Joy and Tiers (15 page)

Some days I feel like a glorified taxi service to all the various stops within the system. It never seems to change; I just shuffle people from one place to another and then I shuffle paper from one pile to another justifying how I shuffled the people from one place to another. It’s a monotonous cycle day in and day out. As I check my email, there’s an urgent email from my commanding officer with the National Guard. My heart sinks to my feet. These are never good. Lately, the subjects of these emails have been related to the death of many of the men in my unit. Men have died on the battlefield and others on the home front from alcoholism, drug abuse, and suicide. I dread opening the email. It’s been a hell of a day, and I’m not looking forward to whatever’s inside. Yet, it’s my duty to deal with whatever news is coming my way.

Just then, my commanding officer with the Sheriff’s Department pokes his head into the little shoebox I’m using as an office. “Hey, Colton, you got a call from some muckity-muck at the Guard. You’re supposed to call back. When I asked for a name, they said just to tell you that you’re supposed to check in with your unit and you would know what he meant. He said he sent you an email and you should check that as soon as possible. I hope this message makes more sense to you. Anyway, consider yourself told,” He says with a smirk as he walks off. I’ve never liked that guy much. He’s got himself a fancy degree from some Ivy League university, and he thinks he knows all about police work. I bet he wouldn’t last two days on the streets.

Now, I’m even more worried than before. For my CO to both call and email. It must be something pretty serious. I fish my thermos out of my backpack and take a big swig of lukewarm coffee to fortify myself.

 As I read the email, it isn’t what I expected at all. Members of our unit are being asked to volunteer for a special task force to train Iraqi security forces. I have to work hard to tamp down my rage.
Train
my ass. It was one of theirs who practically wiped out my unit. They were supposed to be working with us the last time. Unfortunately the bozo who tried to blow us up apparently didn’t get the memo. Now they want us to go back and try again. The problem is when Uncle Sam asks you to go on a "volunteer" mission, it isn’t really a polite request. It’s more like a prettied up order. So, I know that I don’t have much choice but to go whether I agree with the mission or not. This basically just burns my butt. The higher-ups who move little pushpins around a map have never had to hold dead soldiers in their arms and explain to their parents how little Johnny’s arms and legs got blown to pieces by some terrorist that was supposed to be on our side.

Oh God, speaking of parents—mine are going to be devastated when they find out I have to go back over and serve again. I think they thought I was done when I dropped back down to the Guard. They had good reason to think so since I’ve done so many tours. It’s going to suck to tell them one more time. My mom worries about me so much when I’m gone. I feel like I break her heart every time I write or call. On the other hand, if I don’t call her she worries even more. It’s the ultimate no-win situation. Or, at least it was until I met Heather. This situation might be even tougher now. Things look like they might be going somewhere between us finally, and now that’s going to come to a screeching halt. I tried the “relationship in the military” thing once before, and I already know the ending to that story and it doesn’t end well, so there’s no point in even starting down that road. It’s too damn bad. I really believe things could have been great with Gidget too. Stupid fucking war.

I have to get my head on straight because I have to call my commanding officer, and he doesn’t care about my personal problems, my philosophical problems with the plan or anything else. I try to think about how Heather would approach this situation as the eternal optimist. First, she would probably point out to me that this is an opportunity for me to see my friends I haven’t seen in years. Then, she would point out to me that it will be a great way for me to get even with the bastards who blew up all my men. Lastly, it’s a way for me to stack on some rank before I decide to retire completely. I’d like to go back to school and finish up the degree before I get too old to have a career that makes sense.

So, I guess there are some positives to going back over to the hellhole if you can look at it like that. Trying to leave my brain in that frame of mind, I call my commanding officer.

“Captain Smith,— this is Lieutenant Colton. I understand you called today, sir.”

I listen as he commences the perfunctory small talk. I always find this part extremely nerve-racking. I’m never really quite sure when to schmooze and when to get down to brass tacks

“Very good sir. Yes, sir, the weather has been wonderful. Yes, sir, the wedding was very nice. No sir, it was not my wedding. My best friend got married. My mother is fine sir, and my father is looking forward to retiring from the hardware store soon,” I answer, trying not to let my impatience show. In all honesty, I wish he would get to the important topic. I know from experience he’ll share the details only when he’s ready. I just have to be patient. I think this little exercise is a holdover from the days when he used to be a drill sergeant.

“How is your family, sir?” I ask just to be polite. 

“It’s all good, Lieutenant. It’s good to be home. Although I will say I’m not thrilled Andrew is failing PE. It’s a little embarrassing since people know I’m his dad. I think he does it so there’s no danger that he’ll ever have to join the military,” Captain Smith jokes.

I chuckle as I reply, “Could very well be, sir. What do you know about this upcoming mission?” I transition as smoothly as I can into the topic that’s burning a hole in my brain.

Captain Smith snickers as he says, “Well, Colton, I’ve got to hand it to you. You lasted longer than I thought you would. I thought you’d be tearing me apart limb by limb for answers the second you got on the phone. Anyway, the email was just a heads up. This isn’t even an official mission yet. The policy wonks in Washington still have to fund it, and then they have to get final mission approval from the Pentagon. They’re worried about it conflicting with the draw-down directive. So, those of us on the ground are trying to get our ducks in a row in case we’re called up at the last minute. So, just be forewarned, if this comes down the pike you could get three hours, three days or three months’ worth of notice before we need to deploy,”

“Don’t worry, I keep my ruck pack ready to go at all times,” I reply.

“Well, damn son, we need more like you,” he quips.

“Please keep me informed about what’s going on and I’ll talk to you later. Have a good night.”

Today, Heather has her food truck parked down in Corvallis because there’s a football game at Oregon State University. I love the way her friends rally around her to help her in her business. She has gotten permission from a closed business park to take over a large portion of his parking lot. She’s got her little sideshow running. Tara has a booth where she’s painting faces with an airbrush. Gabriel, Jeff’s nephew, is drawing cartoon characters of people while his mom is a doing a little makeover booth. It still blows me away that Jeff’s claim to fame is braiding hair. But, hey whatever works for him and given the state of his seemingly blissful marriage, something is clearly working for him. Kiera is holding court in a homemade puppet theater of sorts with tons of Mindy’s dress-up clothes in a big steamer chest. She’s helping kids change in and out of clothes and reading them Pirate and Princess stories while their parents scarf down food. Even Javier is in on the fun. He set up a bunch of big-screen TVs in the parking lot and is projecting the game from his tablet so nobody misses any football. Heather is selling food faster than she can make it. She has a line all the way around the truck. I wash my hands and step into the truck to help her.

“Wow, I’ve forgotten how small this thing is with two of us in here,” I comment as I almost smack my head on the ceiling.

“Piper and I work in here just fine,” she argues. “I think it’s because you’re approximately the size of the Jolly Green Giant that’s the problem. Do you
need
something?” she asks pointedly.

“Yes, actually,” I answer. “You look extremely stressed. I came to see what I could do to help.”

“How much experience do you have on a flat top?” she asks eyeing me skeptically. 

“A fair amount actually,” I answer.

“Enough not to burn bread?” Heather asks raising her eyebrow.

“I think I can manage without too much difficulty,” I reply. “Just because I eat microwave pizza it doesn’t mean it’s the only thing I know how to cook. If I screw it up, I give you permission to take me off the line, Chef.”

“Wow, I’m impressed! You use the right vernacular and everything,” she teases.

“It’s amazing what working two months at Denny’s will do for you,” I confess with a sly grin.

“What did you do? Get fired for your lack of taste in food?” Heather parries.

After a beat of awkward silence I answer, “Nope, I enlisted in the Army. After that, my taste in food went from bad to worse out of necessity.”

I hear Heather mumble under her breath. I step closer so that I can hear what she’s saying as she is muttering to herself, “Great job, Heather—Land mines. Stupid emotional land mines. Please… try a little harder H. Maybe next time, you should just step on each and every one of them.”

“What are you being hard on yourself about this time? Didn’t we talk about this? You were going to be nicer to yourself, remember? I think you forgot about our little deal. Heather, you had no way of knowing the reason I left my job at Denny’s was because I went to basic training. So why would you criticize yourself for not guessing that?” I gently ask as I tuck a piece of her hair back under her hair net.

Heather looks up at me with wide cornflower blue eyes. “Well, I was trying not to make things awkward; but when you say it like that, it does sound stupid.”

“Gidget, I appreciate you trying to be sensitive. But, I can talk about my military service. It just hurts me to talk about the day of the incident. If I didn’t talk about the time I spent in the military I have to disregard nearly a decade of my life between the time I spent in active service and the time I’ve spent in the reserves. My mom would be bummed if she couldn’t show off all those pictures of me in my uniform.”

The corners of Heather’s mouth tilt up in a sexy grin and her eyes sparkle as she remarks, “Ooh, I bet you look sexy in your dress uniform. Heck, I bet you look sexy in any uniform. But, especially in your dress greens.”

“I can only hope that my mom isn’t thinking about how sexy I am in my uniform when she’s showing off my pictures at her bridge club,” I respond, shuddering for good measure. But, I have more pressing matters. I collect myself and turn to Heather, “Speaking of the military, I need to have a quiet conversation with you one of these days soon, but not here, okay?”

“Yikes, that sounds serious. Should I be scared?” Heather asks, examining my face for clues.

“I can’t tell you that you should never be scared, but for now, I think things are pretty stable. I’ll try to always give you as much warning as I can if things get dicey,” I promise.

“We’ve got to get moving on the sandwiches, they’re not going to make themselves,” Heather says as her lips compress into a grim line.

“What can I do to help?” I ask as I roll up the sleeves on my shirt.

“Can you butter those hoagie rolls and toss them on the griddle top. I just want them golden brown. Nothing special except butter. I’m putting them on the French dips today. I’ve got Reuben sandwiches, and Patty melts too. You can help me set up the ingredients for those too if you want to. We need to set up some sort of assembly line. I think Javier’s wife is going to come play cashier for me. That will help take off some of the pressure. She should be here anytime. Thank goodness Gwendolyn has Becca today, so we don’t have to worry about her.”

I’m amazed how efficiently and calmly Heather works once she settles into the groove. We seem to form a little unit between us. It’s almost as if we can read each other’s minds. I noticed it when we were working on the wedding cake, but it’s even more apparent here as we’re working under massive time pressure. We’re working together like we’ve done it our whole lives.

By the end of the day, Heather’s little food truck has raked in nearly $2,300 in five hours. She’s ecstatic. After a round of high-fives and hugs for everyone involved, she stops in front of me. “I’d like to hug you too, but I probably smell like a pig that has wallowed in sewage all day. I’d rather that not be the lasting impression you have of me if you don’t mind,” she admits with a self-deprecating grin.

“Do you have any spare clothes in this thing? “I ask looking around her cramped truck.

“Of course I do!” she exclaims. “What kind of girly-girl do you take me for? But my nastiness goes beyond just dirty clothes. I have an embedded level of funk.”

“What if I told you I can offer you a shower?”

“Then you would get more than just a hug,” she promises.