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In just 1 week we'll be staggering, bleary-eyed, into Denver International Airport at 4:30 in the morning to catch a 6:15 flight to Virginia. I'll be coming straight from work, so I imagine I won't be that bleary-eyed.
I'm anxious to see Virginia again. A whole year has passed. I wish we had time to get back to Campbell County, but our stay only covers the annual Gibson family beach week in Virginia Beach.

I've begun training for a marathon (which one is TBA) and this morning my workout consisted of a 6 mile run. Usually, the air out here is so dry, there is no mistaking the smells and sights for anything similar to home.

That was not the case today. It has rained nearly every day for the last week and the ground is soft and dark with moisture. The grass is deep, emerald green and flowering plants along my route are growing nearly out of control.

There's moisture in the air too. Actual humidity and when it rises from the pavement it has the scent of rain and plants mixed with oil and exhaust from the vehicles. There's nothing sweeter than that to me.

It transports me back to English Tavern Road, Suburban Road, Hydaway Road, Highway 24, and all the miles I ran along them trying to forget about this or that girl, or just work through my own confused teenage emotions.

Familiarity--perhaps, is what I seek. Colorado has not, in the 5 years I've been here earned it from me.

Virginia is my one home, and I miss her as an absent suitor.

An Opening

"Dad."
"Yeah?"
"Why do bad things happen to good people?"
"Bad things happen to everyone. It's just world we live in."
"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"Are we good people?"
"No, son. We are not."

Good Night

She could tell by the way he moved that he was tired--more than that: he was weary. And she wanted to cheer him up. Here was her husband, weary from a long, long day at work, and she loved him so much that she couldn't bear to see him this way.

Well, she though, dinner's not much tonight, but it's warm, and it's ready now. She walked over to where he was putting his briefcase down, and slipped her arms around him.

"I'm glad you're home," she said, and kissed him on the cheek.

"Me, too, babe."

"Dinner's ready. Are you hungry?"

"Starving."

"Well take your tie off and come sit down. I'll get the plates."

"Hey," he stopped her. "I love you."

"I know," she smiled back. "I love you, too."

He pulled off his tie, layed it over his briefcase, and looked around the almost empty house.

They had sold almost all their furniture. All that remaind was a wobbly table and two mismatched chairs; a couch they had picked up for $50 at the thrift store after they sold the nice one they had received as a wedding gift; their bed; and a dresser that fit exactly all of her clothes and none of his.

He felt the weight of their circumstances in his chest. For the last 6 months there was just not enough money to go around. To pay the bills they had resorted to selling furniture, disconnecting the cable, cancelling the cell phones, and almost anything else they could think of. They even gave blood as frequently as was allowed.

And she was so good about it. When he told her, each month, how short they were on money, she just smiled and said, "Okay. What are we gonna do?" When they started having to sell furniture, she joked that it was a pain to try and vaccuum under the couches and chairs anyways and that she'd prefer to have an empty living room.

He filled two glasses with water from the faucet and brought them to the table. She opened the oven and grabbed the clear glass dish using two worn, and slightly scorched, pot holders. It wasn't much: two small chicken breasts over an instant rice mix that was really only meant for one person.

It was the last of the chicken, and with four days till pay-day, it would be the last hot supper until Friday. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday would all be sandwiches for dinner.

"I thought we were saving the rest of the chicken," he said.

"I know. I'm sorry. But I just thought that with your long day and all, you'd need an extra special dinner tonight. I know it's not much, but the rice is your favorite."

"Thanks, Sweetheart. It looks delicious."

They said grace, remembering to thank God for each other, the dinner they were about to share, and even their modest--and dwindling possessions. Sqeezing each other's hand, they said "Amen," in unision like a sports team breaking from a huddle.

After dinner, he tarried for a little more than an hour on a work project he had brought home in his briefcase. She stretched out on the couch and read from a novel she bought for a quarter at the thrift store where they bought the couch.

When he was finished, he glanced up from his work at the table and saw she had fallen asleep. He turned off the kitchen light then went to the couch and knelt down beside her. Gently, he pushed a lock of hair back from her forehead and kissed her.

"Time for bed, Babe."

She grunted in her sleep and stirred a little, but did not wake. Carefully, he slid the book out of her hand, replaced the bookmark, and set it down on the floor since they had sold the end tables which used to flank the humble couch.

"I know you don't want to get up, but it's time for bed," he said.

Her eyes half opened, and she smiled.

"I'm up," she said.

They took turns spitting into the sink as they brushed their teeth. Their nightly ritual had fully wakened her and she fluttered around in her sweatpants and old t-shirt like her old self. It was as if the months of stress over finances had not touched her.

Finally, the last light was turned off, the laundry was piled in the bathroom where the hamper used to stand, and they crawled into bed.

Some time later, she lay awake in bed, thinking. She was scared they might not recover. That they might run out of things they could do or things they could sell to make ends meet.

She had been looking for a job for the last two months, but nothing developed from the ads she answered in the paper. He was working more hours than ever, but his commission based salary was still not enough.

The stress was wearing on him, she could tell. And all she could do was to try to not contribute to it.

She thought about jobs she might do and things she might sell. She missed their nice furniture, the meals she used to cook, and the fun they had going to the movies or to plays at the community theater. Every week, there were fewer and fewer options to turn to for money.

Her thoughts raced around and around for what seemed like an eternity. Gradually, they came back to her surroundings and she held her breath so she could hear his breathing in the dark. It was comforting, even relaxing, to just listen to him breathing.

At some point she realized it was cold in their room. She held her breath again and tried to listen for the heater.

If the lights were on, I'd be able to see my breath, she thought, and huddled closer to him under the covers. His chest was warm, and he felt solid, real, almost immovable. Then, when she tried to tuck her feet under his calf to keep them warm, she felt him jump just a little.

"Your feet are freezing," he whispered.

"You're awake?" she asked.

"Yeah. Put some socks on."

"You know I hate wearing socks to bed. I don't like socks in general," she said. "In fact, I'd go barefoot all the time if it was warm enough--wear flip-flops every day." She sighed.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"I think it's around two," he said. He slipped an arm under her, and pulled her closer.

"It's cold tonight," she said.

"I know. The heater will kick on soon. I didn't turn it off, just set the thermostat lower," he reassured her. He rubbed her arm quickly to help warm her.

"It's only October. Maybe we should buy another blanket before it starts getting really cold at night," she said.

"Yeah. I was thinking that. Maybe we can find one cheap, someplace." For a moment they lay there, glad they were together, but miserable in their circumstances.

"It's hard to sleep when it's this cold," she said.

"I know."

"I'm hungry, too."

"Me too, babe."

"Don't be mad at me, but, I was holding back at dinner so you'd get enough to eat."

He squeezed her tightly again and said, "Sweetheart, so was I. You've got that interview tomorrow..."

"It'll be okay," she said. "I love you."

"I love you."

Huddled together against the cold, the two quietly drifted off to sleep.

Bees (excerpt from FF)

“More like…bees,” Jon said, looking at the ceiling. “Like yellow jackets. You guys got yellow jackets in California?”
“Nah,” said Curtis. “South, near Mexico’s got killer bees, though. But I’ve never seen ‘em.”
“Scared the shit outta me,” said another Private from below Jon.
At that, a few other guys in the bunks around Jon laughed, but it was a laughter Jon could tell meant they were scared too.
A door opened, and a chair slid back as one of the Privates on fire guard for that hour jumped to his feet behind the desk at the far end of the barracks.
“At Ease!” he shouted in his best parade voice.
“Carry on,” came the hissed answer from Drill Sgt. Witt almost before the Private got the second word out. “Shut the fuck up, Private. You don’t yell ‘at ease’ when a Drill walks in at night. You just come to fuckin’ position of parade rest and shut your fuckin’ mouth. If I want everyone up, I’ll wake ‘em up my damn self.”
“Yes, Drill Sgt.” answered the skinny Private.
Jon could see the fire guard, straight as a board, at the corner of the barracks. The Drill Sgt. was blocked from view by a small portion of cinder-block wall that stretched six feet into the room. It had the devious effect of blocking the door from sight from almost everywhere except right in front of the door, and kept the Privates from seeing who was coming in until the person entering had walked a good way into the platoon’s barracks.
There was a light in that little foyer, and it stayed on all the time. That was one of the ten thousand pieces of information the Drill Sgts. had disseminated earlier that day—their first day “down range.” The light illuminated the fire guard, allowing Jon to see him twitching with anxiety even from his bunk, half way down the rectangular room.
With the light behind him, Drill Sgt. Witt was completely silhouetted when he walked past the fire guard and into the barracks proper. Even without being able to see his stern face, Jon was impressed. He looked like a black cut-out of the model Drill Sgt. His brown-round tilted ever-so-slightly forward, hands on his hips, with trousers impeccably pressed bloused in his shining black boots.
“I forgot to tell ya’ll,” he said. “If there’s a fire, get the fuck up, and get your asses downstairs and on that grass beside the pad by those pull-up bars.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Well, you fuckin’ hear me or what?”
“Yes Drill Sgt.” answered the 54 men of the platoon in unison.
“Fine then, get to sleep, ‘cause tomorrow I’m gonna fuckin’ hurt ya.”
With that, he turned and strode quickly past the fire guard desk and out the door.
Jon lay back in his bunk. His shoulders were aching from the smoking that started the moment the change of command ceremony ended and stopped only a half hour ago. There were breaks for lunch and dinner, but they were doing squats and pushups in line so frequently it was like the smoke session never stopped.
“Shit. I thought we were gonna get smoked again. Hey, what’d you say your name was?” asked the Private on the top bunk to Jon’s left.
“Anderson.”
“Anderson. I’m Curtis. What was you guys talking about before he came in?”
“Oh. We were sayin’ that after the change of command at Reception today the Drill Sgts. swarmed on us like wolves. But I was saying that it was more like bees. Like yellow jackets—they all come out their holes—like it’s outta nowhere and next thing you know you’re all covered with ‘em.”
“Fuck that,” said Curtis.
“One time, some friends and me found a spring in the woods. It was at the bottom of this little round hill,” said Jon. “On one side of the hill was this little cave—like a little half circle about three feet high at the tallest part of it. And there was water coming out of it—right out of the hill.”
“That sounds cool,” said the Private below Jon.
“Yeah. We thought so. Only thing was there were no trails that led to it. So we got it in our heads to make one.”
“How do you make a trail?” asked Curtis.
“Usually it takes time—lots of people or animals or whatever walking in the exact same line to do it. But we wanted to make one this one day so went home, got one of our other friends who has a machete to come with us.
“So we got this machete, and we’re walking down the street to the place where we go into and out of the woods and another friend sees us and asks what we’re doing. So we tell him and he says he’ll get this lawn mower he fixed up and we can run that over small bushes and stuff to chop them up.”
The air conditioning kicked on and Jon noticed there was a vent right above his bunk. For a few moments he thought himself lucky but it only took a few more sentences into his story for him to realize that the air coming out of a commercial grade H-VAC was very cold. “I’m gonna get sick if I have to sleep under this,” he thought.
Then he continued with his story:
“So he gets his mower—he’d always fixed his own dirt bikes and stuff, and I don’t know what he did to this mower to give it more power, but it sounded like there were two chainsaws under that thing when he turned it on. So we got one guy whacking everything in front of him with a machete, then the guy with the lawn mower. His name was Tommy. Tommy gets bored pushing the lawn mower over the leaves and sticks, straight up hill, so when we got to this easy level piece, he let his little brother do it. Me and my brothers, and another guy from our trailer park were all walking behind them, on the new trail pushing our mountain bikes.
“So we get to this part where we’re turning to go down hill and circle around to the spring when Tommy’s little brother just stops and says, ‘Bees.’
“So everyone stops and looks at him. But the lawn mower didn’t cut off because Tommy had taken the spring off the choke handle so you had to push it back manually. And he starts to jump, just a little at first, and says, ‘bees,’ again. Only he’s saying it kinda calm. Not like he’s being stung, but like he’s just pointing out anything. Then the guy in front of him, Brian, he starts swatting at the air and he yells, ‘mutha fucka! Bees! Yellow jackets!’
“He looks over at Tommy’s brother who’s spinning around behind the lawn mower, and it hits him. The lawn mower was sitting on top of a yellow jacket nest. The bees were coming out of the chute the grass is supposed to come out and stinging the first person they could find. So he drops his machete and starts running as fast as he can down the hill toward the spring. All of us did. I didn’t even get stung but as soon as he said that, I dropped my bike and hauled ass.
“Damn. We didn’t stop till we were at least half a mile away. We got down to the spring and looked back up the hill and there was Tommy’s brother, a couple seconds behind us, kinda jogging to catch up. He had little red marks on his face and arms, but he hadn’t started swelling yet, so we didn’t know how bad it was.”
“Holy shit. I would gone back and set that nest on fire,” said Curtis.
“Fuck that. We didn’t go back for like three hours. Tommy took his brother home and we walked home the long way which was about three miles.”
“Was there any bees on the lawnmower when you got back?” asked the meek voice below Jon.
“Nah. Like I said the lawnmower didn’t turn off by itself, so it probably just ran there till it was outta gas. That must have frightened them all off cause we didn’t see any when we went back for it and our bikes.”
“Damn, man.” said Curtis.
“Yeah. But I was just saying, the way those Drills came out of nowhere today, right when the last salute was given, that was just like those bees coming up out of the ground. Outta nowhere.”

A Shot in the Dark

Magic.
A spider web popped into existence 15 feet from where he stood. Jon realized he had made it appear on the rear window of a white S-10 pickup.
“Oh, shit.”
That pickup, with government plates, was now rolling slowly away from him and veering sharply to the left.
“Oh shit. Oh shit.”
Behind him Thompson keyed up the radio handset and shouted “Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit.”
Jon lowered his M-16 as the pickup ground to a halt against a concrete barrier and stalled out.
Sergeant Phillips yelled, “Cover,” but Jon couldn’t move. The NCO sprinted across the road and tackled him. The two landed in a pile behind a double wall of sandbags.
Clunk, clunk, clunk.
“Blocker 1,” said Phillips. Three .50 caliber rounds had just struck the bed of the pickup which protruded from the relative safety of the concrete jersey barriers at the rear of the Traffic Control Point. His two-word explanation was followed immediately by the roar of the “Ma Deuce” mounted on the humvee code named Blocker 1.
More clunks were followed by more roar as the muzzle noise caught up to the bullets striking the truck body.
“The truck’s stopped. Thompson. Thompson,” shouted the Sergeant, “It’s stopped. Tell Blocker 1 to cease fire.”
The clunks and the roar stopped and Jon could hear a voice he knew to be Specialist Stevens say, “Blocker 1 ceasing fire,” over the radio. Thompson repeated the message to Sgt. Phillips who jumped to his feet then helped Jon to his. Weapon ready, Phillips circled clockwise behind the pockmarked truck and motioned for Jon to approach from the passenger side blind spot.
“Fuckin’ dumbass,” said Phillips. Walking toward the pickup in a half-crouch, he stood up abruptly, flicked the selector switch on his M-16 from “Burst” to “Safe” and let it fall to his side. “Thompson, get Lieutenant Vaughn at Stonewall H.Q. Tell ‘em we need medics up here. We got a…damn…we got a mess.”
“Sergeant, the L. T. wants to know what kind of mess,” said the radio man a moment later.
“Tell ‘em the CP is secured. All Virginia personnel are uninjured, but the driver of the run vehicle has been shot. Tell him…tell him…aw shit. I’ll do it.” The highest ranking soldier at the checkpoint walked over and took the handset from Thompson. “Stonewall, this is TCP Virginia, over.”
“This is Stonewall, go ahead Virginia, over.”
“Lieutenant, it’s the casualty. He’s a friendly, over.”
“You sure of that, over?”
“Yeah, pretty sure. He’s wearing Air Force fatigues, over.”
“Okay. We’re sending medics. What’s his condition, over?”
“I’d say he’s deader than hell, Sir. Took one right in the back of the head, over.”
“Understood. The CO and I’ll be there in two. We’ve got Blocker 1 coming up behind you to reinforce the checkpoint until this all gets sorted out. Go ahead and close it down. No traffic in or out, over.”
“Roger that, Stonewall. Virginia out.”
“Stonewall, out.”
“You heard him men. Let’s lock this thing down. Anderson. Anderson.” Sergeant Phillips looked over at Jon. He was standing stock still; staring through the passenger window at the figure slumped over the steering wheel. He focused on the small black hole at the center of the spider web.
“Jon,” Sgt. Phillips shouted. “I need you to focus man. We gotta close down the checkpoint. Blocker 1 is coming up for extra fire power in case this guy wasn’t alone. I need you up in front to stop traffic and turn ‘em around.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Jon. You okay?”
“I…yeah. I mean ‘Yes, Sergeant.’”
“Okay. Let’s go then.”
Blocker 1 pulled up seconds later as Jon walked up past the barriers that made up the entry side of the TCP. He looked back and saw Stevens jump out of the humvee and inspect the truck with Sgt. Phillips.
Jon thought about what Stevens was seeing. He thought about the syrupy red drips flowing down the inside of the windshield. The analogy went further in his mind before he could stop it. Blood was syrup over pancakes with…not nuts….but little bits of teeth and bone. The butter: a tiny scoop of grey matter on top.
He walked to the edge of the road and vomited. When he stopped retching he could hear engine noise and looked back down the road toward Camp Delta. It was zero-three-hundred-hours and the bright lights around the fence blurred his vision, but Jon could just make out the headlights of an approaching humvee. That was the Cap and L.T.
Jon turned again and faced the road that led to the other parts Guantanamo Bay Naval Base. He didn’t want to look at the truck anymore. He heard the second humvee, with its familiar diesel rumbling, pull into the other end of the checkpoint. Jon tried to stand straight as possible and imagined how soldierly he looked to the two officers he knew would soon be walking up to him.
“Jon.” It was not the lieutenant’s voice, but Rob Young’s, a Specialist like himself who enlisted the same weekend he did. They had even gone to Boot together. “Lieutenant says for me to relieve you. He wants to talk to you and Sgt. Phillips for a sec before the Colonel gets here.”
Jon dropped his head. He took off the reflective road vest he was wearing, handed it to Young, and walked back toward the center of TCP Virginia. The medic, who must have ridden with the officers, had already checked on the driver and was now radioing for instructions on what to do with the body. The officers, too, were walking away from the pickup speaking in low tones to each other.
“Alright,” said Captain Bruno, “what happened?”
“Sir, we were just mannin’ the CP,” began Phillips, “when this truck comes up, drives around the guard shack on the wrong side of the road, and we—“
“He was on the wrong side of the road?” asked the Lieutenant.
“Yes sir. Never really slowed down. Just drove right by us in that lane there.”
“Okay. And after that?” the CO continued.
“Well it kinda took us by surprise, Sir. I mean, that’s never happened before. But I jump up and yell ‘Halt’ and he just keeps going. Not speedin’ really, just rolling through.”
The officers looked at each other. Then the Captain asked, “Did you order him to halt again?”
“Yessir. Two more times.”
“And what was Specialist Anderson doing?”
“Well by that time, Sir, and it had to be just a coupla’ seconds, we were both running after the vehicle. Me on the driver side and Anderson was…well right about where he is now.”
“And you’re absolutely sure the truck wasn’t stopping?”
“Yes. Yes, Sir. There were no break lights or anything.”
“Okay. So who fired?”
“Anderson did, Sir. He was running, jumped that first barrier, and fired. I heard the shot and the truck just kinda turned into that next line of barriers.”
“When did the code rabbit go out?” asked Bruno.
“Right then, Sir. The truck hit that thing and that’s when I heard Thompson call the rabbit.”
“Okay, Sergeant. You’ll probably have to tell that story a hundred times tonight so get used to it.”
“Yes Sir.”
“Now you, Specialist,” said the Lieutenant.
“Sir, that’s pretty much it.”
“I know, but we’re gonna have a shit storm on our hands if we can’t nail down the specifics before the higher brass gets here.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“First, you two have rounds chambered?”
“No, Sir.”
“You’re absolutely sure?”
“Yes, Sir,”
“Good. Anderson, what point did you think it would be necessary to fire at the vehicle?”
“When the vehicle refused to stop for Sgt. Phillips, Sir.”
“Okay. So when did you actually chamber the round?”
“After the second ‘halt,’ Sir.”
“And when did you fire?”
“After the third.”