One Rough Man - Brad Taylor [40]
He’d figured out early on that the pretender was living on the boat. Something that wasn’t allowed long-term, but the old man said nothing. Working dawn until dusk pumping gas at the marina, the old man had studied the pretender just to break the monotony. Every other day the man would punish himself with a workout routine on the deck of the boat, working until total exhaustion in the South Carolina heat, seemingly trying to kill himself, the sweat rolling off his body in rivers. He would then leave for a run that lasted about an hour. When he returned, the old man would watch him stagger behind the Dumpsters and vomit, sometimes on his knees. He didn’t understand why until the pretender had passed by him finishing a run. The man stank of liquor, the foul smell wafting out of his pores like a fog.
After that, the old man began to lose interest, not wanting to waste his time on a drunk. Then one day the pretender had surprised him. Buying fuel for his boat, he had recognized the U.S. Army Second Division patch on the old man’s hat and had asked if he had been in the Army.
The old man had grown wary, not wanting to be patronized as he had been by all the other rich folks who treated him like a piece of furniture, fulfilling their duty of patriotism with a pat on the head before demanding gas.
He had said, “Yes.”
“Korea?”
“Yes. During some bad times.”
The pretender had nodded with understanding. “Nobody can take that away from you. Even when you wish they could.”
The old man was shocked. He knows.
A long time ago, on another continent, nobody had cared about the color of his skin. Rednecks and racists alike had learned that combat was color-blind. All that mattered was skill, and the old man had found that he inherently possessed something that others did not. Once upon a time he had been regarded as a savior, a man who could keep you alive, if you were lucky enough to be near him. He had been held in awe by better men than those who now demanded his gas. He was reminded of this by the nightmares that still caused him to lose sleep. He both loved and hated that time in his life, and somehow the pretender knew.
He began watching the pretender with renewed interest. The next time they met, he had asked, “Were you in the service?”
“Yes. The Army.”
“Been to Iraq? Afghanistan?”
“Both at one time or another.”
“Seen some bad shit?”
“Not really. The bad shit’s here at home.”
The answer had confused the old man. He continued to watch, waiting on the pretender to do something interesting. Eventually, he began to believe he had been wrong. The pretender held no secret truth. He was simply a drunken loser, dealing with the same demons as the old man. That is until the day the pretender disappeared and the old man had found two dead bodies behind the Dumpster, both killed by hand. That caused him to rethink the pretender’s status for sure.
I WOKE UP IN MY KING-SIZED BED and rolled over to kiss my wife. My arm hit the pylon holding the foldout twin bed, and I returned to the reality of my existence like I had done every morning for the last nine fucking months. Each day, in the brief moment between being asleep and awake, I had one split second of happiness before remembering what had become of my family. If I could bottle each split second, I’d give the remainder of the day to God, or the Devil, or whoever else was having a party out of my pain. Twenty-three hours, fifty-nine minutes, fifty-nine seconds, and some change for each split second. It would be a good trade.
I relive the grief process every single day, like clockwork. I’m still waiting for it to be a dull ache at the back of my soul, like all the doctors promised would happen. Instead, each morning the pain is as strong as that night in Tbilisi almost a year ago.
I sat up in bed and looked at the picture of Heather and Angie on my counter. I felt the pain begin to turn to rage. That also happened like clockwork. It’s hard to explain the level of the anger.