is, Jon realizes, that the place I didn’t want to leave just five months ago is now the last place on earth I want to be.
But he’s got nowhere else to go. And since he’s the one paying the mortgage, and Erin was the one to end things between them... in his mind that house belonged to him, and... if she was still living there... well, that would change very quickly.
The hero’s welcome the community had put on for Jon went far beyond the airport. Hundreds, thousands of local residents lined the streets, suffering through the Michigan winter weather, standing in snow, holding signs that said ‘Welcome Home’ and ‘Hero.’
It wasn’t just downtown, either... no, the walls of people on both sides of the road continued all the way to Jon’s house – the entire five mile trip. The local news authorities must’ve assumed this would be his first stop after getting back and leaked the details; that’s the only way something this massive could’ve been organized.
Jon thought it was a little over the top, but he couldn’t help but feel honored at this collective display of affection and gratitude. Total strangers to Jon, as far as his eyes could see, freezing their asses off to let him know they cared about him... that they were genuinely happy that he made it home safe.
“Here we are, Sergeant,” his driver announces as he eases the black SUV into Jon’s driveway. “Need me to stick around? Help you get settled in? Fight off some of your fans so you can get to your front door in one piece?”
Jon can’t help but laugh at the last question. “No,” he replies, pausing to chuckle some more. “I’ll be fine. But I appreciate the offer, I really do. Thank you.”
As he steps out of the SUV and closes the door behind him, he can’t believe what he didn’t notice sitting in the garage as they first pulled in. The door is open, and both stalls are occupied. The Chevy Impala he’d left behind is there, that much he expected to see... but right next to it is Erin’s Pontiac Grand Prix.
She's still here.
Living here.
In his house.
SIXTEEN
Stifling the rage monster growing inside him, Jon makes his way up the driveway as calmly as he can, stopping to turn around and wave at the cheering crowd behind him every few paces... faking a smile as he does so. Seeing Erin’s car, realizing she was still here, drained him of the happiness the army of strangers had given him. He wanted to enjoy this moment, but he couldn’t. Not anymore.
Scaling the steps leading up to his front deck, Jon reaches for a knob that won’t turn. “Locked... you gotta be kiddin’ me” he mutters to himself as he releases the knob and reaches down for the key hidden under the Welcome mat at his feet.
Before he can find the key with his fingers he hears the lock on the front door turn, very slowly. He stands up. The front door opens. And there she is.
“Move!” Jon commands, storming toward Erin and forcing her to walk backwards as he enters his home and slams the front door behind him.
She looks startled, surprised, like she doesn’t understand why he’s behaving this way, why he’s upset with her.
“Jon, babe... gosh, uh... I didn’t expect you so soon. I mean I saw the news reports about you getting hurt and coming home... I just didn’t think you’d come here.”
“First of all, drop the ‘babe’ bullshit,” Jon demands, his face red with rage. “I’m not your ‘babe’ – not anymore – not since you mailed me that ever so thoughtful letter with your hacked up engagement ring. What a nice way to let me know you’d changed your mind, by the way...
“...and second of all, this is my house.”
“But it’s my house, too,” Erin responds, quietly, softly, like she’s trying to be cute. “We moved in here together, remember? This house is as much mine as it is yours...”
Jon jumps in before she can say another word. “Like hell it is!” He surprises himself with how easy it is to yell at the woman h
e used to love. The woman he still loves. He thought it would be difficult. “Is your name anywhere in the paperwork?”
He waits for Erin to respond. Nothing.
“I didn’t think so. Are you the one making payments on this place?”
Again, Erin says nothing.
“I didn’t think so. You tell me the wedding’s off without one OUNCE of an explanation as to why... just, out of the blue... done, over, finished... I almost die the very next day, get sent home early, against my will... and when I get here not only is your car still in my driveway, but all your stuff is still here, and YOU are here, obviously with no intention of leaving. I dare you to keep acting surprised at how upset I am. I dare you.”
“I’m so, so, SO sorry, Jon,” Erin says, on the verge of tears now, for some reason believing an apology is going to get her somewhere or somehow erase the damage she’d done, this late in the game. “I wanted to wait for you. I really did. But I got so lonely. It got to be too much, it was just too hard.”
Jon saw no point in sharing with Erin just how much she’d been on his mind when he was in Iraq. How he thought about her all day every day, dreaming of coming back to her... of marrying her, starting a family with her.
“I’m actually glad it’s over, Erin,” he says, ice in his eyes. “I’m thrilled that we didn’t get married. That we never will. Had we gotten hitched before I left, I’d be ass deep in a legal battle to keep this place. ‘What’s mine is yours,’ all that garbage.”
Erin starts to realize the reality of her one, fateful decision... and like anybody filled with regret, she tries to reverse it. “So we’re really done then, huh? You don’t even want to try to work things out... start over again?”
Jon shakes his head in disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’ve never been more serious, Jon. I want nothing more than to pick up where we left off. I want to go back to the way things were, before you left.”
“I think you’re high. You gotta be on drugs if you really think I’m going to take you back after what you did to me... the way you chose to do it. Pack your shit. Leave. I don’t want to ever see you or hear from you again. You’re dead to me.”
“But I’ve got nowhere else to go...”
“You’ve got nowhere else to go?!?! I’ve got nowhere else to go. You know that. You know my mother killed herself a few months before I went overseas, you know I don’t have any siblings to lean on and that my parents’ house isn’t in my family anymore. You know I, quite literally, have nothing else besides this house...”
Emotions threatening to get the best of him, Jon wills them away so he can continue.
“...YOU, on the other hand, have parents you can run home to with your tail between your legs, and you’ve got your sister... AND... you can shack up with the guy you started bangin’ when I was away. See? You’ve got all kinds of places to go.”
“But Jon, I didn’t mess around when you were gone...”
SEVENTEEN
Jon knew she was lying.
He’d known her, intimately, for years. And like a monkey swinging through the trees, she wouldn’t let go of one branch until she’d latched onto another.
“Oh really?” Jon challenges her as he heads for his bedroom – the master bedroom – the bedroom that used to be theirs. “So if I walk in here and look in the closet, I won’t find evidence of another guy staying here with you?”
“Jon, wait... you don’t understand.” Erin pleads in desperation. She follows him into the bedroom. She knows what he’ll find in there.
He starts with the drawer underneath the table on her side of the bed. He opens the drawer and pulls out an unopened box of condoms. He glares at Erin. “Well, here’s Exhibit A. Condoms. We haven’t used a condom in years.”
Off to the closet. Jon flings open the door to find, right out in the open, hanging from the steel rod inside... at least a dozen shirts on his side of the closet that don’t belong to him. “And here we have Exhibit B. I wonder who these belong to,” he says, sarcastically while looking back at Erin. “I bet he’s a hell of a guy.”
Having found all the evidence he needed to confirm that Erin was lying to his face, Jon was going to shut the closet door and stop right there... but a small black box catches his attention from the top shelf. “Well, well, well... what do we have here... this wasn’t here when I left...”
“Jon, don’t...” Erin tries to stop him, knowing it’s no use.
He takes the box down, sets it on the bed, opens it up... and inside the box he finds ten meticulously organized rows of cocaine balls, individually wrapped in plastic like they’re ready to be sold.
“And finally, I give you Exhibit C.” Jon takes a step backward, laughing to himself. “Oh my God, you’re a cokehead. Correction: you’re a cokehead, AND you’re dealing. I’ve never touched this shit, but I know a casual user wouldn’t wrap it up like this. Even if I wasn’t a cop I’d be able to come to that conclusion.” He locks eyes with Erin.
When she covers her nose with her hand like she’s trying to hide it from him, he knows he’s at least partially right – that she’s used, and used recently.
“So you’ve been dealing cocaine... out of my house? A police officer’s house?”
“I’ve been using it, Jon, I won’t lie to you about that. But no, I’m not the one dealing it. Honest.”
“Well somebody is, Erin. And I’ve got a hunch it’s your new boy toy. Seeing as how the condoms, men’s clothes (that aren’t mine), and the cocaine are all new additions since I’ve last been here, I’d say I’m spot-on with that assessment. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Erin throws in the towel. She’s got nothing.
“You’ve got an hour. Take everything you own, leave everything you don’t. Get out, and don’t ever come back. If you’re not done and out of here within an hour, or if I find out that you’ve been back here, after you’ve gone, I’m arresting you.”
Choking on tears, Erin starts gathering her belongings.
“One more thing,” Jon says as he remembers the last letter she’d sent him in Iraq. She has no idea she’s about to eat her own words. “Have a nice life, Erin.”
EIGHTEEN
Three weeks after Jon’s return to the States.
Three weeks after forcing Erin out of his life and embarking on a seemingly impossible task: starting over from scratch. With nothing. With nobody.
A lonely Christmas behind him and brand new year in front of him, he’s feeling optimistic about the future. But he knows what can happen, what always happens, when he starts to hope, when he starts to expect. He opens himself up for pain.
Physical pain, he can deal with... it’s evaporating more and more with each passing day... but the emotional pain, the pain nobody can see but him, well that hadn’t even begun to heal yet.
Jon wondered if it ever would.
Dr. Flynn had been right – Jon was awarded both the Purple Heart and the Bronze Star for his actions on that life-altering day in Fallujah... for putting himself in harm’s way above and beyond what was considered ‘normal’ and laying his own life on the line in an effort to help Private First Class Moore.
Since he’d made the return trip home all by himself, without the rest of his unit, he didn’t receive his awards in front of a large audience. No, they were presented to him almost in secret – with handshakes and congratulatory pats on the back from one high-ranking Marine Officer he’d never met before and a couple guys in suits – probably politicians.
But that was fine with Jon... he actually preferred it that way.
Crowds made him nervous. ‘On-edge’ is actually a better way to describe it. And it didn’t even have to be a big crowd... anything more than a handful of people and he just didn’t feel comfortable. His mind would automatically start taking in his entire environment, scanning everybody around him for threats.
Even day-time grocery shopping would set him off. He’d walk in with a list of items to purchase, grab a c
art, and he’d feel okay – he’d feel ‘normal’ for about three minutes. Then he’d feel his chest tighten and his eyes would start darting around the store at shoppers scurrying from aisle to aisle, like shopping for food was a race and they’d better hurry their asses up if they wanted any chance at winning.
Everybody seemed to be in a hurry.
Jon was out of touch with American society... he felt out of place. Like he didn’t belong there anymore, like he didn’t know what to do with the freedom he’d sacrificed so much to protect once he was stateside again and had the chance to exercise that freedom.
Counseling after being separated from the Marine Corps, after taking home the piece of paper that made everything official – his discharge certificate – that should’ve helped.
But it didn’t. It made him feel even worse.
“Ah, Mr. Cole, please come in,” his counselor welcomed him on his first and only visit.
He encouraged Jon to describe to him, in detail, the things he’d seen and done overseas, and how and why he was feeling uncomfortable... but after Jon had taken the time and summoned the willpower to do so, he had nothing useful to offer.
Unless he was supposed to perceive generic, canned, reassuring responses about how he understood what Jon was going through and how he’d talked to lots of other veterans who had said similar things as ‘useful information.’
Frustrated with the process, Jon finally comes out and asks the question he already knows the answer to. “You ever serve, Greg? Ever seen combat?”
“Well no, I personally have not...” he replies, sheepishly... “But...”
“I didn’t think so. Thanks for your time.” And Jon was out the door, never to return.
He did realize, though, that his one trip to see Greg wasn’t a complete waste, because Greg suggested that Jon get himself tested for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
It was an idea he scoffed at when the counselor first brought it up, but when he kept listening and learned that there might be some compensation in it for him... as in, ongoing benefits from the government, if his test results warranted it, he became a heck of a lot more open-minded – really fast.
So he jumps in his Chevy Impala and sets sail for the testing facility halfway across the State of Michigan. It was a long, lonely drive... the potential for an ongoing financial reward for getting tested the only reason he even made the trip.
Jon didn’t want to return to police work, and he was running out of time to develop another source of income.
Upon arrival he wades through more paperwork than he’s ever seen in his life. Fill this out. Sign this. Detail every single one of your combat experiences here. Initial here.
Combine that with the physical portion of the testing and it took Jon almost an entire day, from early morning to early evening, to get through it all.
But surprisingly, he actually felt good about the process as he got back into his car and began the long drive back.
He felt so good he made an unplanned stop on the way home – at a car dealership – just before closing time. He was finally ready to part with the last possession of his that reminded him of Erin.
Using a good chunk of his deployment money – and offering up the Chevy Impala he never wanted to see again as a trade-in – Jon drove off in an almost new, jet-black Toyota Tundra pickup. He would’ve preferred to buy American, but it was the nicest truck he could afford.
Proud of himself, he was nothing but smiles the whole rest of the way home.
And then the waiting game began.
NINETEEN
Clearly, Greg didn’t know what he was talking about.
Jon of course had asked him how long it would take for the government to analyze his test results and when he should expect a decision to reach him by mail.
“Usually takes around three months,” Greg had said. “Lots of veterans are deciding to get tested when they first get back, so it takes a while to process.”
“Wow, I guess so,” Jon had replied. “Gonna be cuttin’ it pretty close to my deadline with the Sheriff... to let him know if I’d like to pick up where I left off with police work... but as long as it doesn’t take longer than three months, I’ll be fine.”
Two weeks after getting tested, Jon makes his daily trip down his driveway and out to his mailbox, expecting to find nothing but junk mail; wasted resources, pure garbage. More stuff to throw away without so much as opening.
Instead he finds the one piece of mail he wants to receive, more than two months ahead of schedule: a plain brown envelope addressed to him from the testing facility.
His results.
Like a graduating high school senior anxious to see if he’d been accepted into his college of choice, Jon tears into the envelope right there at the end of his driveway, far too impatient to spend an extra minute to bring it inside first.
“Please. Please,” Jon vocalizes to nobody but himself as he frees the stapled stack of pages from their protective packaging and positions them right side up so he can start reading. “Please tell me that I deserve enough benefits to live on… I don’t think I can be a cop anymore.”
It was a thought he’d been having more and more often as he continued struggling with how much combat had changed him, how different he felt in his own skin compared to before he was deployed... but this was the first time he’d molded that thought into words. Doing so, actually saying it, was a betrayal to his father; an irreparable crack in the silent promise he’d made to pick up his dad’s torch and carry his legacy forward.
But God did it feel good... letting it go, speaking the truth... even if nobody else could hear it.
Jon quiets his mind enough to start digesting the government’s decision.
“Mr. Cole,
Having carefully reviewed your case, it is apparent that you are suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as a result of your combat experiences in Iraq. Based on your testimony, we are awarding you a Disability Rating of thirty-percent, which entitles you to a Disability Benefits payment of four-hundred dollars per month.”
Jon cringed at the word.
Disability.
Reading it conjured up images of handicapped people, both mentally and physically. People on crutches, people in wheelchairs, people with mental capacities far below what society had deemed ‘normal’ and ‘average’... people who insensitive assholes point and laugh at because they think they’re retarded.
Jon didn’t fall into any of these categories, but according to the stack of pages he was holding, he was disabled... forever branded as having something ‘wrong’ with him.
It didn’t sit well with him, this new label. What really pissed him off, though, was the amount of money the government felt he was ‘entitled’ to.
Four hundred per month. One hundred per week. How in the hell am I supposed to live off that? Jon asks himself without speaking, his inner voice angry and frustrated. First you call me a hero, now you say I’m disabled. Well tell me this, federal government. Had I returned missing a limb or two, then would I have deserved more? Is that what you guys dish out the big bucks for... wounds people can SEE?
The two weeks he’d waited after making the long trip to get tested were a breath of fresh air for Jon. He’d felt less confused, less out of place, noticed himself settling in and, much to his surprise, actually feeling human again. But these changes for the better hadn’t come from within.
No, Jon only improved because he’d formed the belief that the government was going to do their best to make things right. Take care of him. See to it that his transition from combat-deployed Marine back to being a civilian was as smooth and easy as possible.
Realizing how wrong he’d been to let his guard down and trust that his country actually gave a damn about him, Jon knew what he had to do. Something he hadn’t done in years, something he’d promised himself he’d never do again.
He’d been fighting the urge, and fighting it well, every day since his return. Nothing h
e’d encountered since coming home had been enough to force him over the edge. Not individually, anyway... but the stress was just too much for him now. The cumulative effect of everything put together was too strong.
The showdown with Erin his first day back. Forcing her out of his house, pushing her the rest of the way out of his life. He could’ve broken down then, but he didn’t.
Feeling so awkward, so alone and so out of place amongst everyday people in everyday situations. Like an alien trying to relate to humans. Like nobody wanted to understand why he acted the way he did, to understand what he’d been through, and even if they did... fearing that they’d never be able to.
Again, he could’ve caved. He could’ve sought shelter and comfort in old behavior patterns.
But Jon hung on... clinging desperately to the idea that the government he’d sacrificed so much for would be there for him in his time of need – would provide for him as he worked to get back on his feet, get himself straightened out.
Holding the government’s decision in his hands, rage consuming him as he mentally processed what his country felt his sacrifice was worth... it was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back for Jon.
He had no choice now, no choice but to do the exact thing he didn’t want to do, the exact opposite of what he’d finally found the courage to say out loud minutes before.
Stuffing the paperwork back into the envelope it had shown up in, Jon decided that if he had to return to police work, he’d make it easier on himself. He’d enlist the help of a friend he’d abandoned years ago.
The only friend who had always been there for him, no matter what life threw his way.
TWENTY
Jon stumbles to his bedroom closet, his body awareness and balance weakened by the reunion with his long lost friend. “Why didn’t I do this before?” he asks himself with a chuckle. “This feels amazing.”
In no time at all his eyes land on what he’d spontaneously wandered in here for – one of his brown police uniforms, just where he’d left it, both garments sharing the same triangular hanger – pants slung over the horizontal bottom edge, shirt hugging the sides. He returns to the living room, taking extra special care to not bump into anything along the way, and drapes the uniform over the back of his black leather couch.
Standing there, staring at it, swaying ever so slightly from side to side, he all of a sudden finds himself wanting to put it on. That’s right. The same Jon who, just hours before, didn’t want to be a cop anymore... couldn’t bring himself to even think about putting on the uniform again... out of the blue, has to feel it on his body.
He sheds the holey tee shirt and sweatpants he’d been lounging in all morning and throws himself into his cop threads like it’s a life and death matter, a race against time, and plops down on the couch... acutely aware of how much better he’s feeling, the sense of power and confidence that’s come over him.
“I’m ready to go back,” he says aloud, fixing his glazed eyes on the TV in front of him that isn’t turned on, staring at his blurry reflection. He inhales deeply through his nose and decides it’s worth repeating. “OH yeah, I’m ready to go back. Time to make the call.”
Jon grabs his phone off the coffee table, fumbles through his list of stored contacts, finds the one he’s looking for and taps the little green phone icon to initiate the call. “Sheriff!” He blurts out as soon as the call is answered, loud enough to deafen the poor guy. “Listen, man,” he starts with a slur, “I know you said I could have a few months off to figure out if I even want to come back to work, but I’m ready. I’m ready right now.”
“Well that’s good news, Jon,” Sheriff Lewis replies, excitement in his voice. “I’m very happy to hear that.” He pauses briefly and continues in a more serious tone. “You sound like you’ve had a little to drink today.”
Jon’s eyes dart to the fifth of Jack Daniels on the coffee table with two inches of brown liquid left in it... two inches of whiskey that belonged in the short drinking glass right next to it. Jon had emptied the glass just minutes before fetching his uniform, and it was time for a refill.
“Something wrong with a combat veteran enjoying a drink or two, Sheriff?” Jon asks, almost challengingly as he transfers the last of his liquid friend from bottle to glass and makes it disappear with a single gulp.
“Well, no... not under normal circumstance...”
“Normal circumstances?” An entire bottle of liquor combined with the government’s recent confirmation that Jon’s not normal has left him easily offended, so without even meaning to, he takes the Sheriff’s statement very personally – he sees it as an insult. “What do you mean by that?”
“I’m referring to the fact that it’s two o’clock in the afternoon, Jon. On a Monday. Listening to your voice I can tell you’ve had more than a drink or two... you sound like you’ve been hitting it pretty hard.”
“But Sheriff, I've only had...”
“It worries me, Jon, to hear you sounding like this. You told me you used to have a hell of a drinking problem, but as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been sober. Can I ask what made you return to the bottle all of a sudden? This isn’t like you.”
“I just... felt like it today, Sheriff. Nothing specific drove me to it,” Jon lied, afraid that if he told the truth about how strange he’d been feeling since his return and the fact that he’d tested positive for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, he’d never let him come back.
“Let’s discuss you rejoining your fellow officers once whatever you’ve consumed has worked its way through your system, Jon. Call me tomorrow when you’ve got a clearer head and I’d be happy to talk about you coming back. We missed you when you were over there.”
And with that the Sheriff hung up, before Jon could say anything else.
Outraged, Jon hurls his phone across his living room hard enough to put a nice dent in the wall. Who was HE to make that kind of judgment about him? Had he been in Iraq with him? Did he have firsthand experience of the things he’d gone through?
The Sheriff’s words meant nothing to Jon. His head was the clearest it had felt in a long, long time... and he wanted to see things even clearer.
He stares at his empty glass. Then the empty bottle.
“Wanna know what’s great about you, Jack?” Jon talks to the empty fifth like it’s a living, breathing person. He pauses like the bottle is actually going to respond, then continues. “Just when I think you’ve disappeared on me, just when I think you’ve left me high and dry to deal with my troubles alone, I remember that you’re merely a clone. Hey, that last part rhymes!”
Laughing hysterically at his previously undiscovered gift with words, Jon floats toward his front door on a mission to go out and get himself another Jack Daniels clone.
He gets half a step away from the door after he’d closed it behind him before he realizes that he doesn’t have his wallet. So he turns around and walks straight into the closed door. How he pulled that one off will forever remain a mystery; his hand never left the knob.
Wallet in pocket, his adventure can continue.
At no time during his first trip out the door, his collision with the closed door, or his return trip to retrieve his wallet does Jon even consider changing out of his police uniform before shuffling the three blocks between him and the nearest liquor store.
He should have.
TWENTY-ONE
“Hey honey, sorry to bother you at work, but I can’t believe what I’m seeing right now,” Theresa Lewis says, relieved that her husband answered his cell phone so quickly.
“You’re not bothering me at all,” Sheriff Lewis reassures his wife. “Is everything okay? Where are you right now?”
“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine... I mean, I’m fine. I was in the middle of running my usual errands when I realized the car needed to be filled up. I’m at a Shell station right now, the one right across from the liquor store on Third Street. I’m pumping gas.”
“Okay, so w
hat’s going on? What do you see that you can’t believe?”
“Unless my eyes are playing tricks on me, I see one of your officers across the street. He’s in uniform.” Theresa pauses. “Well... somewhat. He seems to have forgotten his hat and shoes. He’s barefoot, no police car in sight, staggering down the sidewalk and raising a brown paper bag to his mouth every few steps.”
“Son of a bitch,” Sheriff Lewis mutters, knowing right away who his wife is describing to him. “It’s gotta be Jon. He called me no more than half an hour ago and admitted that he’d been drinking, but Jesus, I didn’t know he was in uniform. He must’ve finished whatever he had and decided he needed more. He lives just a few blocks from where you’re at... which way is he heading?”
“Third Street runs East and West, doesn’t it?” Theresa was never very good with directions.
“Correct.”
“Then East... he’s heading East.”
“Whew, thank God. He’s heading home. I’m about fifteen minutes away, and I doubt I’ll be able to beat him there... but I’ll try.”