Prologue

It’s the fall of 2007. Our protagonist is home from the army and an extended personal tour of the country. Born and raised on the Eastern Shore of Maryland; this story, though there are look backs, only covers a few days.

So let us begin.

Just this morning I got up and went to work like I always do. I’m still a young fella, just a twenty something; graduated high school, joined the army, served my three years, added two more, including a year in the “Sand Box”, a short assignment in Africa, and a spell at Fort Sam Houston.

I’ve got to admit I’m not real excited about what I saw and what I did while I was overseas. I know, or I guess I knew that, if we were going to keep the terrorists at bay we had to be over there. I suppose the most disturbing thing about the whole matter is how I felt about who I was, or who I had become. I mean when a man’s fighting in another country; killing other people you’re not completely sure need to be killed, and being rewarded for it there’s a downside that’s hard to explain. It’s an uncomfortable feeling; it’s a hardening thing. I mean to be ‘over there’ taking other peoples’ lives and to be told it’s a good thing, and then to come home and find out doing the same thing back here is a bad thing. It’s perplexing. It becomes something that grows all too easy to rationalize, to get confused about; it’s like everything gets all turned upside down.

Confused, I felt lost. I guess that’s why so many of the guys can’t stay home; they feel like they have to go back. It’s like the fighting and the killing is the normal thing, and all the other stuff doesn’t make sense anymore.

I got home and it was like everything was foreign to me. I was home. I was walking up and down the same streets I grew up in. I saw the same people I’d always known, but I just didn’t feel like I did before. Everything was all so different. I mean it was the same, but different to me somehow.

I couldn’t stay. Plus, I kept having headaches and dizzy spells. I even passed out a couple times. Back in Germany and later at Fort Sam the doctors warned me I was in trouble. They said I needed to get help. But, what do they know?

I only knew I had to get away, so I decided to take some time and do just that. I decided to travel the country I’d been fighting for. I wanted to see if it was worth what I’d done. So, I got the hell out of Dodge.

I was gone quite a while, several months. I needed to unwind. Besides, I wanted to find out a few things about myself. What did I find? Well first, I found out I had more or less lost interest what other people thought of me. I kind of lost any interest in having any real goals. Sure, I wanted to work. I wanted to be a success, but the old ideas, like starting a family, having real relationships with other people, finding someone to love, being in love, didn’t matter so much.

That’s not true. I mean I do want to get married. I do want to have a family. I guess I just can’t seem to figure out how to do it. It all seemed so easy back before, but now, well ... I don’t know.

And wherever I’ve been people seem so focused, but not especially happy. A couple things kind of pissed me off; not kind of, like really pissed me off. When people did talk about Iraq, they want to know how many people I killed, and how I did it, like ‘I bet you knocked em off with your old M16’, or ‘I bet you used a grenade. How many did you bayonet? Was there much blood?’ Shit, did I hate that! Like I was Chuck Norris? Then there was always somebody who’d give me the old, “awe, I’m so sincere”, you gotta get over it, you gotta get past it, you gotta move on. There were older men, guys my father’s age who said they’d been to “Nam”, and how they got home and everybody hated them. I knew that story. My dad told me some of that. People don’t get it.

Mostly, I saw a lot of smiling, I got a lot of thank yous, but it just seemed so unreal, phony even. There was so much I needed to say about Iraq; yet so many people seemed so indifferent about what we were doing over there, like it isn’t even happening, or it’s so easy, like it’s nothing, you’ve got so much back-up; it can’t be that tough. But it is something. I was there; it is a bad and dangerous place. There might be something about the phrase, ‘Sand Box’. Nobody can understand what Iraq is, but everyone knows what a sand box is, a child’s play place. We call it a sandbox, and it takes all the danger, all the flies, the rodents, the smells, the cur dogs, the heat, the filth, and the damned people out of it. It becomes a neutral place, but it isn’t neutral, it’s a terrible place. There’s another even more terrible place; the hospital at Fort Sam. I can’t think about that.

Nobody, or hardly nobody understands what is going on in that filthy country. I didn’t understand while I was there, and I sure don’t understand now. I do know I hate it. I also know our leaders are either lying to us or they don’t know either. They say we’re killing terrorists, protecting democracy, and we’re setting people free. All I know is I was setting people free with an automatic rifle and high caliber bullets. Our leaders are telling us the same things my father’s leaders told him. Now, all my father tells me is how assholes like Melvin Laird and Robert McNamara apologized for lying twenty years ago and for the 53,320+ dead G.I.s. My dad says our death toll in Vietnam was really a lot higher.

I know this; those people over there hate us. Who can blame them? We bombed and killed the shit out of them in the First Iraq War, and now we’re back again.

Anyway, I did my duty, I got out of the army, took time to travel, and then came back home. I’ve started my own business.

~~V~~

I love working outside. I know I can’t work inside. Every time I try working inside, I get tense and nervous. I’m good with my hands, I have a good eye, believe me, there’ll be no pee marks where I drive a nail. I had a pick-up when I left for the service, but, with the help of a relative I traded up for something bigger when I got back. I put a sign on it, “Tresh Contracting”, and I got right to work.

That’s such bullshit! I hate contracting. The only reason why I’m doing it is..., well, because that’s all I can do. I mean and stay outside. I hate carpentry work! I look at the people who hire me, and sometimes I wish I could take a hammer to their faces, the ignorant arrogant bastards!

Just the same, I’m an independent. I’ve found some significant advantages to being on one’s own; for one I can set my own hours, second, I’m not bound by traditional standards so I can set my own prices, a third, all of what I do is on a cash only basis, but last and biggest of all, if I don’t feel like talking to anybody I can go off and sit in the woods. I can be alone and think. What do I think? Mostly how much I hate being who I am. Oh, I wish ... I wish.

No one knows exactly how much I make. I’m not even sure. I like it that way; nobody can check up on me, and even if they tried, I’d just laugh them off. That’s not true either; there’s one person I couldn’t laugh off.

I’m not married. I had plans once, but that all went awry. I had my high school sweetheart, a beautiful kid named Sarah Windover. She and I dated off and on from late middle school up until I left for Fort Benning.

Sarah’s always been something of a problem. When I drove off to see the country and get lost, I tried to block everybody who wanted to text me. I did block everybody too; everybody except Sarah. Don’t know why, just didn’t. She texted me every God damned day, and usually when I was right in the middle of something. I was in west Texas; passed out they say. Maybe I had maybe I hadn’t, all I know is I wanted to finish things off right there, but the little scamp called and messed up my plan. Happened again in California. I was driving north up the Coastal Highway when I thought about all those old movies where somebody drives a car off some cliff. ‘Wouldn’t that be exciting,’ I thought. I even turned my truck around and started heading south. That’s when she texted me, another plan fucked up. Same thing happened again at Glacier National Park. I was on the outer rim, just thinking, when the ‘little so and so’ texted again. Honest, after a while I started looking for her texts. I kept saying to myself, “OK, no text today, then today’s ‘the day’.” She always texted. Don’t know why; I’m sure not worth it, not worth her anyway.

Sarah has always been a “good girl”, much too good for me, a hard-core Episcopalian. For five years I tried every trick I could conjure to get her out of her clothes, but nothing worked. She had her own set of rules; her own “pat answers” for everything like, “The Ring’s the Thing”, “Ya gotta buy the cow to get the milk”, and the worst, “Travis you know I’m a good girl, and good girls don’t come across until after ... you know.”

It was unimaginable then, and even more unimaginable now; how could a good girl, or any girl, hold out for as long as she has, I mean in this day and age? From what I hear she’s just as doggedly pure now as then. Besides, she’s been to college. She’s making something of herself. I know Sarah; she’ll find the right guy, a guy with real smarts, a guy who’ll ... who’ll ... well, everyone knows. Everyone knows I’m not fit.

I broke up with Sarah just before I left for active duty. I told her I might still be a virgin, (I was too) but I told her I planned on fixing that as soon as I could. She didn’t like it, but she didn’t argue. She never was much for arguing; instead of arguing she’d always come up with something different, like out of the blue a different thing to talk about.

I told her she should go to college like she planned, she should find a suitable man and get married. She simply said, “We’ll see.” So off I went to learn how to kill people and break things, and off she went to college.

I remember I went right to work on the virginity thing. I sure managed to end that fast! Nine months in Georgia, with several trips to Columbus, and I found out about Gonorrhea and Syphilis. I also picked up some airborne training and became a Ranger. It was and it wasn’t easy. The running, the survivalist stuff, and the living on four hours sleep wasn’t too bad, but swimming in full gear, including boots, doing pull ups until you thought your arms would fall off, and climbing mountains was all pretty tough, especially when my concept of a mountain had always been a sand dune on Fenwick Island.

Another thing, the pretty girls that hang out near army bases can be exceedingly good capitalists. My advice to any young enlistee is to remember that after all that good frolicsome sex, and that warm sleepy post-coital glow, there can be some real unfortunate circumstances. Just remember, don’t let the old guard down, the recruit who falls asleep after sex will probably wake up with his wallet and all his money gone. I guess I learned even before I went overseas, if you don’t take care of yourself, you’ll soon be in a world of shit, because nobody else will.

~~~V~~~

I’ve been back from my tour of the country for a while, I make decent money, and enjoy the beach when I can, but summer is over now and cooler weather is setting in. It’s a Friday night, and I’ve put in a good day; I finished up a shed for a wealthy lawyer who’d just bought a home on the west side of the Assawoman Bay, and then I repaired a roof for an older couple who’d lost some shingles during a storm that passed through a few days before. It was a good thing too; we’re having another of those wet spells. I hate em; it’s a cool, damp, wet kind of day, a day where people feel wet and uncomfortable both inside and out.

I’ve been home, got scrubbed and shaved; I even freshly trimmed my mustache. My truck is clean, inside and out, maybe a little bird shit here and there. I have some money in my pocket, a pair of clean sneakers, tan dungarees, a new blue Oxford shirt, lightweight jacket, and a brand new diamond ring I plan on giving to my special sweetheart as soon as I reach Elly’s Restaurant over on Fenwick Island not far from the lighthouse.

My special sweetheart isn’t Sarah, but another one, a real head turner. I like that. I like the idea that when other people see me with her, they get envious. Not the best prescription for marriage I guess, but I’m not thinking that far ahead. I figure; so what if I give her an engagement ring, it doesn’t really mean anything.

I mean it does and it doesn’t. To me a ring is just a promise, not an absolute guarantee. Here’s how I see it. Katy, that’s her name, and I aren’t officially committed to each other, and I suspect, no actual proof, that she’s been sleeping around on the side. If I give her a ring, then that’s a promise, and she’ll have to measure up and not sleep around. Sure, maybe she can’t hold to a promise; I might not either. If either one of us can’t measure up, then we’ll just call the whole thing off. I’ll lose a ring, but who cares? It’s only money. For shit’s sake; the truth is I’m not sure what I want. Do I really want to marry Katy, or anyone for that matter? Well, maybe, someone, but what good would a ring do; it might hold my place in line until I decide. Anyway, no matter how things could turn out with Katy, I’m sure me getting engaged to her will piss Sarah off. I’d like that. I think I would. I guess I would. I’m not sure.

I know this; you can’t trust people. I was in Iraq. I saw a couple guys get the old “heave ho” from some worthless bitch back home. That isn’t going to happen to me, I’m not going to go through any of that bullshit, not in this life time.

I like living in Maryland. Anyone who has been to the Maryland-Delaware Eastern Shore ought to know there are three important beaches; two in Delaware, Bethany and Rehoboth, and then there’s Ocean City, Maryland. Ocean City is actually two beaches; there’s “Old Ocean City” and “North Ocean City”. North Ocean City is where all the high rises are; that’s where one can find all the rich “muckety-mucks”. They’re easy to spot, they’re usually from someplace like Philadelphia or New York. Just look for the Porsches, Ferraris, and Jaguars. Most locals don’t bother with North Ocean City; outsiders drive the prices up too high. Further south in “Old Ocean City” is where the Silverados, F-150s, and Tundras can be found; transportation for the people. South Ocean City is older and grubbier, but it’s got a lot of nice older restaurants and quite a few good bars. I don’t drink much as a rule, but an ice-cold beer in the summer or a Jim Beam and coke in the cooler weather can hit the spot. Not too much though; no one wants a hangover.

Elly’s isn’t a restaurant for the filthy rich; filthy maybe, but not necessarily rich. Elly’s is the place to get a good home cooked meal. The best is the fish; bluefish, flounder, and croakers, all fried. Oysters are harder to get in the summer, but during the cooler months it’s hard to beat a good oyster sandwich at Elly’s. (Except maybe further west at Sharptown.) Me, I like my oysters on the half shell. I can slurp several dozen down at one sitting. They taste great! Best of all though are the crabs; soft crabs, crab cakes, and, of course, the very best, hard, steamed, Maryland blue crabs. Nothing’s better than a heap of fresh blue crabs steamed up in beer, rock salt, and good old Maryland “Old Bay” seasoning. Old Bay is the “classic” ingredient in most Maryland seafood.

There’s an interesting story about Old Bay Seasoning. It seems there was this chemist who came west to America from Europe in the 1930’s. He was hired by a prosperous spice operation up in Baltimore. He did a pretty good job too; he was reliable, hardworking, and creative, but someone found out he was of the Jewish persuasion. This was back in the day when being a Black or Jewish person in Maryland meant having a pretty-tough time. I heard when I was a kid a lot of shopkeepers wouldn’t label their prices. That way they could always charge black customers a little more. Anyway, the spice company found out about the guy’s background, and they let him go. Disconsolate, depressed, yes, but beaten, no; he got to work and invented “Old Bay Seasoning”. The rest is history.

I got to Elly’s; it was late in the evening, close to 9:00 p.m. It had been a chilly day; much too chilly and wet for the time of year. We were only a week away from Thanksgiving, and the lot was nearly full.

I puttered around in my truck before I got out. So, this was the night; the night I was going to ask Katy to marry me. We had hinted around at it. I guess she was the one. What the hell.

I’m sitting here thinking about the first time I met her; it was over at the Wagon Wheel Restaurant north of where I usually hang out; it’s up toward Dover Air Force Base where a lot of Air Force men spend time. Air Force and Navy guys are all right I guess; they don’t see much in the way of combat, not like guys like me.

I remember I was a kid and the family had gone out to eat somewhere. I do remember I got a crab cake platter. There was this guy wearing a baseball cap that said Vietnam Veteran. When we were leaving my dad asked him when and where he’d served. The guy said he’d been in the Navy and served on the U.S.S. Forestall. He asked my dad if he had been to “Nam”. My dad said, “First Cav, 1967-68.” I recall the guy with the hat said, “Oh you were ‘boots on the ground’.” My dad frowned and said, “Yeah, ‘boots on the ground.’”

Out on the parking lot my dad started cussing. I remember he said, “U.S.S. Forestall, I’ll bet that cock sucker never even saw Vietnam. Damn it,” he went on, “That son-of-a-bitch never had to run through a rice paddy stuffed with shit slathered bamboo stakes. No sir. Not him!”

That was when my mom took his arm and said, “Cut it out Donnie.” (My dad’s name is Donald, but everybody calls him Donnie.) She said, “He did something. He might have been repairing the jets that ... you know.” I recall my dad turned and hugged and kissed my mom. He said, “You’re right honey. He played a part. He’s entitled.” She hugged him back. I remember she had tears in her eyes. She didn’t cry though. None of us kids said anything all the way home. Mom put an old ‘Peter, Paul, and Mary’ CD in the player, and we all quietly listened. There was this song, “Leavin on a Jet Plane”. I didn’t get it then, I do now.

My dad and mom got engaged just before he left for Vietnam. They got married when he got home. Dad went to college, then mom, and then they started having kids. They had three. I’m the youngest.

It was at the Wagon Wheel where I first met Katy. She was sitting at this big round table off in the corner surrounded by a bunch of people, mostly men. She saw me, and for some reason she pointed to an empty chair that was beside her. I thought, ‘what the hell? Pretty girl, chair, why not?’ I walked over and sat down. Later I found out the chair was empty because her boyfriend had been sitting there, and they’d just broken up.

We all sat around for a couple hours. Most of the others got up and down to dance, but me and Katy sat and talked. She told me all about her college days, her career as a singer, and how her parents were filthy rich. Except for the part about her being a singer; I figured most of what she said was true. I told her about my travels around the country. I never told her I had been in the Army. She found that out later.

When it was time to close, I asked if I could take her home. She said yes, so I did. I took her home, but she didn’t let me in. She did give me a kiss goodnight and her phone number. She said I should call her. I did a couple days later and we started dating. I didn’t score until the third date. We did it at her apartment. I had a good time. She knew a lot of tricks, but mostly we talked. She liked to talk about how much she valued her freedom, how she wasn’t sure about getting tied down, but if the right man came along, she would know. I was never sure, but it sounded like she wanted something more from me. I guess I fell for her about then. I don’t think it was love, but I knew it was more than sex.

She also told me about some of the boys she’d met at college and how they liked to take advantage. She said I had a calming effect on her. Imagine, me calming someone else down.

So here I am at Elly’s. I got out of my truck and looked around. There were a handful of locals like me, plus a bunch of biker dudes hanging around outside. Bikers always seem to get a bad rap; I guess it’s the way they’re portrayed in movies. Most bikers are pretty nice people; they just like to ride around on their motorcycles and make a lot of noise. I say, ‘To each his own.’ I nodded as I pushed by to get inside. They all grinned and nodded back.

So, inside I went; through the front door past the service counter, and I was there. The place was warm and dry, and boy, it was hopping! Elly, the owner, had placed several gorgeous pictures of the beach and ocean across the back wall behind the sixty-foot bar. Below the pictures was the usual long mirror; the kind of mirror where guys surreptitiously try out their macho looks, and where girls pretend they’re not checking out the guys.

Lined up along the back were about a dozen booths. It was probably one booth too many, as the seats were too close to the tables to be comfortable for anyone taller than a midget. In front of the booths was an indeterminate number of tables. One never knew precisely how many tables; Elly kept adding one or two every now and then. I suppose that sooner or later there wouldn’t be any room on the dance floor; no one bought food or drank beer on an open floor. It was a nice hardwood dance floor, and tonight, like most others, it was overcrowded with couples trying to look graceful.

Dancing at Elly’s is a pretty precise prospect; couples either drift around the floor in a casual “two step”, or occasionally someone would get up the nerve get a line dance going. In the summertime it was always kind of fun watching the vacationers trying to imitate all us locals out on the floor. They tried, and we were nice about it.

I like to dance, and here at Elly’s it’s fun and easy. A lot of it has to do with the music; most of it is “western swing” with some slow songs thrown in for the gropers and huggers. Everybody knows the songs; George Strait, Tim McGraw, and Blake Shelton, but once in a while someone will throw in a Willie, Waylon, Dolly, or Lady Antebellum. Got all that, and you pretty much filled the juke box. They tell me George Strait never comes east. That’s too bad; he’d have a good audience here along the Atlantic. Likes his Texas I guess.

The floor was crowded tonight. I scouted the place out and saw quite a few old friends, some new friends, and a few acquaintances. Since high school there’d been a steady influx of new families who had moved down and settled close to the coast. Most of the “new people” were what I considered total outsiders; they will never fit in. Some, however, do turn out to be pretty good. Those “pretty good” types quite often turn up at places like Elly’s. I saw tonight a mixture of “newbys” filtered in with us “regulars”.

I wasn’t looking for any of them tonight. I was looking for my sweetheart; her official name is Kathy McFarland, but everyone calls her Katy. Katy is what I’d call an older “newby”. Her family moved down when she was a junior. I met her after I’d worn the traveling urge out. I guess you might say she scoped me out back at the Wagon Wheel, and gone to work. By the time I got settled in with my business Katy had become my main squeeze. We’ve been an exclusive item for a while, and I guess I’ve fallen in love.

Love is a peculiar word. I thought I loved my old high school girlfriend. I know, even now, I sure feel funny around her, all kind of tickly inside. Whenever I see her, I still feel self-conscious. It’s hard to figure. I don’t know that it’s love; I just like to be around her. I worry about her too; she’s kind of small and dainty. I’m afraid somebody’s going to hurt her some day. I think Katy might love me, but really, no one can say for sure what another person is thinking.

That’s when I saw Sarah, my old girlfriend out on the floor. I sort of figured she thought I’d come back for her. I didn’t. I don’t know, maybe I should’ve. Who can say? I know, even though she’s had several chances she hasn’t married anyone yet. When I was gone, she was the only one who ever wrote or texted, and when I was in the Middle-East she was the only person who ever face-timed with me. I didn’t even face-time with my mom or dad; my mom texted some, but never “faced” me. I didn’t want her to anyway.

Back in the day I didn’t know what to think about Sarah. When we talked neither of us ever brought up anything about marriage or what I was going to do when I got home. When I was in the army, I never told her anything or offered any plans. Hell, where I was, people were getting killed, and worse, maimed! She never made any suggestions either. My guess is; she went off to become a college graduate, while I was still just high school.

The day I got out I was at Fort Sam Houston. I caught a plane and flew into Andrews outside D.C. The doctors at Fort Sam wanted me to stay, but I was through. I was sick of all their bullshit. I was sick of all the suffering. I recall some asshole spouting bullshit about concussions. I overheard one of them as I was leaving; the son-of-a-bitch looked at one of his compatriots and made some shit-assed comment about me. I remember he said, “I bet he’s done in six months.” The doctor he was talking to answered, “No I give him a year.” I knew what they meant. Did I give a shit? Hell no! So, what if I had a few dizzy spells, and everybody gets headaches. So, what! So, what if someday I might get bored and decide to “off” myself. That was my business. They gave me some prescriptions, Lexapro and Latuda. I threw em out once I got outside. I got my paperwork and left.

From Andrews I rented a car and drove home. I never told anyone I was coming. When I got home, I found out Sarah was dating this creep Denny, Dennis, Miles. He’s a newer person whose family had moved to the shore from the D.C. suburbs. His father is a lawyer; he’d been a local politician up in northern Virginia. When they got to where I lived, he settled his family in one of the pricier parts of Bethany Beach, and from there took up a job doing something where he makes a lot of money, so his boy, Denny, doesn’t have to do anything. Denny always has lots of money, and he always drives around in some kind of fast car. Back in the day I never gave him a thought, but when I found out he was dating Sarah I knew I didn’t like him.

Back then Sarah worked part-time at the Walmart. She still does, but I can’t figure out why. I’d seen that creep Denny hovering around her before I left for the service. I never dreamed she’d take up with him, but there wasn’t anything I could say; damn it, I’d broken up with her.

With a Lite beer in my hand; looking around the dance floor for Katy I couldn’t help but see Sarah out there with Denny’s arms all around her. Somebody had put on an old George Strait, and together, they were making all the right moves. Well, Denny was trying to make some moves, but, just as I remembered, Sarah was cunningly blocking every attempted grope. I really don’t like that guy!

Sarah must have noticed me at the bar, because she started dancing with a little more flair. I know her. She can’t fool me. She still likes me. I wish I had done something with my life.

Back when we were in high school, she was kind of skinny and she giggled a lot. She’s changed; that skinny girl I remembered blossomed into a beautiful young woman. I felt like going over and cutting in. I didn’t though. She has great hair, and the way she’s wearing it makes her neck look naked. She’s got this beautiful heart shaped face with a kind of pert turned up nose, and a real pretty mouth with shiny red lips that always look pursed up like she’s getting ready to kiss somebody. She has a kind of pale complexion with lots of freckles; I reckon that’s the Gaelic in her. I thought, ‘It would be great to go over and put both my hands on her shoulders.’ I used to do that when we were in high school.

Just then I saw Katy walk in from the pavilion. She was with Jimmy Galloway, another guy I don’t like. Jimmy, or I should say James, is another of those newby types, and yeah, his family is awash in ill-gotten gain. I heard his father worked for the Carlyle Group, or some such group of rich malefactors; he’d been caught with his fingers in the cookie jar and to avert a scandal had taken an early retirement. That retirement, of course, came with the commensurate “golden parachute” regular people like my dad and I usually end up subsidizing. Yes, Galloway is a creep; not as creepy as Denny, but a creep all the same. ‘No,’ I thought, ‘they’re both pretty much equally sleazy.’

That son-of-a-bitch Denny just tried to kiss Sarah, but she gave him a deft turn of the cheek so all he got was some of her pretty auburn hair and an ear. I thought, ‘You go girl.’ I should’ve cut in. What I really wanted to do is go over and hammer that Mr. Denny Miles right in his arrogant face. I would enjoy smashing his nose flat against his cheeks. I can’t imagine what Sarah sees in him. I felt nauseous; Christ, Denny Miles kissing Sarah? On the lips!

I watched Katy give Galloway the eye, and I didn’t like it. I casually walked across the dance floor in their direction. It occurred to me, as I walked, that people were deliberately giving me room. ‘What was up,’ I wondered? I was getting annoyed.