Tunnels

I got to the meeting point about 10 minutes early. I had hoped for more time to survey the situation and the area; I needed the time to orient myself to both the tunnel and and the people that were there. Knowing what was normal for any area was paramount. As I stood there it sank in that too much time would have been suspicious and would have brought attention. 10 minutes should be just enough. He and I ran this once before, back in Bosnia. Only then he was sizing me up and watching me. Now, we were meeting so he could pass me some information.

When the shadow came down the stairs and I could see that damn stupid bowler hat I had to bite my cheek to keep myself from smiling. He walked with a limp now, time and circumstances had not been kind to him, as I was certain they would not be kind to me if I was to stay in this game as long as he. Without so much as a nod or any acknowledgment of me he strolled over and placed his case down just next to mine. It was darker where we stood. I stooped down and picked up his case and walked away.

What I wouldn't have given at that very moment to be at the Huntsman's Club where we first met. Back where we could share drinks, and laugh over local figures, discuss trade craft, and glean gems of wisdom from my elder. Not at this time, though. Now, I had to get this case out of Kosice and to the US Embassy in Bratislav, Slovakia before anyone knew its contents were missing.

Ladies, Gentlemen, and Everybody Else

My blog has topped 16,000 hits. THANK YOU ALL!!! I will continue to write and to improve as a writer.

I have been away from my blog for several reasons. Sickness is the household, buckling down on a technical piece I had been putting off, cleaning and construction work that is ongoing have all ripped me away. I will be back here writing, posting, and putting more time again into reading the good work my friends have put their time into.

Until then, write on!

Fear

“Mike, what is your greatest fear?” Mike hated psychiatrists. The questions always seemed so simple, but the answers never were. It was as if these doctors were pulling threads of barbed wire from a tangled, fleshy ball to make something soft, warm, and comfortable. Only thing was, Mike never seemed to get to the comfortable part. No matter how he answered, Mike knew it was going to be dissected, turned into a rabbit hole that the doctor would lead him down as if Mike were really Alice.

“Failure. I am scared to death of failure.” For years it had been drilled into Mike that failure was not an option. Failure meant death or, at the very least, some sort of mortal danger for people that did not need to be in whatever position they were stuck in at the point of someones, Mike's, failure. His platoon, his squad, his team, or maybe other people who had been depending upon Mike's information would be in a position of certain death. “Lives depended on my not failing.”

“Is that so?” What the doctor really meant was had Mike been exaggerating in that answer.

“Yeah, that is so.” The doctor sat there with a blank look on his face. He did not buy that as an answer and that really rankled Mike. “I don't like being called a liar, but I am afraid of failing, not being good enough.”

“We all are afraid of failure, Michael.” The doctor looked at Mike. “Tell me about a time when you were afraid of failure but did not fail.”

Mike was quiet for several moments as he considered several and times that he was facing failure, but did not fail. As he thought about it, the times he actually failed were few and far between. “Bosnia.” The doctor was quiet, the silence urged Mike to continue. “I had no idea what I was asking for when I saw the slot open up, but I asked for orders since I needed the work. When the approval came back I got nervous about it since I had no clue what the job of 'field operator' was for Naval Intelligence.”

“I see, and did you ask anyone about what that job might entail?”

Mike chortled in response, “Hell, yeah,” shaking his head and looking down Mike continued, “all that anyone would tell me is that it sounded like I would be operating in a field environment. Then, they'd laugh quietly and walk away.”

“Who was it that you were asking?”

“My leadership.” Mike continued, “All I knew was that I was going into Bosnia, the war was still technically going on, I was going to be working in the field and not on base, and those that knew were having fun with me.” Mike paused and looked at the doctor. “I hated not knowing anything about what I had gotten myself into. I hated it because it scared me, it was the unknown, and I can't plan for the unknown. I was so scared of failing and I didn't even know what I was in for.”

“And, what were you in for?”

Mike told him the story. I was flown to Pensacola, Florida to be processed onto Active Duty and into the system for this task. I arrived late and there was no on to pick him up. After getting my bags, I found the USO/Military Support Office. Of course, they were closed. They closed two hours before my plane landed. “Friggin' great, 10:30 at night. The USO is closed, I'm basically stranded, and this gig has only just started.” I sighed heavily.

There was a small sign on the floor that caught my attention. I picked it up and saw that it had fallen off the USO door as it had the Duty Officer's phone number at Pensacola. “Sweet.” With the number in my phone, a renewed sense of comfort which quickly turned into a late night cockiness, I strode out into the muggy February night.

Once I called the Duty Desk and the sailor on watch had assured me that a cab was dispatched to pick me, and that the fare was going to be refunded through the travel office, I lit a cigarette and relaxed a little. “Maybe things won't be so bad.” I said it, but had no reason to believe it. Somewhere in my mind I was already hearing that NCO voice taunting me, “Oh, you, called the Duty Officer. Very nice! You want a medal for that? You got a loooong way to go before this mission is even started, Sailor!”

I found out very quickly that, while there were other groups going through the same process as I was, that I had to go it alone while at the Naval Station. I was a group of 1. I was the single point of failure or success on this stage. So, with all the determination I finished my 4 day check list in less than 2 days. The Personnel office also gave me another day off so they could finish the travel arrangements.

I had to stop in Naples. Italy for a few days to get my weapon, a 9mm pistol, and my field gear. There was a little more information regarding my coming tasks, but, still not enough. I was scared, terrified about the unknown and my pending failure.

I hitched a ride from Sarajevo Airport to Camp Butmir as, again, there was no one there to get me. Every night I was haunted by the question of what had I gotten myself into. I still did not know and, here I was, in Sarajevo, checking in like I knew what the hell was going on. I just kept telling myself to fake it until ya make it.

I spent a little more than a month there in Sarajevo learning about the job and the bare bones basics of what I was going to be doing. Well, me and almost 30 other new guys, that is. The month went fast and we got sent to 4 different places around the country. Some stayed right there at Butmir, the rest of us to one of 3 Company Headquarters. I went to Banja Luka.

From there, and the field offices that I would run, I was going to chase down leads, identify, recruit, and develop sources, maintain connections with old sources, and keep everyone safe while doing it. It would be me, a partner, and an interpreter. We had ourselves, 2 pistols, and nothing else if everything went to hell.

I would find out that, one night, one of my sources had part of their house blown up. At the time, I was convinced that I had put him and his family at risk. Never mind the fact that he had been meeting with our Operators for years. The attack happened on my watch, so it was my fault and my responsibility.

That night, after the ass chewing from my commander, everyone got the same email from said commander. He was asking about our sources that were reporters or otherwise involved in the news cycle. He wanted to know how many we had and what sort of access they potentially had.

“Nina? You think you could set up a meet with some Gebrijela Ivancic, Teha Crnic, Ilija Kovacic, or Davorka Bacic for tomorrow?” After reading that email, there must be something hot that the commander or the heads at Sarajevo were deeply interested in. There was nothing directly pointed at in the email, but at the last meeting the boss, that is, the commander, was pushing hard for information on smuggling networks and persons involved.

Nina set up the last minute meetings for the next day as I had asked. It was really nice of her to do that, and really great of the sources to bend their schedules to accommodate us, or so I thought.

The next day, after the meetings, and the hours of paperwork, transmitting the paperwork, and filing the plans for the next day's meetings, I took a few moments to sit back and relax. I felt good, really good. Here I was, taking the initiative, running with it, and doing damn good work. The boss, even as negative as he was, had to say something positive about this. That was about when the secure phone rang.

“Petty Officer Thompson spea ...” I didn't get to say anything else but “Yes, Sir.” The commander was pissed. I swear that I could feel the spittle spraying out of his mouth as he screamed into the other end of the phone.

“What the fucking hell is wrong with you?! All of you out there? Huh? What are you idiots thinking?”

“Sir? I don't understand.”

“I sent you all an email saying that you are to avoid all media sources not go out and meet with as many as you can! The very next fucking day each and every goddamn one of you are out there having meetings with them! Letting them collect against us based on what you're asking them!”

“Begging your pardon, Sir, but I didn't get any email like that.”

“BULLSHIT! I sent out the batch email yesterday just as everyone was sending in their reports so I KNOW that EVERYONE GOT THE GODDAMN EMAIL!”

I was silent, trying to recall any email like that. “Sir. I am looking through the emails from yesterday and there isn't … “

“BULLSHIT!! YOU'RE FIRED! I am taking you off of that post, out of this country, sending your ass back! Your source's house was blown up the other night! Today you went and violated a direct order from the GENERAL!” With that, he slammed the phone down.

“Did you get fired?” The doctor's question rather snapped me back into the room.

“No. No, actually, nobody got into any trouble.” I thought about it, “Maybe he did, because, after all the emails were checked, it was shown that he did not, in fact tell us to avoid anyone.”

“How did all that make you feel?”

“Shit, I was low. Real low. I sat there in that little office, my ears still ringing from the ass chewing. The house that got blown up. Now this. I couldn't handle it. I was as shattered as I had ever been in my life.” The doctor's office went as silent as a mortuary, it was deathly quiet. “I picked up my pistol, chambered a round,” Mike heaved a deep sigh, “I put that damn pistol into my mouth.” Nothing, the room stayed quiet. Mike looked up to see if the doctor hadn't been teleported out or something like that. “I was ready to kill myself over that failure.”

“But, it wasn't your failure.”

“I figured, if I was going to pull the trigger, I was going to do so after sending back the last email I got from that jack-ass.”

“How did your time in Bosnia turn out after all?”

“It was a great time, actually. I lead my team in bringing in a1 person indicted for a war crime, had several officials who were impeding the peace process removed from office, slowed some human trafficking, and did a few other general good deeds along the way.” Mike sat back, breathed a little, and said, “That monumental task, which I knew nothing about before jumping in with both feet, was more than manageable, it was a point of major success for me.”

“What can you learn from that? From what you just said?”

“That I can handle huge things. That great challenges bring great rewards.”

“Both are true, but I want you to remember the one on handling huge things. You can handle huge things. You did in Kosovo, and you did in Bosnia, too, only with you, one partner, and an interpreter, right?”

Mike nodded, “Yeah, I did, didn't I.” He smiled at the realization.

Soldiers, Old and Young

An old man made his way through the airport. He shuffled and leaned heavily on the cane at his side. He stopped often, his lungs or his heart were not quite up to the challenge of traversing the airport quickly anymore.

The scars that man wore. He wore them like badges of honor. Surely, he had earned each and every one of them. That limp, that was likely the injury that nearly killed him so many years ago. Without a doubt that was the one that ended his career. That day, up to that blast, that bullet, that bad parachute landing, whatever it was that left him unable to even stand without both the cane and the pain, that was the last moment he lived without pain. Every step since that day was taken with pain, a lifetime for a march that nobody should have to march.

Still, all these years later, he can feel when he's being watched. He turns around and looks carefully until he meets the eyes of a young man, a young soldier. It may have even been a younger version of himself, for all anyone else could see.

The young troop, well muscled, fit, moving easily with power, speed, and grace that the old soldier hadn't had for decades steps forward to greet his elder.

“Sir, I recognize some of the unit flashes that you're wearing.” He looks into the greying steely eyes of the old veteran.

Even though this man is a friendly, even an admiring face, the old man stands defiantly in the face of the youth he himself misses so bitterly. “Yes.” It was a challenge more than a response to the greeting.

“I'd consider it an honor if you would let me help you with your bags.” The young soldier knew that he could not outright say that he wanted to see to the old codger's safety and escort him to his plane. Appealing to his military sense, however, might be the way to accomplish the given mission in the young soldier's mind.

As they made their way through the crowded terminal the younger man could now provide some measure of space around his elder. Accomplishing even that little bit seemed to make them both step a little lighter and stand a little taller in each others company.

“I was there, on Iwo Jima, you know,”

"I recognize the patch, Sir," comes the brief, respectful, awe filled response. "My grandpa was there, too. He never said much about it. Just that it was,"

"It was hell on earth," the old man cut in, almost wistfully. He straightened up, instantly regained his prior rigidity, "I was under the 4th Marine Division, son."

"Grandpa was 3rd Division, Sir. It would seem that you two shed blood in the same parts of the Pacific in more places than just Iwo." The young man was looking for the old man's terminal and through his memories. Remembering when his grandfather was around.

"That we did." The old soldier stopped suddenly. "Marine, this is my terminal. Thank you for handling the bags." He stood there looking at the young Marine before him and reveled in the memories of his youth as well as the strength of the Corps now. "That damned island was the last place I've been on earth without pain," he paused for a moment, "and I don't regret a moment of it, then or since."

"I wouldn't imagine so, Sir." The younger held out his hand. As the old Marine took hold, it was still an iron grip that was steady and sure. "Semper Fi."

The old man smiled proudly, "Semper Fi and give 'em hell in everything."

The young Marine jogged back to his terminal to catch his plane, thrilled to have met the old veteran. He considered the life of pain that wound must have given the old man and that there were no regrets. The young man found solace in having walked a few hundred yards alongside a lifetime crippling pain.

The old man stood proudly having found peace in walking next to the youth and strength he had a lifetime before. He said it and meant it, no regrets. He made a difference in the world.

Busy Days

Busy days, we've all had them. Mine have run the gambit from rolling out of my bunk to road warrior chasing planes and travel deadlines to hours long commutes. These have all been portents to long days of their own.

In a crappy tent in East Africa, where not even the coldest winters dip below 65 at night, I laid in my bunk. I wasn't sleeping, but certainly not awake, just in some troubling limbo in between where rest wouldn't happen but nightmares came. The nightmares haunted even after the alarm woke me up.

Then, the commute was a walk to the showers, back to my tent to get dressed, to the dining facility, and then to my office inside razor wire topped fences with cameras and guards all about. The commute, my walk, was hot, muggy, and dusty. The dirt and dust was a strange rusty color. It stuck to you everywhere. While it was a fine, dusty material, it wasn't comfortable at all. It was a thick muddy substance in all the areas of skin that you forgot you had.

Once inside the office area, it is air conditioned and comfortable. But, that is where the stress sweat begins. The stink, too. The stench of sweat, too much coffee and energy drinks, cigarettes, and god knows what else hung in the air in that office. It was GO from the moment each person walked in the door to start their day and it did not stop until, oh, 18 hours later you threw up your hands in desperation, left for a war beer, a sweaty game of darts, another shower, and another night of almost sleeping and haunting nightmares.

Then there were those days that I had been dropped off at the airport to make it to the plane. Just in time, more often than not, getting to my terminal and boarding. I'd settle into a seat that was designed for a person of a smaller size. It isn't that I am fat, I exercise endlessly to relieve stress. I had been a power lifter many years ago and am now larger than most people, but, due to continuing aerobic raining, I am not fat. Still, those seats were not designed for people. They were designed for skeletons holding weights.

Soon, there was trying to fight my way through the slow moving herd of people heading to the baggage claim area. Why I rushed, I can't tell you. I always knew that I was going to have to wait along with every other person from that plane. Still, there I was, one of the first ones there to wait for the baggage feed to start moving, and one of the first people standing there to imagine themselves riding on the conveyor just for the fun of it because we've wanted to do that since we were kids.

Some of the people there were picking up their bags and heading to their beds, while others were heading off to their next flight. Yup, there I was, running through the terminal dragging my luggage because the tiny little wheels were hardly even decorations. Running at a mad dash and barely making it in time to board only to settle in and be that big sweaty guy who's breathing hard that someone has to sit beside. At least I would be able to have an overpriced drink with another horrid meal. I wouldn't be able to get a decent meal until I got back home, in about two weeks.

The day came when I gladly exchanged the road warrior status for the five hour daily commute. Getting up each day of the week and leaving the warmth and sanctity of my house in the cold, dark hours of pre-dawn so I could turn the computers on at my desk by six AM.

Daily body counts and movements of civilian, military, and para-military forces in areas that most Americans had no clue we were even operating in. This, and analyzing the carnage that went along with it, was my busy day. Coordinating efforts of people in various locations about my building, in other states, and odd places about the world all trying to tell some your troops, and a few old ones, who was where and what was why so they could do.

This daily list wore on me, ground me down until I could handle no more. Now, I commute from one end of my house to the other, often in rapid succession, in order to complete a series of simple tasks. All of which are geared towards getting my children up, dressed, cleaned, fed, lunches put together, out the door, onto buses, off to classes, and coffee made.

Busyness and running crazy hectic may never change or stop. At least, now I can do that in house slippers, dirty jeans, and a stained t-shirt and I don't have to shave or cut my hair in a certain special way.

Cynthia

Early morning at the lake. Up in the mountains there was nothing and no one around for miles. You could feel the fresh air, the morning dew, and the green of the forest moss as it silently slid easily into your lungs with each deep breath. Behind him, in the kitchen, the coffee pot burbled and the air from inside was an intoxicating mix of fresh coffee and of her perfume.

Cynthia, he looked up at the ceiling, he could still feel the warmth of her touch and the heat of her breath against his skin. Along with the scent of her came both a mist across the lake and her voice. “Good morning, Mikey,” she cooed.

He turned around slowly and easily. He turned to see Cynthia disappearing into the mist. Mike reached out for her, again.

Mike sat up in bed, reaching out into the darkness of his bedroom. Would he ever get over Cynthia, he wondered aloud to the empty darkness of his bedroom. Damn it hurt. It hurt to have had her so strongly in his life. It hurt to have had her disappear so mysteriously from his life. Sometimes he had to wonder if she had ever really been there, if she wasn't just a figment of his imagination.

Watching Eyes

The air was still and quiet. Everything in the world seemed to be holding its breath at the threat of the coming snow. Temperatures had warmed up, as if something, somewhere, was brave enough to poke its head out of its hole in an attempt to gather food or to simply catch a breath of fresh air. Fresh air after being trapped in stale, cold dirt holes and dens for weeks.

I had come out that afternoon to look at the tree trunks that had been fell earlier in the fall. It was warm enough for me to chunk those old bones into logs that I could use to heat my house in the coming cold snap. Something strange hung in the air, foreboding and ominous.

Physical work usually brought comfort. There had always been peace in the sweat of hard work, but this time it was strangely uncomfortable. Groundhog day had come and passed. Shadow chasing had not ever been a matter of seasonal importance to me. I had always looked for the red robin to come back as my sign for spring.

You see, robins are messengers that spring is afoot and that new life is about to come forth. A time of celebration is at hand, indeed, when the robins are seen. Winter has retreated with more certainty than any groundhog could ever tell us. Certainly the robin is a warm and welcome thing to see in any story near the end.

As I pick up and stack the pieces of logs that now lay about the ground as so many scattered bones, there is a sudden and heavy, loud flashing of wings followed closely by branches complaining and straining under considerable weight. Looking around I find the newcomers to my yard. I find them due to the light glinting off of feathers. Oily black feathers reflecting white light as if from the edges of long scythe-like blades.

A chill, a new chill ran down my spine as I took stock of the coal black eyes of the coal black birds now watching me. I could feel those eyes, devoid of feeling, piercing into my soul as those two birds, my silent companions, watched me.

“What is it you two know that I should?” I asked them, not expecting an answer. Recalling the fields of the dead in Kosovo, again I asked my two dark messengers, “What can you see coming that my stocking up heating wood cannot prepare me for? Who is coming to visit?” Still, expecting no answer, I looked to the two. Nothing, no answer from those two … pffft, they're birds, just birds, right?

Right?

The Worst Day

I wanted to take a whack at a short story, so here is a 3,540, or so, word whack at it. Enjoy!

Mike rolls over, looks out the windows of his bedroom, “Oh, gah!” Sitting up on the edge of his bed he looks at his watch, “What the? What happened to my alarm clock?” Looking around his bedroom his clock radio was off. It was still early, but it was getting light outside. “Damn it! Gotta hurry, Mike, don't wanna be late and break your record!” Mike has been working in training and customer service steady for nearly a year now. In that time he has not been late, ever. This would make it 12 months straight, a perfect year to start of with this job. How cool was that?



Mike hurried to the bathroom to shower. “Yup, the power's out.” He stood there flipping the switch up and down as if that act alone would convince electricity to somehow flow again. Swearing lightly, Mike stepped into the shower and turned the hot water on. Nothing but icy cold water spewed out on him, stealing his breath before he could turn the spigot off. “Oh, hell!Really? No hot water?” Mike stepped over to the sink, did a vitals scrub with a washcloth, and shaved. The shaving was, so far the most treacherous thing he had faced in the first few minutes of the morning; Mike had sliced a long bit of skin from the edge of his jaw. Now he swore like the proverbial sailor.



Mike pressed another washcloth to his face as he got dressed. “Alright, food.” Looking into the fridge did him little good on power to cook with and no time to cook. “Damn it!” Grabbing his cell phone, keys, and coat he darted out of the door and ran for his car.



Once in his car he pressed the button to dial work. “Lisa? Hi, this is Mike. I am so sorry, but I lost power out here and may be late. I am on my way in now.” Mike paused to turn the key in the ignition, nothing happened. No lights came on inside the car, no sound came from the starter. “Not now! Lisa, my car is dead … I don't know … it may be that the battery is dead … yeah, I can take the bus …. well, it will be two buses and … yeah, see ya as soon as I can.”



Leaning back against the seat of his car and closing his eyes for a moment Mike considered just calling Lisa back and using a sick day. Still, he had already said that he was on his way in and, if this was just a battery thing, which he was sure it was, it would only take a little time after work to fix. He sighed, stuffed his old ball cap onto his head and got on his way to the nearest bus stop to get to the main depot downtown.



He was still sore from last nights work out and sparring with his friends. His face was sore and a little bruised. Fighting was the best way for Mike to stay in the present. “You're never more in the now than when you're in a fight.” That's what his old First Sargent would say and that is how he felt. Mike was thinking back and going over as much of the training that he could from the sparring matches when the bus suddenly jolted and somebody fell, elbow first, into his eye. That's a hell of a way to be snapped out of a deep thought rut!



The transfer and the rest of the bus ride went without incident. Mike could feel his eye swelling from the elbow he just took. As he got off of the bus and took stock of where he was he also realized that he had to walk another four blocks. As this bit of information sank in something else was happening, a cold, bone chilling rain started to fall heavily. “Really?” Mike rolled his eyes as he started walking. The cell phone came out, he looked at the screen, “What? How the hell did the display get broken?” Shaking his head he called Lisa again, “Hey, it's me … yes, I am in the neighborhood … walking up from the bus stop … no, it gets about four blocks away and that, I am told, is the closest to our office the line runs … yes, “ he sighed, “it's raining, too … I should be there in about 10 minutes.”



“God, Mike, you look like hell!” The look of concern on her face told Mike that Lisa was for real.



“Let me see your mirror,” he grumbled with more curiosity than temper. Looking at his reflection he saw that his eye was swollen nicely and was cut a little and the slice on his chin from shaving needed to be washed up again, too. “I'm, uh, going to get cleaned up before I get some coffee and get to work, alright?”



Lisa didn't say a word she just nodded at Mike with a look that was somewhere between concern and who-the-hell-are-you as she left the lobby. Mike went straight for the men's room. He stood there for a few moments looking at himself in the mirror. He was looking harsh right now. His brow was scrunched together angrily, his eye was bruised, swollen, and a little bloody. He was looking old and rough. He washed his face first with warm water and it felt good. Then he rinsed with cold water, more out of habit than anything else.



Fresh coffee steaming in his cup, his computer fired up and working properly, and a borrowed heater under the desk to warm and dry his feet. “You know, maybe today is going to be alright.” Mike was going over some of the files he had to deal with for the day and making sure that there was nothing too pressing in the queue before he got started. Once everything as as ordered as best it could be, Mike put on his headset and pressed the button to begin the dialing program. Upstairs everyone in the office area could hear the contractors working on redoing the space for the coming office expansions.



The call was going nicely, it was a friendly back and forth. So far all of the specifications had been met. The person on the phone seemed genuinely happy however, there was some misunderstanding on the contract regarding payments if the customer decided to stop the contract at any point. Not that they were going to or were planning on it, they just wanted to understand the payment percentages.



It was during this portion that Mike heard a disturbing noise directly above him. A long, heavy pipe fell and bounced unevenly on the flooring. He had done enough construction and demolition to know the sound of a mistake when he heard it. In fact, he even cringed while imagining the scene up there. Moments passed before he knew how bad it really was.



Just as he was finally about to finish up with the customer he had been talking with for, what felt like hours of unmedicated tooth pulling, a waterfall with fiberglass tiles dropped onto his head and computer. The line, and the computer it was connected through, went dead. He sat there, trying to collect himself and not explode in rage, he looked at his coffee which now had pieces of ceiling tile in it and said loudly, “I give up! That's it! I can't deal with this today!”



He pushed his chair away from his desk, stood up, and turned around. Building security and Albert Andrews, head of HR, were standing there. “Mike, I am so sorry to have to do this.”



Mike leveled his gaze at Albert, deliberately kept his hands from clenching, and said quietly, “You have got to be fucking kidding, Albert.”



Albert looked scared, but also sad and surprised. He honestly had not anticipated this coming down. “Mike, you are a model employee. I swear, I will figure this out, okay? Just, please, go home and take a day or two and I will call you to let you know what is going on because this is not right.”



One of the security guys reached out for Mike's arm. Mike shifted his gaze to the fat guard, “Don't, it ain't worth it, man. I know where the door is.” With that Mike retraced his steps back through the lobb looking arguably worse than when he had come in.



The bus was relatively empty. Mike was calming down, well, getting depressed was a more apt description. “Lost power, lost heat, dead car, lost my job, what next, Murphy? I swear to god I am going to break the next person to get in my face before the day is out.” While he was muttering to himself Mike paid no attention to the guy on the back of the bus. He was alone, wearing an old denim jacket and a sweatshirt with the hood up.



At the depot Mike stood out towards the loading area waiting for the next bus just under the eaves of the depot. He had no desire to be around any of the people inside. He was reading the front page of the newspaper in the news box as he didn't have the change to buy the paper. “More violence in the city, huh? Shocker,” Mike grumbled. He stood up and stared out into the rain after reading the top half of the front page, the cold and wet made him down right miserable and ornery. Something cold and hard pressed against his head just behind his right ear.



“Hello.” The voice said with a sick laugh. “You just gonna give me your wallet and all your money, right. You not gonna turn around or nothing, right. You do that and I don't have to shoot you, you got it?”



Mike repositioned his feet a little. “You know, this day has just gone from bad to worse for meand then you come along.”



“Awwww, did I spoil your little pity party. Man?” he laughed.



The gun wasn't pressed against Mike's ear now, he smiled, he had some breathing room. Enough, he hoped. Mike spun fast to the right, ducking a little at the same time. He grabbed the mugger's right hand and the back of the gun before smashing his own left forearm through the back of the muggers elbow. The mugger's arm broke neatly at the elbow. Mike then threw his would-be mugger into the rain filled gutter, ready to do some stomping as payback for the day, when he heard, “Freeze! Police!”



“You sure you don't want to call a lawyer now?” The sergeant asked Mike for the fourth time since lunch.



Mike was leaning back in the corner of the holding cell with his back in the corner and his eyes closed. For the first time since waking up late this morning he looked and felt like he might be getting some rest. “I told you, this may be the only place I can get some quiet and some down time.”



“I hate to break it to you, but that ain't gonna happen right now, either.”



Mike opened one eye, “No, you don't hate it … “ Mike growled.



The cop smiled big, “Oh, you got that right, Slugger man. The Judge wanna see you and your friend for arraignment now so get up.”



Another sigh as another moment of peace and quiet had been shattered by the real world. The reality of it was that Mike was barely relaxing in there. He was on full alert with his eyes only half closed. Earlier in the afternoon one of the other people in the holding cell had tried to establish himself as top dog by intimidating everyone or beating down anyone who wasn't intimidated. Mike wasn't in the mood to play. Getting pepper sprayed by the guard only added insult to everyone's injury, so Mike chose to stay away from and keep an eye the rest of the tank.



“Sweaty, bruised, a little bloody, tired, and in one hell of a mood I gotta sit in front of a judge … any other day, no sweat, but today, I'm screwed.” with that said Mike eased himself up and walked out of the cell. As he left there was a chorus of threats and promises to his safety.



The court room was unlike any he had seen before or imagined. This one was a long line of seats that were bolted into the terrazzo floor, all with hand cuff and leg shackle fittings on them. In the middle of this wide room was a tall desk which was, clearly, the judges bench. Mike and his mugger, who was now in a cast and rather loopy with pain medications, were led into the center of the room. They were sat down right in front of the awkwardly tall bench.



Mike had just started to get comfortable when the bailiff hollered out, “All Rise for the honorable Judge Long!” The two stood up until they heard the judge mumble something then the bailiff told them both to sit down.



It was silent for several minutes as the judge reviewed the files regarding the two men sitting before him. “Mr. Thompson,”he began, “I don't know you, do I?”
Mike stood at attention, “No, Sir.”



Judge Long looked confused for an instant. The bailiff reached over, placed a strong hand on Mike's shoulder indicating that he needed to sit down, and told him, “Your Honor was asking a rhetorical question.” I am so boned, Mike thought to himself.



The Judge continued, “I don't know you from anyone on the street.” He looked over the edge of the bench at Mike, who now had to resist laughing as the judge looked so ridiculous. All Mike could see was tufts of unkempt wiry black hair, bushy eyebrows that each looked like they had bed-head from different beds, and some very thick glasses over sharp and hard eyes. All in all, the judge struck Mike as the most comical thing he had seen all day. He was having the hardest time not laughing at the man on the bench. “Not knowing you from anyone at all, not knowing you from Adam, Mr. Thompson, I might see you walking along the street,” the judge looked at Mike's face and took in the black eye, the scraped jaw, the stained shirt and ragged looking pants and then back at Mike's face. Judge Long shook his head, “You look like hell, Mr. Thompson. You look like a man on the edge,” he paused to sip from his mug, “you strike me as a desperate man who is willing,” he looked at the other man and his arm in a splint, and read the note about the pending surgery that evening to repair the damage, “and capable of nearly anything.”



Should he speak, say something in his own defense? Mike had no clue how to read the judge. He glanced over to the bailiff for some help. The bailiff shook his head slightly and slightly shushed Mike. The message being stay quiet.



“No, Mr. Thompson, I do not know you at all.” The judge then mumbled to himself unintelligibly as he shuffled papers. When he spoke clearly again it was suddenly and surprisingly. “Mr. Micky Brown! You, however, I do know! I know you very well, sir.” The judge must have stood up as his face could now be clearly seen over the top of the bench. “Mr. Brown you are already on parole from your last sentence. You are going to be held until you are able to stand for your hearing after surgery and recovery. Mr. Thompson,” Judge Long shifted his gaze, “I do not appreciate it when John Q Public takes the law into his own hands!” he paused for a few moments, “you are being released on your own recognizance without further delay. Bailiff, get them the hell out of here.”



It was late afternoon, almost evening, when Mike left the jail. The rain was letting up, but it was still cold. Still closer than the main bus depot, but further than regular walking distance, Mike checked to see how much cash he had in his wallet. “$25.00? I hope that's enough for a cab ride home and a tip.”



When the cab pulled up to his building Mike saw the lights were on again. Not wanting to think that things were getting better to trip and fall on his face again Mike stepped carefully out of the cab. As the car sped away Mike stood there, looking at the growing shadows. He stepped back into those same shadows and waited. His phone was turned off at the police station and he hadn't bothered to turn it back on again. Why he was standing back waiting he couldn't really say. It just seemed like the best thing to do.



After several minutes nothing had moved inside his apartment. Margaret was home. He could see her moving about her place. Outside there were a few stray cats, nothing out of the ordinary. He went inside. There was a note pinned to his door. His gut clenched reflexively. “Oh, God, what now?” he mumbled under his breath.



The note was from his landlord. It read;
So sorry about the hot water problem this morning. Got the boiler replaced today.



Once inside his apartment Mike took note that the clocks were flashing 12:10. The power had only been back on for 10 minutes. Not that he kept much food in the fridge, enough for a few days at a time, but that small amount was likely dead by now. “At least I can get a hot shower tonight.” His voice sounded hollow in the empty living room.



A gentle knock and a woman's voice made Mike spin. “Hello, Michael.” It was Margaret, his neighbor. “Your door was open, so … “ She checked up on him, helped him when he was going through bad times with his PTSD.



“Yeah, no, c'mon in, Maggie,” he grunted, “Margaret.” She preferred to use full names as it was 'just the proper thing to do.' She was young, polite, friendly, but always stood at a safe distance. That distance was safe for not just her, but for Mike, too.



Stepping inside his apartment she began, “Look, my boyfriend had to cancel on our dinner plans tonight. I was going to cook dinner.”



“So, that's not going to work out tonight, huh?”



“No, he has to work late.” Margaret seemed a little uncomfortable. “I don't have everything I need to cook a dinner, but I have some wine and I can order us a pizza or two if you would like to have a friend over?” She paused for a moment. “It looks like you've had a really rough day and … “



“I'd like that, Margaret. If you would, please.” Mike started to walk across his living room, “Oh, my phone is dead for now and I need a shower. You can feel free to let yourself in when the pizza gets here.”



About twenty minutes had passed and Margaret pushed her way back into Mike's apartment balancing two pizzas on one hand and holding a bag with two bottles of red wine in the other.



Hours had passed, the wine bottles lay empty on the floor, empty beer bottles stood in soon to be discarded six packs, and two friends sat against each other on the couch taking comfort in each other. “That was one hell of a day, Michael.”



Mike chuckled. He was chuckling at Margaret's insistence on using proper names, even when she was tipsy. She was a class act, he had decided. “It was certainly a rough one.”



Margaret got up from the couch, stretched, stepped into her slippers, “Mmmm, thank you for movie and opening up about your day, Michael. I have to go to bed now.” Turning to look at Mike she smiled a warm smile and hugged him. “Good night.”



When Margaret's hand was on the door knob Mike spoke from the couch, “You know, as bad of a day as it was, nobody died. I can deal with that.” With a smile he added, “Thank you for coming over, good night, Miss Margaret.”



On his way to bed he noticed that his phone, now charged had a voice message. He played it, “Mike, this is Albert, from HR. listen, like I said, this whole thing today was a mistake. You were not on the list of lay-offs. As it turns out, the water pipe damage has left things unsafe to work for a few days. So, you get the rest of the week off, on us. See you Monday morning, big guy.”



Sinking further back into the couch, smelling Margaret's perfume lingering in the air, and that phone message made Mike chuckle again, in spite of himself, “A free week off, nice, and nobody died.” He fell asleep on the couch smiling.

The Write Stuff

Write

Write on!

The write stuff

I'm so happy I could just write

Write happens

Various thoughts run through my head at night … times when my head hurts and I should be laying down in bed … resting or asleep … now, those times find me plinking away at a keyboard … random thoughts start in my head, travel down my arms, and vomit out my fingers onto the screen … random thoughts that, hopefully, other people will find interesting, terrifying, sickening, awe inspiring, or otherwise worth wearing, duh, reading … the other night, Tuesday night to be precise, while grappling, my training partner suggested that we roll with our eyes closed … it was a wild experience … we both listened with our bodies and learned so much more than with our eyes opened … one of the things that I learned was to not panic … now, I am going to try writing something with my eyes closed … unedited and unashamedly …. now with mu eues cloesd … mh smktam LANCAKE, IS RESTING 1IO3TLY NNU MR /// QGILW MU CQWW4T … damn, that sucks … I think that, for now, like driving, I should type with my eyes open … wow …. ::sigh::

Beliefs or Behavior

“Your beliefs don't make you a better person,” Nina was saying, “it's your behavior that does.” Nina had been an interpreter for the NATO unit that I was assigned to for years now. She had been there for nearly five years. Me, I had only been there in Bosnia for a few months at that time. She had proven to me, several times over by that point, that she was wiser beyond her young years that any one person had the right to be.

My partner, Match Stick and I, sat there and were pondering what Nina had just said when the lighting inside the small coffee bar changed. Someone had definitely opened the door; however, that someone was also large enough to stand in the door and block a good portion of it. That caught my attention.

Using the mirrors behind the bar, I checked out the newest patron as best I could. He was about 6 foot tall, thickly built, very hefty, and he was heading to our table. The finer details I could not make out right then, but it didn't really matter at that moment.

When he did stop at our table, Match Stick and I just acted nonchalant as we both easily dropped one hand to our pistols, secured a grip, sipped our coffees, and blandly I asked him, “What can I do for you, Tiny?” I spoke in Serbo-Croatian. It always spooked Nina when I did this. She was not accustomed to working with a sailor or a soldier ho spoke her language.

He looked sad. Oh, he was tough as hell, no doubt about that. This man was a walking knot of scars and muscles, but at that moment, he was sad. “I know who you are and what you are doing here, so do not bother to deny it or to tell me your cover stories. I have been watching you closely.” Stick and looked at each other and nodded. He spoke up.

“Sit down. Tell us your name, have drink on us, and tell us your story.” Match Stick had a great way about him. He could bring out the best in almost everyone.

That is precisely what this behemoth did. His eyes, as blue and cold as the north Atlantic in the winter, were calm and sad as he told us of the crimes he committed and oversaw during the Balkans War just a few years earlier. He told us things that only someone who was involved in such things could have known. Things that brought Nina almost to tears. This guy nodded at her while speaking to me, “I know where her brother is buried.”

At that instant I flinched. I hate myself from time to time for my own failings. My shitty memory is at the top of that list. Nina had grown up here in Drvar. She had told me about the day that her brother was taken by soldiers. Looking over at Nina, I put my hand on hers, she looked back at me, pulled her hand away. “Thank you, but no,” she said very quietly. I nodded.

After that man left we sat there quietly for several minutes. I was contemplating how lax I had been to be watched so closely by someone. Nina broke the silence. “I know that he was acting under orders during the war. I can see in his eyes that he is sorry for what had happened.” She looked into her coffee for a few more moments. “I forgive him. I think that I can let my brother rest in peace now.”

An Adventure

“Go on an adventure,” he tells me.

“Walk into a part of town you haven't walked in before.” I had to stifle my own scoffing at that. The statement and the sentiment both hit me as ludicrous. You see, I have walked streets covered in Egyptian and Kuwaiti sands, African mud and African deserts. I have walked the city streets and the old market alleys under the watchful eyes if the gargoyle in the old tower in the ancient portions of old Sarajevo. Yes, I have even stood on the bridge where the Czechoslovakian Prince was assassinated, thus starting World War I.

So where do I walk now? On which streets do I find my adventures? By what boulevards does such a man drink his coffee to watch people and seek out adventures? The local park with his children, of course. Where else could such danger and accompanying bravery be found than in the superhero games of two ten year old boys?

There is no other place but at the playground that any man is going to feel greater, more accomplished, more important than when he is directly behind his daughter pushing her swing. Leaping from jiggly rock to uncertain log trying not to get wet while crossing the stream at the park provides enough suspense, danger, excitement, and daring for this father for one day, that is accompanied by laughter, hoots, and lightly taunting hollers, to satisfy this adventurers need for thrilling times.

There is no greater adventure than watching one's children grow, play, learn, and experience life and play.

Keeping It Real

Honesty, it's something we say that we all want in another person. It's something we can't even give to ourselves all of the time. When is it that people are honest with others and why? Only when under oath? When swearing to a higher authority? When we believe that to lie is to bring the wrath of said higher authority upon ourselves? Even the most egregious criminals and murderous people in the world will tell the truth. When it suits their purposes, that is.

There is only one person, or type of person, and one moment in which I can think of that you will find a person who is completely honest with you. That moment is when someone has entered into your space with full intent to do you harm. The moment when you know that there is a fight and there is no way out. Your skin prickles as all your hair stands up, your pulse changes, your breathing changes, everything changes. You are so in the moment and your opponent is so in the moment.

Just before the fight begins you both know more about yourselves and each other than either of you could have ever shared otherwise. You both are cosmically aware not just what you are capable of, but what you are willing to do.

The man, that woman, whoever that person is standing in front of you, squaring off with you has laid bare his entire self and full intent and in no uncertain terms. That person has done so in such a way that no one has ever opened up to you before.

The person who is in a fight against you is the most honest person you will ever meet.

The Street

A cold wind blew down the street. Just a few people were out and they, like the leaves and bits of refuse blown about, were in a rush to get somewhere. For the pedestrians it was somewhere warm, a car, an apartment breezeway, or the University which stood behind the clock tower at the end of the street. Trees swayed and creaked in the wind, complaining about the harsh movement.

Although the sun was out the air was cold and sliced through clothing like a knife. Even standing in one's living room window surveying the scene from the refuge of a fire heated room wasn't enough to protect an onlooker. The memory of such days as this chilled his fingers with the memories of aches and old pains so much so that he alternatingly clenched and rubbed his hands together to warm them against those old, cold ghosts.

Pine trees standing green stood with dark, frigid shadows underneath and patches of cold sunlight about them. The grass underneath those and the bare trees which had shed their leaves. The winter had been hard so far, harder than anticipated and with more to come.

Spring couldn't come fast enough for many, but for him, he was enjoying this. He liked the cold winds and the harshness of it all. He was even hoping that the weather would keep its icy grip on the region a bit longer before finally giving way to the warmer nights and days and the first light green buds of spring.

Nagging Yoda's Mother Does

Your cloak, pick it up you must. Away you shall put it first.

Studying you have first to do and then playing outside you can.

In the swamp again you were playing. Muddy your feet are. Wipe them you must and then inside you may enter.

Dragging that stick inside you have again. Outside it must be.

Followed you home again it did? Keep it you may not. Away you must send it.

Your hands, wash them you must. Dirty they are. Your face, filthy it is, too. Wash that, as well, you must. Your ears, behind them,too, clean there, as well, you shall.

For dinner the table must be set. Help me you will.

Your peas, eat them you must. If you do not, a strong Jedi not you will become.

Homework, have yet you finished? Backtalk me not, you should! 500 years old, lucky you will be to live! Your ears, box them, I will!

Good work you have done. Proud of you, I am. Your grades in school, better they are getting. Very pleased, I am.

Time for bed, it is. Whining you should not be! Stink badly, you do. A bath you need. Yes. A bath you need, take one now, you must. Those teeth you must brush. Healthy and strong they must stay. Yes. Between your toes you must scrub, dirt in there it hides, too.

Bedtime it is. Pajamas on you must put.

Love you, I do. Strong little Jedi, you are.

Anger Depression

Anger Depression

Mike woke up to find himself maneuvering through his small apartment. He knew immediately what was going on, it had happened a thousand times or more since Bosnia. He was clearing a house a house to track down and kill a sniper. A sniper that had just put a bullet through his engine and his Field Training Officer, Jurgen Sankt.

Jurgen survived that day, the sniper, a kid did not. It was debatable, sometimes breath by breath whether or not Mike would live past that day, or any of countless others from Kuwait, Kosovo, Liberia, Sudan, Somalia, or some other forsaken shithole as Mike would put it.

The clock said it was just aft 1:00 am. “Damn it!” Mike yelled. The dreams were a nightly catastrophe. “Jurgen, you dumb shit, if you hadn't decided to take a stroll down memory lane you'd still be able to walk and that kid … “ Mike's fist clenched so hard they shook, his jaw tightened, his eyes shut tight. He did not want to go through this again, not tonight. The tears seared out from the corners of his eyes and burned down the sides of his cheeks.

Mike spun and punched his heavy bag as hard as he could. He punched it as if he were beating the life out of his ghosts. Tears ran down his face and quickly became lost in the sweat. He jabbed, jabbed again, stepped and spun threw up an elbow to smash an unseen face to a pulp. He moved again and kicked. How long he kept this up only his neighbor, who had become accustomed to and heartbroken by these outbursts, really knew.

Even though he could still see the sniper, a 12 year old boy, lying there dead Mike had nothing left, he collapsed on the floor. His lungs ached like they did after his runs, he was still sobbing when Margaret, his neighbor, let herself in.

She knew the drill, go to the bathroom to start the shower, get out some towels, wait until Mike tries to get up, and help him into the shower. He'd be alright after that. He'd stay in the shower until he could feel his arms and legs again and then he;d get out and clean up. As a thank you she could expect a couple of fresh bagels and two large coffees on her door step. But, that would be about the last she'd see of him until his next outburst.

Sitting on the couch, towels in her hands, Margaret had to wipe her own tears back as she waited fo Mike to stop sobbing. This was bad, but the depression that followed, hid isolating and withdrawal from everyone and everything but his job was worse.

Mike, a strong man by anyone's measure, twice Margaret's age lay reduced to a sweaty, crying, fearful puddle on the floor. She, and everyone who knew him, prayed for Mike to heal.

Schoolyard Fight

I'm Bradley Bradshaw, schoolboy unextraordinaire. It seems to bring taunting laughter everywhere for other kids to call me Brad Brad. I don't even want to go into the nail jokes that have been told. Still, it's gotten to the point where I hardly even hear them anymore.

Things have gotten worse lately. Apparently, one of the yard bullies, Ignacio Brown, Iggy, has taken a keen interest in me and my friends. “Hey, Bra!” he shouts as he knocks my books out of my hands in the halls. “Aww, BB is tired!” he says as he kicks me over while I'm trying to pick up my books.

The other tormentors stand there and laugh. They all think Iggy is the greatest because he does more than name calling.

“Brad,” it was John Essex, one of my only friends, “you have to do something before Iggy really hurts you.” John was a year ahead me and about the only one who seemed to think like I did.

I looked at him quizzically, “What am I suppose to do?” That guy ...” I never got to even finish forming the thoughts into words before John cut me off.

“That guy is nothing but a bully.” He said it with such conviction that it really meant something to me, more than that it started to change something inside me. “You just need to stand up to him.”

At that point the bell for class rang. John helped me pick up my stuff, shook my hand, and gave me a look of solid confidence. With that I strode off to class with more confidence than I think I ever had.

The door to math class was already shut, meaning if you're late stay out. Not me, head held high, my skinny 12 year old chest puffed out as best as I could manage, I walked in. “I apologize for my being late, Ms. Duke,” I said sitting down and getting out my homework and book.

Later, on the schoolyard, I saw Iggy and John. It looked like they were getting into it a little. Iggy pushed John a couple of times. Something was coming unhinged inside me, all rational thought seemed to have stopped. John stood his ground, but I didn't really see that. I did see Iggy swing at John. For me, everything else went away it was only me and Iggy.

Somehow, and I have no idea, I was running at Iggy. Not just your normal awkward kid run, but a full bore, heart pounding, adrenaline fueled, angry bull charge. When my shoulder connected with Iggy he launched. The shocked look on his face turned to anger before he hit the ground. “You're dead!” Iggy snarled as he came up from the ground swinging.

He hit me square in the mouth. Then … nothing. I stood there, looking at him. He stood there, eyes wide, almost in shock, staring back at me. It's like he expected me to fall over or something. I blinked and wiped the blood off my lip.

“That it?” I asked him.

After that, things changed for me, big time. The bullying stopped, I found friends and allies, and Iggy was kicked out of the school.

That was the first, and last, schoolyard fight I happened to get into.

Mid-Story Murder

It was a late January night, cold and kind of cloudy. I was heading over to the Hampton Mansion for a regular book club meeting. Hampton Mansion was a nationally recognized landmark, haunted landmark to be precise. It was built in the 1700's in the Georgian style and was nothing less than amazing.

We weren't meeting there for the ghosts as much as we were for the grandeur and beauty of the place. That and the absolute serenity we found there. Not even in the local library, where we did get the best coffee, were we able to discuss things unaccosted. Tonight things just felt a bit different to me, I couldn't tell you why, but something was crawling up my spine and making my skin crawl.

Everyone was waiting in the lobby, all but Jan. Jan Bolt was one of the longer standing members. That is to say that, once she started on a point, she stood up and kept on for longer than anyone else. No one was at all upset that Jan had not showed up. Yet.

Denise looked like she was having trouble with one of the bags of snacks, so I helped her. It was odd, she never accepted help. She was a proud gal who could handle herself.

“John is in the kitchen getting the coffee and hot water for tea together.” Now that we were all there we headed into the library of the old place. John was wheeling the pots in just ahead of us. We headed to the left and back to the old fireplace. In the glow of the firelight there was something odd. Something was dangling in the shadows just to the side of the sitting area.

Putting the heavy bag of snacks down I stepped forward to see what it was, John and Tim were close behind.

As my eyes adjusted to the light in the room it became clear that we were looking at feet. A woman's feet were hanging at about eye level. I called the police, sent Tim to alert the staff, then John and I stood by with everyone while the police arrived and took over.

What did I get for all this? Arrested … all of us got arrested. There we were, a book club, in a holding tank at the local jail. The guys were in one tank ad across the way the ladies were in another tank. I stood there watching those ladies and listening.

A strong woman with streaks of gray in her hair walked in and looked around. “I'm Detective Lauri Davidson and you nuts in the book club have a murder to explain.” The cells echoed with hoots and applause from the others in the holding tanks. “Unless one of you wants to speak up and save the rest some time here you're all going to want to call you lawyers.” She looked around at us.
Oh, it's gonna be a long night, ladies.”

Looking at me Detective Davidson sauntered over and tauntingly added, “Is there anything you might have to say, bookworm?”

'Like what?” I looked her over from head to toe then looked at her directly, “That your tailor is blind, too?”

“What do you mean 'blind, too'?” she scowled at me.

“I noticed that one pant cuff is hemmed higher than the other. I also see that your glasses are rather thick ...” she cut me off.

“Sergeant, let's start with the wise guy here.” She turned and left.

The interrogation lasted about three hours, why I don't really know. I was returned to the tank with the others who were asleep in some of the most uncomfortable looking positions. The only place for me was a corner on the floor. I was sitting down and getting settled in when I heard the detectives voice again.

“Denise! Come here.”There was no way I could ever see that woman smiling or laughing, it just didn't fit.

“Doc, waddaya think?”

“Hmmmm” there was silence then, “It does look like it could be rope burn. I'd keep her and let the others go home.”

As we were being processed out in the wee hours of the morning Davidson stopped by me. “Thanks for telling me about that bag thing. You know, that her having you carry it was out of the ordinary for her.”

Focus For Game Time

No matter how many times Kevin Johnson stood there to gear up he always got nervous, deep down he felt afraid, but he would die before admitting that to anyone. His guts were twisted and full of something that was far more than butterflies. “Butterflies! That's for little girls!” is how Johnson would put it to his team mates in a show of bravado.

After he was in uniform and laced up and physically ready to roll he closed his eyes. In the darkness he pictured himself practicing running, jumping, shooting. He went through each scenario that his squad had worked out, every contingency they had discussed. Getting every possible way covered was impossible and they all knew that, but they had to have most of the points covered.

He stood up, crouched, dodged side to side a few times, stepped, shuffled, spun, and jumped. Johnson mimed several such maneuvers as this. Johnson side stepped invisible opponents for several moments , then he was pushing unseen assaults aside with his elbows. He was playing various scenes out in his mind and in motion.

“Hey, Johnson! Let's get moving!”

“Right on, Captain!” Johnson responded but not loudly. He headed out the door and up the long dark hallway. “It's on now, Johnson,” he said to himself. “It ain't all you, you got your team all about you and they all working with you to one goal, to win.”

Kevin wiped his palms on his shorts to dry off his palms, “Use it, man, use your nerves to stay on top of the game.” Another deep breath, “Focus it, keep on target and drill it in like in practice.”

The cheering crowds were barely audible above his concentration and focus. Johnson paused to look over the basketball court. In his mind he could see the game being played out, each person playing his position, using his teammate to better the team's standing. Everyone had practiced each play to the of near reflexive reaction.

This game was a foregone conclusion, they had it. They just had to go through the motions and win the win. He connected into the now, the riotousness of the crowds filled his ears, he jogged out with the rest of his team, his arms raised in victory.

Insecurities

Another cold morning in Portland, Washington for Mike's early run. She had a great pace set in spite of the coppery feel in her lungs. Her timer told her that, for the third week in a row, she had been improving; her inner voice, on the other hand, told her that she could never make it at that pace.

“Never quit, don't stop!” she grunted aloud to herself between breaths. With that Mike leaned leaned forward just a little to force herself to increase her pace some more. Mike even made her breathing more deliberate and in a specific cadence with her feet. “Never quit!” determination came charging up through her insides and up her spine. It tingled and felt great.

At the end of her five mile run her timer showed that she was almost 20 seconds ahead of where she was last week. Mike stood up tall, placed her hands on the back of her head and walked around until she had her breathing under control again. While it felt good to have made that kind of progress four weeks in a row, it was an empty feeling without anyone to share it with.

In the cold, foggy morning, with the sun just peeking over the horizon, that sense of being alone and the feelings of loneliness hung onto her every fiber like the exhaustion and sweat all over her. While one could be washed away the other could not and would hang onto Mike all day. It would be there in spite of whatever victory or accomplishment that she would have that day.

The hot water of the shower washed over her, the steam filled her lungs. Her muscles ached, her lungs felt as if they had been rubbed with sandpaper. “Yer getting better, Mike, baby.” He said it, but, again, the words rang hollow.

From the outside looking in, it would seem that Mike had the best of it all. Steady work, nice apartment, supportive friends and family; it just didn't seem right. He had left the military and didn't have to deal with any of that crap anymore.

He grabbed his keys and hat on the way to the door. Stopping, he looked back at his empty apartment. He thought about the way he usually woke up. Waking up at any time of the night was always something else. Ripped sheets, smashed lamp, standing in a fighting stance, crouching in a dark corner with a helicopter fading into the night somewhere. “Is this how it's going to be for the rest of my life?” Mike picked up the garbage bag with the broken lamp and headed out to buy another one. “Maybe I'll run into a friend or someone.”