Chapter 7

"I thought I wasn't due back here for another three weeks," said Bob, as he slumped into the chair across from Col Bell.

"I just have one quick question," said Bell. "How do you feel about your sister?"

"Is this one of those Oedipus kinds of questions?" asked Bob, grinning.

"Are you comfortable with her? Did her visit cause you any anxiety?"

"Oh," said Bob, realizing that Bell was talking about Julia, instead of the sister Bob still wouldn't recognize if she stood in front of him and slapped his face. "No."

"You seem a little unsure," suggested Bell.

"I didn't want her to leave," said Bob. "Her having to leave was the only anxiety she caused."

"So if you were invited to go stay with her for a while ... you'd be all right with that?"

"Hell yes!" said Bob, leaning forward. He felt his face getting hot.

"I'd call that an honest reaction," said Bell, smiling. "Okay, here's the deal. I'm putting you on convalescent leave, at her address, for ninety days. Then I want to see you again and do another assessment. I need you to keep track of the headaches, and everything else we've talked about, particularly if you start feeling anxious about something, or depressed. This is very important, Bob. How this goes could have a big impact on the board's findings."

"I feel better already," said Bob. "Wait. I have to talk to her about this."

"I called her already," said Bell. "She can't wait for you to get there. Let me make a phone call and I'll get your orders started."

Most people never go through the kinds of things a soldier does. Most people don't go to basic training, military style, in order to be trained for their job. Most people don't carry a gun and load of ammunition, looking for an enemy to take down. Most people, for that matter, don't have the kinds of enemies who require more than a verbal put-down now and again. And most people don't worry about whether or not they can make it to the next doorway without getting shot. Bob went from days where he was either bored to tears or scared out of his mind, to the depths of despair as he realized he had lost a leg, to more of that special kind of boredom that makes a man feel only inches tall and which looked like it might never end.

Most people never have to go through that.

But most people also never get the kind of news that results in the kind of euphoria that makes up for being terrified, shot at, and parts of your body being missing.

That's how Bob felt. His world, which up to that point had been pretty miserable on a daily basis, was suddenly filled with sunshine, cool breezes and good smelling women.

Well, one good smelling woman, anyway.

If he could just get to her.

And that was the next hurdle the one-legged veteran had to jump ... getting to her.

It didn't occur to him to call her and ask her to drive another thousand miles to get him. He did think about buying a car, but he wasn't actually sure his license was still good, considering that he'd never convinced anyone he could still drive safely with a fake leg. Getting pulled over and delayed for something stupid like that wasn't anything he was interested in.

So he went with Greyhound instead.

If you've never traveled any significant distance on a public service bus line, you haven't really experienced an icon of American life. It is the epitome of the "hurry up and wait" kind of thing you hear so much about and think you've experienced.

But you have never experienced it like Greyhound can dish it out. The military comes close, but even they're no real competition for the mind numbing agony of taking the bus more than a hundred miles.

They stop at every little village and hamlet. Old ladies and women with three small children struggle onto the bus and stand there, looking at their new temporary world, while the driver does mysterious and time consuming things outside the bus. Then you're finally on the road again, only to stop in another twenty miles and do it all over again. Except this time someone gets off and can't seem to find his luggage. The pace crawls all the time, and you find yourself wishing you had just walked, because you feel like you'd get there faster if you were walking. It's slower than molasses on a twenty-below-zero day.

Except, of course, for rest stops, where all you have planned is getting something to eat, or maybe visiting a rest room where your shoulders don't rub the walls and you can sit down on the throne without having to plan how you're going to get back up and decent again, all before you open the door. At rest stops your primary worry is that the bus will leave without you. They don't do head counts, like they did when you were a kid on a field trip.

Surveys and traffic studies show that the average person traveling in a car can plan on moving across the map at an average of fifty miles per hour. The bus is smokin' along at an average of thirty.

In other words, it takes twice as long to take the bus.

Of course, if you were fascinated in Social Studies class, there is an upside to the bus. You'll meet a class of people you never knew existed before. You've heard about them, and you see them all the time. You might even know a few, but you don't really notice them. Unless, of course, you are in that class of people. Then they are your world.

People who take the bus are involved in the real nitty gritty of life. They are down and dirty, sometimes literally, with what it takes to struggle on another day. Nobody takes the bus because they like it. Not even the drivers. For these people the bus is the only reason they aren't walking, or hitch hiking. It's not because they're weird, or oddballs or anything like that. It's simply because they don't have the means to own a car, or fly, or take the train. They're poor, that's all. They have the same hopes and dreams as you and I do. Most of them have a job of some kind, and people who love them. They have friends and family just like everybody else. But they are in a class by themselves. They'll talk to you, for one thing, and out of interest, and not just curiosity. They'll share anything they have with you. They'll smoke a joint in the bathroom at the rest stop as if marihuana was as common as cigarettes. They are people stripped of political correctness, just saying what they think, and being who they are. For these people, an artificial leg is simply an artificial leg. They are truly interesting.

And they are the only reason travelers on long bus trips don't commit suicide along the way.

It took Bob sixty-nine hours to get from WRAMC to Boonville, Missouri. That's why the euphoria that had him acting like he was wigged out on cocaine, when he started his journey, had mellowed to something just above the level of hard sleep by the time he climbed off the bus for the last time and looked blearily around.

She was standing only ten feet away. It was only April, but she had on a summer halter dress, and was grinning from ear to ear, her hands clasped in front of her as her body twisted to and fro.

And, just like that, the euphoria was back.

"I could have gotten a taxi," said Bob, standing ten inches from Julia, his eyes devouring her. He had not touched her yet. The anticipation was exquisite, but he knew he smelled awful.

"I took the day off," she said, her voice low. Her cheeks turned pink. "I thought you'd never get here."

"Me too," he said, suddenly weary again. "Let's get out of here."

"Your luggage," she reminded him.

"Oh yeah," he sighed.

"Besides, if I don't get to a bathroom I'm going to explode," she said. "I was afraid I'd be in there when the bus arrived and I'd miss you."

"Go potty," he said, grinning. "I'll get my duffle bag."

She fled, running like she was being chased. He watched the wind of her passage flip the hem of her dress up enough that he saw the flash of one thigh. He walked over to where the driver was keying open the big compartments that held suitcases and strollers and everything else imaginable. He saw his duffel bag and pointed at it. The driver hauled it out and handed it to him.

"Thank you for your service," he said, smiling.

"No problem," said Bob, unprepared for that.

He slung his bag and walked towards the restrooms. He was thinking about going himself when she hurried out of the women's door. Now that she could accept a squeeze without fearing an accident, she threw herself at him. The scent of her hair, and the feel of her body under his hands made him erect almost immediately.

"Phew!" she said, leaning back. "You stink."

"Sorry," he said, smiling just enough to make it a smile.

"I don't care," she said. "I'll take you any way I can get you."

"I appreciate that, but how about you take me home and I'll grab a shower anyway," he said.

"Home," she said softly. Her eyes glazed over, but only for a few seconds.

Then she was pulling him by one hand, like a little girl pulls her grandfather when she's in a hurry to show him something.

What she wanted to show him was her breasts.

Once in the car, with the engine started, she turned in her seat and shamelessly pulled the top of her light dress down. Her breasts spilled out. His surprise turned to mirth as he saw temporary tattoos stuck all over them. Big red arrows pointed to her nipples, going back to the words "Suck here." He saw another that said "All yours," and one that said "Got milk?"

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Any Soldier

Lubrican

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