Well, I wrote parts VI and VII, so this romance short fiction I told Hunter a long time ago I should write is done. Surprisingly, a few people have been following along as each part was worked up, so just skip to part VI if you have, the novella has been cleaned up, part I slightly edited, and presented in entirety here.
[opens hands slightly] I have my reasons for doing it, they mean something to me. Maybe the story will mean something to somebody, maybe it won't. Maybe I'll go back to being a miserable political essayist, I don't know.
Please be well, gentle people.
September 18, 2013
Part I
Municipal Judge Gerald Briller strode purposefully toward the bench after quickly opening the door to chambers, the few persons in the plain room standing without comment. Judge Briller almost slapped three files down next to his gavel, sat down silently and opened the first, a grimly impatient look pulling down the corners of his mouth.
“Mr. James Curtis, speeding and reckless driving,” Briller’s voice bounced off the back walls, fluorescent light winking off his thick glasses as he glanced at the deputy District Attorney and a peace officer. A tall, heavy man eventually stood up and nodded. “How do you plead?” Briller almost barked.
Oh shit, Glenn Duey said to himself, I’m next on this.
“Your honor, I have something to tell you something first,” the tall heavy man said.
Gerald Briller’s head and glasses swung toward the man with beaming lasers of black-eyed intensity, swooping to a stop when he reached the tentative gaze of the defendant. “It’s irrelevant, how do you plead?” he snapped.
“But you’re your honor, I need to tell you something,” the man said earnestly.
Judge Briller sighed, fixed his gaze on a back corner of the room, slowly leaned back in his chair and eventually tapped his fingers together in a gently undulating teepee. He finally looked at the open file with a seemingly benign look, lightly pressing his hands together. “Go ahead, Mr. Curtis,” Judge Briller said ominously.
“Your Honor, this officer here who wrote me this ticket called me an asshole,” the tall man blurted out defensively.
Judge Briller immediately turned an open, fleetingly amused look at local peace officer Jeremy Stanson seated in the first row of court next to the jury box, tall and resplendent in a tan uniform. “Officer Stanson, did you call Mr. Curtis an asshole?” Briller asked earnestly.
Stanson easily stood up with a plain face. “Yes, your honor, I did,” he said.
Judge Briller looked at the defendant, his lips tightening. “Now that it’s been firmly established that you are in fact an asshole, Mr. Curtis, how do you plead?” Briller’s voice ricocheted around the room, making Mr. Curtis blanch.
After shuffling his feet and staring at his hands the defendant suddenly squared his shoulders and looked right at the judge. “Guilty,” he said.
Briller looked at him. “You could have just mailed in the ticket and the fine without wasting my time with this, you know,” he said forcefully.
Mr. Curtis swallowed. “I know, your Honor, but I figured the truth was really all I had right then,” he said, looking at his hands again.
Judge Briller stared at the defendant, his fingers gently tapping again. “It’s always a valuable commodity, Mr. Curtis, this is very true,” he said loudly. “You can perform 20 hours of public service at the food bank instead of picking up freeway trash,” he said, writing quickly in the file. “$350 fine, 1 point, plus court costs,” he said efficiently, continuing to write. Finished, he folded his hands together and flashed the defendant with another laser flash of deep black eyes and winking glasses. “I don’t expect to see you in this courtroom again, Mr. Curtis, do you understand?” he said, syllables sharply bouncing off the walls again.
Mr. Curtis swallowed. “Yes, your honor,” he said quietly.
Judge Briller closed the file and grimly opened the next, the tall man walking away. Looking at the second file the same distaste pulled at his mouth again, his fingers tap-tap-tapping away as he unhurriedly read the contents. “Mr. Glenn Duey, reckless driving, public endangerment, second citation,” he said, sighing deeply and looking steadily at Glenn, who had the sense to stand up automatically. “On a bicycle,” Judge Miller said lightly, eyes probing Glenn’s set face, gaze fixed on the local municipal seal.
“Yes sir,” Glenn said plainly.
Judge Briller glanced at the open file and then looked steadily at Glenn. “Explain this, Mr. Duey, such as it is, and don’t waste my time doing it,” he said in a crisp way that got Glenn to look at him in the face.
Glenn sighed and clasped his hands. “Your honor, I like drafting with the county busses on Wenlan Avenue, I don’t see the harm in it,” Glenn said quietly, looking the judge in the eye. “Drafting is riding in the air swirl behind a bus, it pulls you along,” he said. After Judge Briller said nothing Glen swallowed. “It’s fun,” he said quietly, a small edge of defiance in his voice.
Judge Briller stared at Glenn for around five seconds, a long time in the quiet room. “Officer Stanson?” he asked quietly, looking at the tall peace officer again.
Jeremy stood up. “Your honor, I’ve gunned Mr. Duey repeatedly behind county busses at 25-35 miles per hour,” he said wearily. “He’s good enough to do it, but at over 20 miles per hour his helmet is useless, it’s just not rated for those speeds, and he’s wearing zero protective clothing.” Jeremy shook his head. “He’s distracting the bus drivers and making them nervous, often they have 30 people aboard. I cited Mr. Duey 170 days ago, then three weeks ago, he keeps doing it,” he said.
Judge Miller looked at Glenn with black laser beam intensity. “Explain this again, Mr. Duey,” he said, highly irritated.
Glenn’s eyesight had drifted to the municipal seal again, face and shoulders sliding into an old set. “I know what I’m doing, sir, I can take the risk.”
Judge Briller started tapping his fingers again. “What branch of the service where you in?” he asked suddenly.
Glenn looked at him. “United States Marine Corps, sir,” he said.
“Rank at discharge?”
“E-3, sir.”
“How long at your current address?”
“Four years, sir.”
Judge Briller stared at Glenn, who looked at his hands. He glanced at Jeremy, then leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping away. “You know what you’re doing,” he said nodding, an airy happiness lacing stern mocking in his tone. “Did you know this repeated foolishness on a bicycle would get you in front of me?” he demanded.
“No, sir.”
“Aha,” cried Judge Briller, the loud word classically popping up in tone like a abrupt hill on a rollercoaster. Suddenly he clasped and unclasped his hands. “You know, Mr. Duey, life can be funny, I have to deal with you and all of a sudden that Sydney Pollack scene from Tootsie just busts into my head, that scene where he sees Dustin Hoffman in drag for the first time and says ‘Michael, I begged you to get into therapy!’” Judge Briller nodded. “Remember that?”
“Yes, sir,” Glenn said quietly.
“Funny how some thoughts can just jump into your head at times, Officer Stanson, isn’t that so?” Judge Briller said.
“Yes, your honor,” Jeremy replied. Judge Briller looked at him and tilted his head with an acquaintance’s subtlety: see me later. Jeremy barely nodded, slowly closing and opening his eyes.
“Mr. Glenn Duey,” Judge Briller said with an ominous calm. Suddenly he leaned forward and pinned Glenn to his lonely stance with a threatening extended forefinger. “If I see you again about this I’m throwing your ass in jail!” he roared, making Jeremy wince and Glenn look at his feet, who didn't even remember the words for a long time, just the quaking in his guts as the sound waves rolled over him. “40 hours food bank community service, $500 fine, court costs, two points,” he spit out, writing in the file. “I see that’s 3 points in 8 months, Mr. Duey,” he said sternly. “One more and your driver’s license is suspended. Still know what you’re doing?”
“No, sir,” Glenn said quietly.
Judge Briller nodded, looking at Glenn with a set face. “That’s all, Mr. Duey, don’t make me deal with you again. You understand?” he said. Glenn nodded. “Mr. Theodore Ledder, drunk driving,” he said sighing, opening the other file as the corners of his mouth turned down inevitably again. Jeremy turned on a heel and walked steadily toward the courtroom exit.
Part II
Glenn Duey’s ancient Toyota pickup rattled unsteadily down Cornett road, forcing him to steady his coffee as he glanced at the directions and plain small map again.
Go down Cornett road until it dead-ends, there’s a short lane with a shack next to it. Please be there at seven a.m. to start your community service obligation, the directions said, which had arrived in the mail along with much other sterner official documents. Don’t be late! The directions had warned in bold font.
Shit, Glenn said to himself as his watch read 6:55. I was fine until I bought this coffee, those stupid lottery ticket buyers held me up. Well, I’m not late anyway.
The battered Toyota took a shallow dive near the end of the road, the cup of coffee saved from a splash only by being a quarter full. Glenn hauled the wheel west into a short rutted road and there was the shack, two cars and a pickup parked alongside. Three men stood in front of the vehicles, a slim woman in a Navy peacoat standing ten yards away.
Glenn felt their eyes as he eased out, telling himself there was still three minutes to go, he hadn’t done anything wrong. Walking up to the group of men he saw two white American guys roughly his age, while the third was a sad-looking thirty-something Latino, their breaths smoking in the cold September morning.
Glenn looked at the woman as she strode up, short muddy boots and faded jeans below the dark Navy coat, a tan knitted scarf coiled under a pretty face and big grey eyes. Wavy chestnut hair spilled over her shoulders, a clipboard and small pencil swinging determinedly in one hand. Glenn told himself it was absurd that forty grams of cedar could do any harm, but there was still something vaguely threatening in that swinging pencil as she strode up to the men.
She swung up the clipboard. “Hanlin,” she said loudly.
“Yeah,” one of the white guys said sadly, resignedly scratching his jaw while she marked name off. “Cooper,” she said in the same volume, his Caucasian partner raising a hand. “Martinez,” she continued, the Latino saying quietly “I’m here.”
She deliberately reached into an inner coat pocket and took out her phone, grimly taking in the displayed time. She looked right at Glenn.
“Duey,” she said with a faint dislike.
“Uh-huh,” Glenn replied, looking right back, squirming inwardly but managing to look plain by telling himself look, I wasn’t late.
She tucked the clipboard under an arm and thrust her hands into the coat pockets. “Good morning, gentlemen, I’m Stacy Wright, director of the Clark County food bank. Thank you, seriously, for your public service commitment performed here.” She spoke clearly and easily, looking at the unhappy men in turn. “It’s like this,” she said, taking her hands out of the pockets. “Work seven to noon today and the food bank counts that as ten hours of service.”
She glanced around at the men, all of who were relieved—except Glenn, who looked on impassively.
“So today and tomorrow equals twenty hours, work this weekend and your community service is over, Judge Briller thinks twenty hours is enough,” she said brightly. “However, for the first time I have someone due forty hours, Mr. Duey here will be with us for two weekends.”
She deliberately took in Glenn’s scuffed boots, torn khaki trousers and light denim jacket, eventually looking into his face with a calm intensity. “Shocking,” she said.
Eat me, A cup, Glenn said to himself, looking at his boots.
Razor female intuition plucked the phrase right out of midair, widening Stacy’s eyes and stiffening her back. She titled her head, glancing at her hands, then lightly shook her hair and looked at the men again.
“This potato field has already been tined,” she said, gesturing widely to the long rows stretching before them in the field, red potatoes peeking among the clumpy soil. “Just go along a row and fill up one of these plastic bags, full they’re about ten pounds.” She pointed to a bag of plastic clips. “Tie them off, and when you’ve done enough fill up one these carts here and stack the bags next to the shack.” Two heavily rusted Radio Flyer wagons waited at the ready, fat pneumatic tires incongruously new and shiny.
“I’ll pack up the truck at noon when I come back,” she said, striding away toward the pickup. “Work what you can, it’ll be enough.”
Suddenly she stopped and turned around. “Just be here at noon when I get back,” she said clearly, looking at each man in turn. “If Judge Briller gets a phone call from me to issue a bench warrant you’ll be in jail before sunset, that is a fact,” she said calmly.
She got in the truck, gunned the engine and popped the clutch as she darted down the lane. “Good luck, thanks!” she called out, waving an arm through the open window, the potato field suddenly very quiet as she was quickly gone.
The men looked at each other in the still cold morning, Glenn finally reaching down for a bag, kneeling along a row and plucking the potatoes into it. The Latino looked on, moving his lips silently, then got a bag, chose a row and got to work.
One the white Americans with dark hair disgustedly spat into the field. “Look at us, Steve, just look at us. We’re a couple of cons laboring in a fucking potato field!”
“All right, Tommy, all right,” his companion with sandy hair replied wearily. “We’ve been over it twenty times already.”
“I don’t care!” Tommy said with an angry incredulity. “I told you going to that party was a stupid idea, I told you crashing the night in that spare room was a lousy idea, I told you that girl with mongo tits had to have a boyfriend, but no. No no no, you listen to me for shit like always and here we are.” He gestured his arms widely in sarcastic grandeur. “We’ve ended up in this fucking potato field, Steve!”
“I know, Tommy,” Steve said resignedly, reaching for a plastic bag.
“Mental health is not a static thing,” Tommy said emphatically, watching Steve grab a handful of clips. “You’re either going forward or backward, it’s pretty goddamn plain to me this potato field represents some serious regression in my life,” he said, looking at Steve expectantly.
“I know, Tommy,” Steve said in the same tone, tucking plastic bags under an arm and sighing before he got on his knees into the rough dirt.
“If our health is in regression what’s in it for us for next year, the fucking penitentiary?” he asked aggressively, hands on hips.
Steve stood up and sighed, brushing his hands. “Tommy, I am sorry. Okay? For the fiftieth fucking time, I am sorry. We’re here now, so stand around or get to work, I could care the fuck less.” Steve looked his friend plain the face, gave a short nod and then kneeled in the row again.
Tommy stood in the still morning air, watching the three men crawl along the rows stuffing bags with potatoes. Eventually he threw up his hands in futile disgust, got some bags and chose a row.
As the minutes passed small dust moved among the men as they broke dirt apart, the only sounds their grunting breaths and the rustle of plastic. Glenn worked quickly and easily, not too fast, while the Latino dogged it, barely expending enough energy to look busy.
“Jesus Christ, my back is killing me,” Tommy said. “We’ve only been here twenty minutes.”
“Take a break, then, Tommy, no one gives a shit,” Steve said calmly.
“Fine,” Tommy said with a pleased defiance. He tossed his bag and sat in the dirt, hugging his knees. The Latino man glanced at him.
“Name’s Tommy,” he said to him. “How’d you get here?”
The Latino man looked at him steadily. “Ricardo,” he said, gesturing slightly to all the men and then gratefully sitting next to Steve.
“Got late on my divorce settlement payments, but not really,” he said with a small earnestness, looking at Steve and Tommy. Glenn was still bent over his row. “Payroll changed the pay day from Friday to Monday, everything was still the same, she just got the money four days later.”
Ricardo held his hands open, undulating the air in quick movements. “My ex wife, she doesn’t like it, she gets me before the judge for late payments and man, he was really pissed off. What’s the problem, she still gets the money, it’s not my fault, but that bastard got mad as hell.” He reached into a breast pocket for a cigarette, lit one with a Zippo lighter and looked resignedly into the distance.
“Said I should’ve cleared it with him and the court about the payment dates changing, far as he’s concerned he don’t care if Jesus gets a payroll change, it still has to be cleared through him.” He shook his head. “He said that, right in court, fined my ass and here I am.”
Steve worked doggedly, Glenn moved smoothly along while Tommy and Ricardo sat, the rising sun warming their backs and the rows. “Why are you here?“ Ricardo asked Tommy.
“Oh god, don’t get him started,” Steve said wearily.
“Shut up, Steve, I could jaw you for twenty years and not make up for the shit you’ve got us into.” He rubbed his forearm along his sweaty temple. “Numb nuts here convinced me to go this party way the hell out in Clarence, it’ll be fun and he won’t be drinking ‘cause of the drive.”
Tommy opened his hands helplessly. “How stupid could I get? How could I ever think homie over here could stay at a party sober? He says there’s a spare bedroom if he drinks too much, starts chugging beers and then hits on this stacked hottie I told you to leave the fuck alone, but no, he goes ahead and does it.”
Tommy angrily shook his head. “He’s not scared of that wimp boyfriend, nope, but the son of a bitch has friends and it’s gonna get ugly if we don’t get the hell outta there. We’re drunk, we try to sleep it off on the side of the road and we get busted.”
“Bad luck there,” Steve said defiantly.
“I said shut up, Steve!” Tommy replied angrily. “You got us the hell into this mess, plain and simple, and I have never been so humiliated in my life than when were before that judge. Jesus Christ, what a son of a bitch!” He said wonderingly.
Steve wearily stood up, clutched at his back, and then plopped down beside Tommy and Ricardo. They watched the moving form of Glenn crawl along a row.
“Why’re you here? Tommy asked eventually.
“Same thing, I pissed off that judge really bad,” Glenn said, his dirty hands not stopping. He said nothing more, and the other men didn’t press him.
After an hour of fitful work Steve and Tommy quit for a long nap in their car, while Ricardo found a stick and some shade, whittling away hours with his pocketknife. They returned to the rows halfheartedly as the sun rose steadily up the sky, while Glenn never quit except for a 15 minute break at ten. Right at noon Stacy Wright rattled and bounced up to the shack in her truck, pea coat gone and soiled work gloves stuffed into her jeans.
“That’s it, guys, see you tomorrow,” she called out. The three men waved and immediately went to their cars, while Glenn lugged up a load of potatoes in a cart. His pile had ninety bags, 900 pounds, while the three other men had chugged in 24.
She looked at pile of stuffed bags impassively and then at Glenn’s sweat-stained clothes. “Well, you certainly know how to work hard,” she said plainly.
“I didn’t work hard, just never stopped working,” Glenn said quietly, tossing bags out of the cart. He straightened up and looked at her. “I can help you load up the truck,” he said.
She looked back at him, slightly amused with the chivalry. “You’ve done enough for the day, hotshot, I can handle it.”
Glenn’s lips twitched at the word hotshot. He returned her gaze, saying nothing, then shrugged.
“Suit yourself,” he said plainly, then abruptly turned and strode away toward his Toyota.
Stacy watched him walk away, then quickly shook her head and grabbed some potato bags. What in the hell would I tell my mother? she thought, that I met him on work furlough in a potato field?
She nodded as she tossed potato bags into the truck. Life in social service, she thought.
Part III
County admin Sarah Covington heard brisk footsteps as she stared at her monitor, pleased to look up and find the pretty figure and person of Stacy Wright.
“Hello, darlin’,” she said with a smile. “How are you? What brings you here this fine day?”
“I’m good, Sarah,” Stacy said. “I need to talk to the Judge a little,” Stacy said with a slight smile. “Is he in?”
“Oh yes, go right on back, dear, he’ll be happy to see you,” Sarah said briskly, reaching for a sheaf of papers in a tray. “I could use a break from this myself.”
“All right,” Stacy said, still smiling, lifting a hand from her purse strap in small wave and walking down the polished bright corridor. “Take care.”
“You too,” Sarah said, eyes on her monitor and fingers flying over the keyboard, glad the Judge had one of his tea people show up, it always perked up his day.
Stacy smelled floorwax and wood polish as she walked down the corridor, the old school county building giving off a heavy government feel in fancy wood frames to the office doors and fine chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. The door to Judge Gerald Briller, stamped in a steady large real gold font, was open, a large imposing man with short black hair, white shirt and black tie, and heavy black frame glasses bent over a huge desk completely strewn with various papers and files. She knocked lightly on the door.
“Hi Judge,” Stacy said easily. “Got a minute?”
“Stacy! What a nice surprise!” Gerald Briller instantly rose and walked around the corner of his desk. “Please, please come in,” he said, holding an arm out with gentle expectation.
Stacy kissed both his cheeks quickly in a distinctly French greeting, Briller putting a light hand on her arm. This brusque, cranky fifty-something had a scathing reputation for temper and intensity but she had found him to be nothing but the most gentle of persons under the gruff exterior, always trying to help her and mission, something she had found distinctly lacking in most other county public officials.
Judge Briller quickly moved to a side table in the huge office, fussing with an electric kettle, two big white porcelain teacups and sugar cubes on a silver tray. “Sit down, Stacy, tea will be ready in four minutes. Everything all right with you?”
Stacy smiled happily, setting into an oak chair opposite the desk and sliding her purse off her shoulder. “I’m fine, Judge, I just need to check in with some stuff.”
“Oh?” Judge Briller looked at her at little inquiringly and sat down. “Check away, then.”
“Thank you again, Judge, for the community service help you’ve sent our way, we’ve got a lot more done this year than I expected,” Stacy said. “We’re working a lot in the fields now, and, well, when the men show up for five hours I give them credit for ten,” she said a little hurriedly. “They’re useless after five hours in the field, Judge, and they work better when they’re grateful.”
Judge Briller looked at her steadily, a small smile curving his mouth. “How you use the community service labor is up to your discretion, Stacy, of course,” he said.
She nodded with quick gratitude. “And, well, Judge, they’re unsupervised too.” Stacy twisted her hands a little nervously. “I don’t see myself as the leader of a chain gang, Judge, it wouldn’t work. I check them in at seven and off at noon, they can do whatever work they want, ‘n I tell them if they’re not there at noon and want to experience a bench warrant from Judge Briller, well, it’s their funeral.”
Gerald Briller gave a wry smile. “Well, I haven’t issued one for you yet, anyway,” he said. “Do any of them perform no work at all?”
“Surprisingly few,” Stacy replied. “Most of them work okay, some of them extremely well.” Stacy cleared her throat and looked at her hands. “Speaking of which, what can you tell me about Glenn Duey?”
The electric kettle had been bubbling to a soft crescendo, and as Judge Briller looked at her it gave a click, sounding loud in the suddenly still room. Judge Briller looked at her impassively, various thoughts eventually leading to a soft, gentle smile.
“Look, Judge, I want to know,” she said, unabashed at her honesty. He briefly opened his hands and titled his head in a gesture of acceptance, got up to the kettle and poured bubbling water into the cups and waiting Earl Grey teabags. Placing one before her and his chair, he sat down again and folded his hands together, looking at her steadily.
“Boy’s got something on his mind,” he finally said. His fingers began tapping together. “I’ve seen women choose worse,” he said. “A lot worse,” he said softly, looking at a file.
Stacy’s eyes wandered to the file too. “Was it a DUI?” she asked quietly.
Judge Briller briefly shook his head. “No, not at all. Mr. Duey thought being on his bicycle granted him immunity from the civil code and authority of this city and county,” he said sternly. He briefly shook his head and took a sip of tea. “He shouldn’t make that mistake again,” he said grimly.
Stacy tilted her head slightly. “Shouldn’t?” she said intently.
The kid’s always been a sharpie, Judge Briller said to himself. He looked at his hands, the fingers tapping quickly away, while Stacy was enormously surprised to see something like embarrassment flicker over his face.
“What is it, Gerald?” she asked quietly.
Judge Briller sighed, looked briefly at the walls and then at his hands again. He finally flipped them open and then looked at her with a look of wry admission.
“I talked to a few people, they talked to a few people, they got back to me,” he said openly. After a pause he looked at her evenly. “He lives alone on J street, old part of town, in a Sears kit house his uncle gave him the down for. An okay job at the mill, keeps to himself, stays fit on that bike.” Judge Briller slightly bit his lip. “And never, ever misses the PTSD clinic every Friday evening in Peyton.”
Stacy’s face mirrored brief concern, but she said nothing.
“Two tours in Afghanistan, Marine Corps,” Judge Briller said flatly. “The second one a stop loss,” he said.
“Stop loss?” Stacy asked.
Briller shook his head. “The Marine Corps forcefully extended his contract, he should have got out but was forced into another tour,” he said.
“Oh,” Stacy replied quietly.
“It’s not a good sign that Mr. Duey would start to significantly risk his physical safety and defy authority on that stupid bike, especially when he was precisely warned not to.” Judge Briller sighed and nodded slightly . “Mr. Duey is now being watched,” he said with a calculated grimness.
Stacy looked at him in surprise. “Nothing like looking through his windows or tapping his phone, nothing like that,” Judge Briller said sharply. “It’s just that there are a number of people around here with a good public view of what’s going on. If they see or hear anything about any aberrant behavior from Mr. Duey, well, I’ll know about it in a few hours.”
Stacy took a drink of her tea, looking at the heavy glasses frames around an apparently stern face, saying nothing. “It’s in our professional interest to do so,” he said.
Stacy smiled. “It couldn’t be because you’re a good man, now could it, Judge Briller?”
He gave a short snort of derision, looking at a corner of his desk. “Please,” he said with some plaintiveness.
Stacy smiled in a satisfied female way, nodding her head. “Anything else I should know about this prince?” she asked brightly.
Judge Briller gave her a small smile and started looking at his tapping fingers again. We’ve been at war a long time, he said to himself. Our army is small but, just like always, our women will still have to deal with the men when they come home.
He took a drink of tea. “If you do see him, he won’t be a wine and dine type of guy,” he said quietly. “The last thing his brain stem needs is a wallop from a toxic, potent depressant,” he continued evenly. His hands opened slightly. “Understand?”
Stacy swallowed and looked at her teacup. She eventually looked up and placed the tea on his desk, sliding her purse over her shoulder.
“Don’t get up, I know how busy you are,” she said briskly, moving the chair aside and rising to move to his side of the desk. Looking down at him, she kissed his forehead with a soft determination. “You don’t fool me for a second, Judge Gerald Briller,” she declared, turning away to walk out the door.
He shook his head and looked at her striding confidently through the door, a brief look of admiration of his face. Did I scare her off? He asked himself. No, not that one.
Part IV
Glenn Duey felt the crisp sheets around his body, heard small sounds of his house and the rustle of a night breeze through the window. His nightstand clock read 3:17 am in a bright cathode red, not bad at all, five and half hours was fine for a day, a catnap at 5:00 pm would make up for it.
We told the sergeant the rest of the platoon went back there 20 minutes ago, but they never came back.
He eased out of bed, walked across the room, went to the bathroom in the dark, then walked down the hall to the kitchen, small appliance lights in the house precisely acting like lighthouse beacons at sea. Punching a button on the coffee machine, he finally turned on a small lamp next to his sitting room chair, settling down with a tall glass of water drawn from the kitchen top.
It cannot be that Hamid would do that, it’s totally impossible. I don’t believe it, I just can’t believe it.
Glenn sipped water while the coffee pot began to sputter, going over his internal checklist before he was due on his course: bike and tires okay, nanopod charged with a fresh playlist, clean bike clothes waiting next to his cleats, gloves and helmet liner still fine, just one water bottle this morning.
Why couldn’t John just have taken that guy out? So much would have been different if that had just happened.
Glenn swallowed more water, glancing at the level of the coffee pot. There is the ride, he told himself, 24 miles, perfect before a day at the mill. The ride is enough, you’ve got a job and a house, it used to be much worse.
Yes, it used to be much worse, he thought, reaching for a large bottle of prescription pills and shaking one into his palm. Gulping it down with the last of the water, he got up and went to the refrigerator, reaching in and taking out a big bowl of hard-boiled eggs. Selecting five onto a plate, he put the bowl back and reached for the salt, eating an egg while the coffee finished.
We told the sergeant the rest of the platoon went back there 20 minutes ago, but they never came back.
Pouring the weak brew into a mug, Glenn ate the rest of the eggs standing up at the counter, sipping carefully. He ate a banana when finished, gulping down two more glasses of water.
It’s Thursday, he told himself as he put on his bike clothes, his cherished carbon frame bicycle at the ready right there in the living room, otherwise empty of furniture. Work today and tomorrow, he thought, there is always the course and the ride. Then Saturday and the end of his public service commitment with Stacy Wright.
Hamid could not have done that, I can’t believe it, but he did. McCormack and Vester died when that happened.
Glenn’s hands paused as he reached for his jersey, thinking about Stacy and the weekend before. She certainly wasn’t an anecdote for remembering the war, but at least when he thought of her it wasn’t that endless horror.
The second day in the potato field had begum much like the day before, the four men driving up to the shack and waiting for Stacy. She drove up at 6:55, cheerfully checked their names off and was off again, perky and pretty as she waved an arm out the truck window.
Tommy and Steve worked for half and hour and then slept for four, but Ricardo brought kneepads and a headband, putting in enough effort for 350 pounds. He and Glenn were stacking their haul next to the shack, Steve and Tommy halfheartedly bringing in loads from the field, when suddenly Stacy showed up forty minutes early.
She banged the old Ford truck door closed and waved at the men in the field. “That’s enough, guys, bring it in and have a good Sunday.”
Stacy turned to Ricardo and smiled, holding out her hand. “Thank you,” she said warmly.
Ricardo smiled easily and firmly gave her a handshake. “Sure, Lady,” he said before turning away to his car.
“Bye guys, be good in life!” she called out. Steve grinned while Tommy wryly smiled, thwacking Steve lightly on the shoulder.
“Stand in the bed and stack while I throw,” she said to Glenn, who was wondering on how to insist on helping. “We’ll switch, I’ll get tired,” she said, pulling on gloves.
She waited impassively while Glenn climbed into the bed of her old Ford, then starting picking up potato bags and tossing them underhand up to Glenn, who immediately started a stack at the front of the bed. She breathed easily as she swung the bags up, a blush of exertion on her cheeks as her hair swayed with each toss. Glenn found himself forcing attention to the minimal task of stacking potato bags, not used to watching a pretty woman’s long chestnut hair in the late morning sunshine.
Halfway through she stopped, blew an audible breath and then climbed up on the tailgate of the open truck bed, saying nothing as Glenn automatically hopped down. She stood up and waited impassively as Glenn moved to a bag and tossed it, so gently it almost fell short. “Step it up there, hotshot,” she said almost to herself as she stacked the bag. Embarrassed, Glenn moved on and tossed normally until the job was done.
Stacy jumped down lightly and shut the tailgate firmly, fastening a chain. She took off her gloves and stuffed them into a back pocket, then dusted her hands.
“We won’t be here next weekend, our people will finish here by Wednesday,” she easily to Glenn. “Next Saturday is a pumpkin farm near Stone Creek, you’ll get the directions and forms in the mail.”
Glenn wiped his forehead with two fingers and then rubbed his hands on his jeans. “All right,” he said with a little hesitation. “I’ll see you Saturday, then.”
“Good,” she replied, a look of plain honest pleasure on her face. She gave him a small smile, then turned away and got into her truck.
How could a woman put so much power into one word? Glenn asked himself as he tightened the velcro straps of his cleats. Just one word in a low plain voice, but somehow it reassured him and made him feel better in a deeply mysterious way. She looked at you with those big grey eyes and swayed a hip so perfectly as she turned to the door, just one word but still so forceful and real, so clear in its simple meaning.
We told the sergeant the rest of the platoon went back there 20 minutes ago, but they never came back.
“No, they never came back,” Glenn said aloud, pensively pulling on a glove.
****
Stacy Wright wearily reached an arm out from underneath the comforter and thumbed the beeping alarm off. Holding both her arms over the comforter, she eventually forced herself up and out of bed and reached for a bathrobe, cloaking her nude body in bleached cotton with the gloom of pre-dawn light from the window, the clock reading 7:03 am.
She immediately turned to enter the bathroom in her small apartment, dimly hearing sounds from other tenants through one wall. Finished, she blearily went to the small cluttered kitchen and belatedly threw out old coffee grounds, measured water and coffee, and finally punched the on button with a sigh.
She sat at her tiny kitchen table, a small space that was rather hemmed in between bedroom wall and the one sitting room of the apartment. Thursday, she said to herself. Meetings all morning, then sorting canned donations after lunch, maybe time to get some fresh apples in.
The coffee had only reached half an inch in the pot. She shook her head, got up and went back into the bathroom, putting her robe on peg and turning on the shower. Friday is all day with the apple harvest, she told herself, then another fun day for pumpkins on Saturday, Glenn Duey will be there.
Stacy felt her body flush under the fat water jets of warm water, drawing the curtain hastily closed. He was a good, decent-looking guy with a job, lord knew how few of those specimens had come her way over the years. True enough, but there was something about him she couldn’t quite place, he seemed distant and reserved, yet animated enough if you just said a few words.
Quiet and smart, yet quiet and smart didn’t get moved her way courtesy of Judge Briller, either. He was very strong with excellent stamina, it was a very rare suburban man who could competently bad potatoes for five hours, but it was hard to see at first, he moved with deliberation under baggy, loose clothes.
You could actually end up on a date Saturday night, she told herself as she got out and dried herself up, deftly using another towel to wrap her hair into a big white turban. Sex, she thought to herself, things could actually work out so I could fuck him, she said to herself, brushing her teeth.
Of course you’re never supposed to fuck on the first date, she continued with herself, but time has since revealed many successful relationships based upon first-date fucking, what a crock that turned out to be.
Stacy slightly shook her head and strode into her bedroom, reaching for bra and panties. Then it’s a relationship, maybe it’s not, maybe it’s love, maybe it’s not, who in the hell knows what true love is anyway, even if it exists.
Just go on a date with him and have a good time, she told herself. He’s a Marine with two war tours under his belt, but he doesn’t seem brave enough to ask.
Stacy stepped into her underwear and deftly hooked up her bra, deciding on jeans and blue work shirt for the day. There were all the lovely normal elements of dating in place, but overlaying it all was the disquieting news from Judge Briller.
So he’s got PTSD, she thought to herself, putting on her clothes. I don’t even know what it is, the wiki said trauma-induced but I still don’t get it.
Maybe I shouldn’t go out with if there’s something seriously wrong with him, she thought. But how seriously wrong could something be for a decent-looking guy with a job?
When, in fact, will another decent-looking man with a job come along? She asked herself, unwrapping her hair and shaking it free. What if another one never shows up? What if all this was meant to be, yet somehow it gets all messed up again because you didn’t see it?
Stacy sighed and looked at her reflection critically in the mirror. “It’s a jungle out there,” she said plainly, staring at her wet hair.
Part V
Glenn Duey drove down highway 12 in his wheezing, sputtering Toyota, glad at the prospect at seeing Stacy Wright again but apprehensively puzzled at the directions she had mailed.
Start time will be later this time, 9:00 am, she had wrote in neat handwriting after stating clear directions to the farm. The work is easier, nice work clothes are possible.
She means not to look like a bum, Glenn said to himself. But why? Why the later start time? Labor never started after 7:00 am, why work through the hot afternoon longer?
Not liking the ambiguity Glenn had nevertheless got a haircut, cleaned and oiled his boots, trimmed his nails, found decent khakis and actually pressed a white shirt, telling himself as he chose his worn brown leather jacket that if he didn’t know why, well, making yourself presentable for a pretty woman couldn’t be a bad idea.
Right where the map said it should be was the sign, Stone Creek Farm, the craftsmanship good with bleached white oak and green oxidized copper. Glenn was surprised as he turned a corner on the dirt road seven hundred yards from the highway as two substantial barns came into view, to the right a very nice Victorian house blazing in white glory in the morning sunshine. A water tower with working windmill creaked and whirred behind the house, a four-story grain silo next to the barns nicely adding another height element to the cluster of buildings.
Turning into the wide circular driveway lined with huge old pepper trees Glenn was further startled to see a cluster of newer vehicles already parked, a few folks standing around drinking coffee with the squeals and shouts of children faintly in the background. This ain’t no potato field, Glenn said to himself, feeling a little better as he spotted Stacy’s old Ford truck as he found a place to park.
“Over here, Glenn!” She called out gaily as he eased out of his battered Toyota. She stopped talking to two middle-aged women and strode firmly toward him, casually resplendent in tight jeans, cowboy boots and green sweater, a gold necklace and wavy long hair glinting in the sun.
She smiled as she came up to him, mischievously arching an eyebrow and ignoring the hesitation in his face and walk.
“Well well, don’t you clean up nice,” she said easily, dusting off one his shoulders in an exaggerated slight motion. She looked at his face with a happy expectation. “Thanks. The pumpkin harvest at Stone Creek Farm is always one of my top twenty days of the year, I wouldn’t ask just any schmuck to be here with me today,” she said with gentle affirmation.
“Oh,” Glenn said after a pause, a warm feeling of happiness mitigating his puzzlement. “But what are all these people doing here?”
Stacy smiled. “The Giffords—they own this farm—have donated two field’s worth of pumpkins to the food bank for ten years now. We sell them at a big fundraiser next month for Hallloween, the local Boys and Girls Scouts troops found out about it and use the day for public service badges for the kids.” She gestured to the cars and chatting adults. “It’s sort of turned into a fun kid’s event as much as a harvest day.”
Suddenly a child of four or five years scampered from between the cars and ran right at Stacy, face ablaze with a smile and arms held open expectantly. “Stacy Stacy Stacy!” she called out happily.
“Elizabeth Elizabeth Elizabeth!” Stacy replied with same exaggerated joy, easily kneeling down to embrace the running girl and rubbing noses three times, the child obviously not a stranger.
She giggled and squirmed, unbearably cute with braided blonde hair, huge blue eyes and faded overalls over a light green cotton shirt. She noticed the hesitant form of Glenn standing close by.
“Who are you?” she asked with a child’s blunt directness, looking right at him.
Glenn, who had not spoken to a child in many years, felt completely pinned under the unwavering look of the widely spaced blue eyes. His lips parted and he looked at Stacy hesitatingly, who looked on gently.
“I…I’m…Glenn, Glenn Duey,” he finally said, clearing his throat.
Elizabeth appeared completely unmoved by the hesitation. “What do you do here?” she asked.
Glenn allowed himself a small wry sigh, while Stacy arched an eyebrow and smiled.
“I, uh…I…I work with Ms. Wright here, I help her out sometimes,” Glenn managed to say.
Elizabeth gravely looked at him with a completely unwavering stare, then looked at Stacy.
“You’re nice to her, right?” she said, looking directly at Glenn again while Stacy put a hand to her lips in repressed laughter and looked on with sparkling eyes.
Glenn bit his lip, slowly nodding his head. “Yes, yes I am…of course, of course I am. “ Glenn suddenly smiled a little in admiration and dropped to a knee so quickly and fluidly Stacy was startled, but Elizabeth wasn’t.
“What’s your name?” he asked with gentle eagerness.
“Elizabeth,” she replied, proud to know and answer.
“Okay, Elizabeth, like I said, I work with Ms. Wright here, you need anything, why, just let her know and we’ll hook you up.”
“All right,” Elizabeth replied happily, who suddenly remembered her mission and instantly pulled on Stacy’s hand, trying to drag her away.
“There’s kittens in the big barn, Stacy!”
“Ooooo, let’s go and see!” Stacy replied and stood happily, allowing the child to lead her away. “The pumpkin fields are down there to the left, Glenn, just head on down for the start,” she called out.
“Okay,” Glenn said, watching her go.
Glenn never forgot that morning for the rest of his life, a slow feeling of small wonder that change was finally here, that there really might be a way out of the nightmare that had gripped him for five years. He followed a couple 150 yards ahead of him down a narrow dirt path past an impressive six acre walnut orchard, the pale green leaves just beginning to turn, made a slight left and there were two pumpkin fields of two acres each, split by an irrigation ditch.
Six long flat-bed trailers had appeared out of the community somewhere—one was plainly a U-haul—that a tractor and impressively restored ’58 Chevy pickup slowly pulled around the fields. Glenn was used to regimented, systemic work for maximum results, but the trailers weaved here and there haphazardly, children and adults laughing and chatting as pumpkins were picked up and passed to the trailers, stopping often seemingly just because they could.
Many of the children wore their Scouts sashes stitched with various badges, the girls in enchanting light brown berets. They scampered and chattered in the fields, two teams of girls proudly implementing slings they hade fashioned out of bungee cords, the boys taking stacking of pumpkins in the trailers very seriously. Someone had set up a table for hot chocolate and juice, along with cinnamon rolls and bananas. No, I’m not in a potato field this time, Glenn said to himself, folding his jacket and putting it on a hay bale.
With a small shock Glenn realized as he said hello to a bustling, buxom woman hurrying past that it was interesting to see so many new faces, for years between the mill, clinic and Safeway where he shopped at six am he had grown used to seeing perhaps 25 human faces, no more. Yet suddenly here were 30 or 40, all of them seemingly nice, there wasn’t any harm in strangers here.
Unbeknownst to Glenn, Stacy had strategically spread the word to two friends that her friend Glenn was an Afghanistan vet who was nice enough, just quiet, not the chatty type. By the time he arrived word had quickly spread and he was quietly surprised by the slight deference paid to him in tiny social clues, people were nice to him but content to leave him alone—like many vets, Glenn often found strangers to be pushy, rude and clueless—and for a long time he silently picked up big pumpkins and passed them to the trailers, taking everything in.
Stacy appeared around 15 minutes after he did, sometimes hauling a pumpkin but usually just chatting with adults or playing with children. Glenn estimated three men could haul these two fields in one day, but the children swarmed over the fields with an energy that surprised him, here at eleven o’clock four trailers had already been filled. We’ll be done by noon, he said to himself, there’s no way they could keep it up but we are going to finish, I guess there’s nap time after lunch.
Glenn also noted carefully the deference paid toward Stacy, too, the children of all ages—a few appeared to be close to 15---were enchanted with her, while the adults listened and laughed with her as a total equal, careful to follow her few requests. Glenn admired her as a pretty woman, but this was something quite different, many of the adults were successful professional energetic types a decade older than she. He watched carefully, a little embarrassed to have objectified her.
As trailer number 3 had been filled with yet another impressive haul of pumpkins she had grandly spread forth her arms and said “Behold the awesome power of a double major and a masters!” the adults chuckling at her ruefully happy look. Is that what it takes to be a food bank director? he asked himself, vastly impressed. The university was a scary, remote place his therapist kept gently reminding him of, but Stacy had really already done it, Jesus, that and a Masters, yet she had to be around his age of 29.
Why is she still single? He asked himself. Why would she be interested in him, an isolated, introverted mill worker? She appeared to be, but why? Glenn’s confidence is his simple upcoming question began to fade. Get it together, he told himself grimly, you made it through the war, you can ask her out to the movies. Do it soon, this is winding up.
Stacy was internally amused in a small way to notice the presence of Glenn and his leather jacket that kept wandering into her field of view as the last trailer was filled and the mothers gathered their families together. You made it through two war tours, hotshot, you can do it, she said to herself.
Be nice, she said to herself, he’s been nothing but nice to you. She dusted her hands in an exaggerated way and abruptly turned and walked a pace to face Glenn, who had just sort of been standing around.
She smiled at him. “That’s it for the day, hotshot, thank you, you were very helpful again.”
Glenn smiled and felt more confident with the use of his nickname. “No problem,” he said evenly.
“’n that’s it for your public service commitment, too, hotshot, there’s nothing for tomorrow, I’ll fill out the forms for the Judge that you’re done,” Stacy said, the same gentle smile on her face.
“Oh,” Glenn said, a little surprised, the urgency of his task suddenly becoming much higher. He bit his lip and shuffled his boots a little. “I guess I’ll see you around in life, then,” he said quietly.
“I guess….”Stacy replied with an exaggerated but still gentle smile, looking at him with an amused expectation.
Glenn swallowed. “Would…would you….”
“Yes….?” Stacy quietly asked, arching an eyebrow in a plain tease.
Glenn exhaled and ruefully smiled at her, slightly nodding. “Would you like to go to the movies with me tonight?” he asked in a normal voice. His hands slightly opened. “I’ll take you out for an ice cream later and hold your hand,” he said with an easier confidence.
Doesn’t sound like fucking to me, Stacy wryly said to herself. Did he see the issue and just head it off? She wondered.
“Is something wrong? Glenn plainly asked.
“No, no, not at all,” Stacy said brightly. She smiled warmly and put a hand on his arm. “I’d love to, hotshot, thank you for asking.”
Glenn felt a happy surge of relief and smiled back. You can a handle a movie with a pretty woman, he told himself, a movie is easy.
He got his phone from an inner pocket. “I’ll need your digits and address,” he said.
Stacy also got out her phone, exchanging numbers with him with flying thumbs on the keypad. “Around seven o’clock okay?” He asked.
“Sure,” she replied. She smiled at him and lightly punched a bicep. “See you then, hotshot,” she said, then turning away as someone called out her name.
Part VI
Your ability to sell yourself on total horseshit is just amazing, Glenn Duey fumed as he moved around his house Saturday afternoon. Going to the movies with a pretty woman is easy? Are you out of your fucking mind?
Of course she’ll judge you on kind of movie you choose, he told himself. You could go for the badass blow-em-up action flick, which would probably be seen as boorish and selfish, since it wouldn’t be the first choice of a pretty MA super-brain. There’s the intellectual drama, she’ll think you’re serious and cerebral or something. The romantic comedy, a seemingly good idea often turned into awful movie with the added negative of sending some sort of romance element to the choice, which could go totally terribly wrong. Documentary? Heaven forbid, there could be no more limp-dicked choice than that.
Then I have to pick her up her at her place, Glenn continued with gloomy foreboding. Do you show up with zero time and yank her rudely out of there? Or give it ten-fifteen for the pre-movie chat, which could be unbearably clumsy?
At least your clothes are okay, he told himself, they worked this morning, didn’t they? Just press a fresh shirt. Glenn had not ironed a shirt in literally years before this Saturday, but for the second time in one day he found himself breaking out the ironing board. Twice in one day, look at what this woman is doing to you, he grimly noted.
‘n your fucking CAR, dude, way to go on that one! Yes, it in theory could be worked on with its carburetor, it was super cheap to insure and of course paid for. But there was no escaping it was a simply dilapidated Japanese wreck of once-white color, bashed and battered, rusted and cracked, creaking along because you’re too god damn cheap all the time, of course it works for you, but you didn’t think of a beautiful woman in your future, did you?
Glenn abruptly put down the iron and sat at his small kitchen table, placing his palms together and closing his eyes. Breathe, motherfucker, breathe, he told himself. Do it, it really works, breathe and things will be better.
After 30 seconds Glenn opened eyes and put his hands on the table. You don’t know why, but you know she likes you. She’s got an old truck herself, you washed and vacuumed yours, you know you look okay, you’ve got a job and life, you’re way over-thinking this.
“I know, I know, they never came back,” Glenn muttered aloud, standing up and reaching for his shirt.
* * * *
Stacy Wright belatedly did the dishes when she got home, picked up various items of clothing residing in various rooms and then distastefully looked around her apartment. She was no pig, it was clean enough, but to her it felt cheap, cramped and over-stuffed with even her meager belongings.
She straightened some small cushions on an Ikea sofa, picking up her phone as a text chimed in: Movie is at 7:15, I’ll pick up you up around 6:30, Glenn had texted. “Let’s see what you got, hotshot,” she said, moving toward the bathroom, her hair was all right but she wanted a shower after a day at the farm.
Black sandals with low heels, denim capris, black leather belt’n plain silver buckle, white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, silver necklace and earrings, dark red lipstick, plain cotton panties and forget that ridiculous bra, she told herself, he let you know not to worry about any of that.
Such the gentleman, she told herself 90 minutes later as she cracked ice cube trays over a bowl. He could have skipped picking me up here, but he didn’t. He might be late, but not him.
Sure enough, bang at 6:28 she heard his ancient, battered Toyota coughing up her apartment row, a squeak as it turned and an ugly rattling diesel as he shut it off. I love my Ford truck, she thought, but dude.
Steps up to the door, a small wait and then a quick, confident knock of two knuckles. “Hi there, Glenn,” she said brightly as she opened the door. “Come on in,” she said.
“Hi, Stacy,” Glenn, feeling better with a shy smile as he stepped in, for some reason knocking on a woman’s door had slightly disquieted him, almost as if he were intruding somehow. “Nice place,” he said, taking in the cheap furniture, stacked boxes of canning jars, dishes drying in the rack in the tiny kitchen, and big fichus plants crowding the sitting room with leafy color.
“It’s a dump, hotshot, but thank you for so saying so,” Stacy said as she poured water over ice into two tall glasses.
Glenn smiled as he took the glass. Just tell her, he said to himself. “You look very pretty,” he said with a quiet earnestness.
Stacy smiled. “I could be in sackcloth and ashes and you’d tell me that, hotshot, but thank you for saying so,” she said. Glenn noticed a flush on her cheeks and a pleased look that didn’t fade away.
“So what’s the movie tonight?” she asked, taking a sip of water.
“Justin Timberlake and Mila Kunis, Friends with Benefits,” Glenn said a little uncomfortably. “I don’t mean anything by it, honest, but I like Milas Kunis and, well, it was the only movie that worked for this time slot.”
Stacy had been smiling and eventually giggled, putting down her water glass. She abruptly leaned over and kissed Glenn’s cheek, who was so surprised he almost dropped his water.
“You try too hard, hotshot, it is cute as hell,” she said, picking up her purse. “Come on, let’s get outta here,” she said, reaching out grasping his hand. “I like holding hands,” she said firmly.
* * * *
Much to Glenn’s relief Friends With Benefits was a good movie with good talent from Kunis and Timberlake, and to his further relief Stacy had again firmly held his hand as they walked toward the movie house, keeping it there the entire show. Glenn had been dreading the put-your-arm-around-her move to such an extent he totally gave up on the awful idea, so holding hands negated that issue perfectly.
“There’s an ice cream place up the block, Paradise Creamery,” Glenn said as they moved through the throng leaving the show. “Good movie, good strawberry ice cream, not a bad idea,” he said.
“Very nice,” Stacy replied, feeling relaxed and happy. It was a good movie with a predictable Hollywood feel-good ending, she could tell that Glenn had enjoyed it too, sometimes things just worked out well.
Holding hands they order half-pints each, deciding to sit at the tables outside. Glenn yawned for the second time since leaving the movie and hugely stretched at he sat down.
“Tired from the pumpkins? Stacy asked.
He took a moment to answer. “No, I often don’t sleep well, “he said quietly, looking at his hands. “Got up at one this morning.”
“One o’clock?” Stacy asked with some concern. “That’s not good,” she said.
“No, it’s not,” he said, looking at her. His lips slightly parted. “Sorry to get serious all of a sudden, but I’m an Afghanistan vet, I got out in ought-nine.” Glenn rubbed his hands together and looked at the ground. “Things didn’t work out so well,” he said quietly.
She took a spoonful of ice cream, saying nothing at first. “You want to talk about it?” she asked.
Glenn looked up and gave her a quick smile. “As a matter of fact, I do, but not tonight, it’s a long story and I’m really tired.” He hesitated. “Would you like to come to my house for dinner tomorrow night?” He slightly opened is hands. “I can cook some things okay, and it would give me a chance to talk,” he said.
Stacy looked at him with an easy small smile. “Why do I get the feeling this is a bold move for you, Glenn?”
He smiled back. “Well, my therapist encouraged me to do it.”
She looked at him evenly. “You see a therapist?”
“Yeah,” he said matter-of-factly. “The VA assigns me a psychiatrist too, but he’s freaking worthless,” Glenn said dismissively. “How about it? I won’t spill my guts in some life drama, but….” Glenn swallowed and looked her directly in the face. “You seem like the best people, Stacy, I don’t want to come off as something I’m not, or have anything hidden between us,” he said.
She looked back at him, not really minding the serious turn things had quickly taken. “All right,” she said easily. “What time should I show up?”
“Six-ish will be fine, “ Glenn said, quickly moving a hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn.
“Come on, you need some sleep,” Stacy said, putting down her ice cream. She smiled at him and took his hand again. “Time for you to take me home,” she said.
Part VII
If Glenn had felt intimidated by Stacy’s MA it was her turn to feel a sense of awe as she pulled in front of 332 J Street. Oh my God, she said to herself, this place was a kit?
Basically a rectangle of 1700 square feet on a raised foundation, this Sears 1937 kit used a classic craft design and materials for a striking big A frame look over the front door and another smaller frame to the right, each held in place by big exaggerated truss beams that thrust horizontal lines across the front porch. The double-paned windows were framed in the same heavy lumber, a classic expensive two-inch siding adding to the craft feel.
The roof was a matching dark blue color to the trim, how do the shakes get so uniform and perfectly neat? she asked herself, not realizing they were dyed concrete. She walked up four shallow squeak-less painted steps that had been roughened for traction, liking the pearly blue paint and dark trim of the house, impressed with a fiberglass door with a half-moon window that was trimmed and had fixtures of a metal she didn’t recognize, sort of like stainless steel but with a different dark greenish tinge.
Thunk, thunk went the expensive knocker, so different from the pathetic clanking cowbell at her apartment. At least I know that’s copper on the downspout, she said to herself, looking at a corner of the house. But I thought copper was for pennies and cookware.
A dim light from the back of the house shone through the door window, quick steps over a wood floor and then Glenn quickly opened the door, lithe and darkly blonde, barefoot in jeans and a plain white tee shirt.
“Come in, come in, welcome to my house!” he said proudly as she entered.
“It’s beautiful, Glenn!” she said, her usual tone faltering as she looked around—incredibly, the small foyer and front sitting room were completely empty of anything except excellent polished hardwood floors, not a coat rack, no sofa, no plants or paintings, just nothing.
“Come back to the kitchen to put up your jacket and purse, it’s the only room of the house I use,” Glenn said easily, ignoring her quick looking around. “I’ll get you something to drink and show you around the place.”
Stacy felt a little relieved as she went down a short hall and turned left into the kitchen/main sitting room, for here were chairs and a good kitchen table with a laptop and Kindle lying askew, a well-used kitchen with notes and receipts stuck on the fridge, a general spare bachelor feel to it all. A small television sat at the end of the counter with tin-foiled rabbit ears, the sitting room again completely empty except for a red Specialized carbon frame road racer in gleaming glory, propped on a stainless steel holder.
“I can be sort of a miser,” Glenn said as he opened the fridge and took out a pitcher of iced tea. He raised an eyebrow in an exaggerated little smile. “It’s one of my character defects, mm?” he said with some charm; Stacy smiled as she took her tea. “You feel power in not spending the money, then this rationalized wisdom watching your savings grow.” Glenn gestured to the house with an air of resigned disgust. “So I have a nice house without a stick of furniture in it, and my truck is a fucking disgrace, oh my god,” he said.
Stacy laughed. “I did wonder, hotshot,” she said. She looked at the thick glass in her hand; a sprig of mint floated at the top, and he had frozen the glass before serving. Rationalized wisdom, she said to herself, looking up at him quickly with a measured glance. Where you been, Glenn?
“You can show me the rest of the empty rooms later, hotshot,” she said, putting her purse on an oak kitchen chair. Sitting down with her tea, he crossed her legs and smiled at him. “You’ve eaten me alive with curiosity about this serious talk, you shouldn’t do that to a woman, so get on with it,” she said, more used to him now.
“Sure,” he replied easily, sitting down next to the fridge and hunching slightly forward. “I’m mentally ill,” he said, looking at her plainly. “I’ve got post traumatic stress syndrome, PTSD, I got it my first Afghanistan tour in the Corps,” he said, looking at her evenly. “Know what PTSD is?” he asked.
Embarrassed, Stacy slightly flipped her hands open. “You know, sorry, I really don’t, I’ve heard about it all these years, but….”
Glenn waved fingers dismissively. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. He took a deep breath. “The way it was explained to me was, well, you look at a mentally ill person and say it’s raining in their head.” Glenn gave her a tiny look of resignation. “Think of rain, though, and it can be of forty different types, a fine mist or a roaring downpour with everything in between, so if I say I’m ill with PTSD, well, I could be just a little misty that day.”
Stacy said nothing, listening patiently, rubbing her tea glass. Glenn clasped his hands. “I’ve got PTSD, okay, but that really means I’ve got PTSD for me, PTSD is a general thing, every guy at the clinic has a unique version of it, and how we might get out of it will be uniquely our solution, if we do.” Glenn sighed. “We generally have the same problem, though,” he said.
“Which is?” Stacy asked..
“PTSD is a brain memory problem,” Glenn said simply. “My brain got fucking bashed on such hard stuff it never stops remembering it.” Glenn looked at her in a resigned misery. “Ever,” he said.
Stacy looked at him, a hard look of concentration on her face.
“For me, at least, it’s around sixty memories from a four month period from 2004. Sixty memories, whenever I have any second of spare thought by brain always plays one of them, every time.” Glenn swallowed. “It’s freaking vivid and painful, too, as if the event had happened moments ago. I’ve remember stuff a millions times and ached from it a million times,” he said sadly, slowly shaking his head.
“It’s a syndrome,” he continued. “Some guys only have five or six memories over like two days, others ten or twenty, it depends, they just never stop.” Glenn reached out and tenderly held the only photograph in the house standing on the kitchen table, a 4x6 of him in his desert chocolate chip fatigues next a large, fair middle-aged main with a crew cut. “This is my uncle Edward,” Glenn said with a quiet pride. “He saved my life,” he said simply.
Stacy took a measured sip of tea. “How so?” she asked quietly.
Glenn shook his head. “I’m out of the Corps only three weeks, and we can never figure out what circumstances or events lead to it, but somehow I got triggered, something tripped my PTSD and I got fuckin’ overwhelmed,” he said simply. “I had no idea what was going on and I could not sleep for nothing, not a wink. After three weeks I quit my job and showed up at his place, he took me in right then, no questions asked.”
Glenn glasped his hands more firmly leaned forward. “He’d told me years before to show up if anything went wrong, he’d never care what.”
Glenn looked at her, frowning. “He’s my Mother’s brother, I never meant that much to her, my Dad was never around….” Glenn looked ahead in an absent way. “It’s never made any sense, really, why he should care so much, he told me twenty times he wanted to die with something good in his pocket and finally told me to shut the fuck up forever about it.”
Glenn smiled in a small way and looked up at her. “He became my VA advocate, I swear, took two weeks off to handle the paperwork, I never, ever could have done it.”
“Uncle Edward saved my life,” Glenn said again firmly. “If I had had no place to go I was in the streets in weeks, I just could not sleep.” He shook his head slightly. “The memories are bad enough, but it’s the sleep deprivation that fries your brain alive, no lie,” Glenn said emphatically.
“What happened then?” Stacy asked.
Glenn dismissively huffed a breath. “The VA clinic once a week for therapy and walking the dog at Uncle Edward’s house, eighteen months, I was a walking zombie that could barely sleep.” Glenn blankly looked ahead. “I hardly got better at all. Then Uncle Edward gave me a huge down for this place, Jesus I told him not to do it, but I’ve got to say working on it has given me something do.”
Glenn smiled. “My therapist hates me living alone, but the place was a wreck and it’s good for to work on it three and half years,” he said, gesturing to the sparkling bike in the living room. “That’s really what I’ve been doing for all that time, working on this house and riding my bike.”
“And the mill,” she said.
“And the mill,” he affirmed. He shook his head slightly. “Uncle Edward again, one of his friends got me the job,” he said. “It’s not hard, pretty brainless, but it keeps you busy, that’s the thing.”
“Speaking of brains,” Stacy said smiling, “you don’t really look or talk, like, well….”
“Like a combat jarhead?” Glenn asked flatly. “Most Marines aren’t, they’re damn good gunfighters. I signed up six months out of high school, I had the grades for State, but I wanted to be a Marine with the one chance I had in this life,” he said, shaking his head. “A lot of us poor clueless bastards ended up in the Corps like that.”
“That and the clinic,” he continued. “I have a good therapist, I’ve spent a lot of time reading and learning up on mental health, it keeps you sharp.”
Stacy smiled. “You seem better now,” she said.
Glenn shook his head. “You can’t see inside my mind,” he said. “It’s been five years since my trigger, and I still have my memories, all day, every day, if my mind wanders they crowd right back in. Some days they hurt pretty bad, it rains pretty hard,” he said pensively.
“But,” he declared affirmatively, “those days come less and less. Maybe one day it won’t rain at all,” he said.
“Will that ever happen?”
Glenn slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so, not from what I know and have learned. I think, I guess, that somehow my memories will become sort of a constant reality weave…a way of being in the world without them always hurting or distracting you. I don’t know,” he said.
Stacy frowned. “Can’t the doctors do anything?
Glenn shook his head. “No. The VA assigned me a psychiatrist, he doesn’t know shit about PTSD, none of them do,” Glenn said without rancor. “At least he was honest about it. Didn’t know what caused it, don’t know anything how to fix it. He did put me on an anti-depressant,” Glenn said, gesturing to the big bottle on the table. “An old common one, once a day for the rest of my life, that’s what they say. After that it’s just therapy once a week. Some therapy works walking through every memory aloud, but it didn’t work for me.”
Stacy took all this in and looked at him critically, a growing sense of admiration filling her. “By the way, what’s for dinner, hotshot?”
“Roundtable delivery,” Glenn said with pleased emphasis, putting his phone in the middle of the table. “This story was enough for me to handle in one night,” he said.
Stacy chuckled. “Well, that’s fine, you’ve certainly earned it, no doubt of that,” she said. She watched him. “Will it ever come back?” she asked quietly.
Glenn shook his head. “That’s the worst part, I think, not knowing if a trigger may happen sometime. Some guys get triggers all the time, some once in a great while, some never,” he said, shrugging. “My therapist tends to doubt it, she says, I won’t be in the same mental space of just getting out of the Corps again.”
She looked him. “Pepperoni and mushrooms,” she said.
He smiled and picked up the phone. “Ah, not a vegetarian, it’s a good thing,” she said. She smiled at him as he placed the order. When he finished thumbing through the browser, checking a credit card number in his wallet, he tossed the phone back next to his laptop. “I really have talked long enough, I gotta question for ya,” he said.
“Shoot,” she replied.
“Why are you still single?”
Stacy meditatively fingered her tea glass. “Oh it’s a lot shorter than your story, hotshot,” she said firmly, drying her hand on a napkin.
“I need a good man, Glenn,” she declared. “I don’t need a marriage, I don’t need children, I don’t need to change my name to follow some chump around in life with,” she said. She opened her hands. “There are things I have to do, a man’s never getting in the way of any it, and I haven’t met one good man yet who can figure it out.”
She snorted in disgust. “How hard can it be to be a good man? Really? Have a job, live by the truth, do the right thing, Jesus, men like that seem rare as unicorns these days.”
Glenn had been listening attentively, hands in the table. He thoughtfully rubbed his chin, a tiny look of amusement around his lips. “I get it,” he said.
He’s just saying it, Stacy thought as she looked him.
“I’m not just saying it,” he said, startling her. “I’ve met a few people with an overriding sense of mission in life, I kind of envy them, in a way,” he said. His eyes travelled over her admiringly. “Along with everything else,” he said.
Stacy looked at him, slightly got up and then kissed him on the lips, opening her mouth as she put a hand on his neck. She finished and looked down at him, a look of cautious wonder on his face.
He won’t make a move for it, she told herself, it’s just not the way the way he is. If you’ve ever met a good man this has to be one, this is your Michael Jordan moment in life, girl, take off your shirt and fuck him, just do it.
Stacy stood up and looked at him with a small smile, his look of wonder growing as she started unbuttoning her shirt. Sex complicates things, came the echoing, reverberating warning in her mind. Well, whoever said that was completely full of it too, she told herself firmly as she reached the last button. Sex can make things so simple, she thought, kissing him again.