The pub is pretty much a ghost town at only four in the afternoon with the exception of the bartender, a young couple laughing in a booth and a slovenly drunk guy who’s cozied up to the bar like it’s a replacement for the wife that surely left him.
Across from me, the twenty-four-hour news station is passing off their opinion as facts. The news anchors keep yelling at each other like children competing for their mother’s attention. They discuss every point like it all has the same weight, whether is about a drunk driving accident or Kim and Kanye, the fervour is the same.
“Are high-tops the new flip-flops in hip hop? Find out about this summer’s latest fashion craze coming up in the next hour.” The voiceover tries to titillate us with the hard hitting stories coming up. Seriously? Is this the news or Dr. fucking Seuss? It’s annoying and little more than a background noise. Until my face flashes on the flat screen.
Oh, that ain’t good.
Of course, they’re using my military grad picture where I’m in full dress uniform. How long do you have to be out of the military before they stop using those pictures? Five years? Ten?
My mind flashes back to my first day at West Point, when Staff Sergeant Skillnick formed us up in our civvies and gave us his introductory speech. “Welcome to West Point, ladies and gentlemen. Let me make it clear to you, that will be the last time anyone in your life refers to you that way. From now on, no matter what you do. No matter where you go. You will always be known for your military service first. It’s an honor few are ever awarded and not one to be taken lightly. So just remember this, whether you’re buying your first house or getting arrested for your first crime, it will be you rank, your service and this United States military that will open those doors for you, or that you will tarnish with your bad decisions. Choose carefully.”
Fuck.
My attention snaps back up to the television and I strain to listen to the same newscasters that only moments ago I was hoping would choke to death on live tv.
The blonde with the severe make-up and over processed hair jumps in, “clearly, Captain Forrester has lost it.” She shares her unbiased, professional view. “Have you seen the video footage?” She drawls. “It’s just disgraceful. In my opinion he should have to give back the medals he was awarded. A man like that shouldn’t get to keep the highest award for courage…”
“Hey,” I interrupt the program and wave my hand at the bartender. “Do you mind turning the channel?”
The guy behind the counter doesn’t even look up from his phone. He just picks up the remote and clicks it one channel higher to an afternoon cooking show.
“Hey, man. Sorry I’m running behind,” Cameron Armstrong comes up behind me and plops down on the chair across from me. “Have you been waiting here long?” He looks down at the beer I’m one swig away from finishing.
“Nah, I’ve just had the one,” I hold up the bottle and finish the last mouthful.
“Ok, well, I’ll get us a couple more.” He pops back up out of the chair and heads over to the bar.
How about a couple dozen more?
I distract myself by peeling at the label of my empty Stella and Cameron clunks two more down on the table and shimmies out of his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair. “I’m glad you called, man,” he looks at me earnestly. “I was hoping we could get some drinks sometime.”
“Thanks for coming out. I know it’s on short notice.” I lift up the new bottle and tilt it toward him in a silent salute.
“I didn’t have much going on today anyway, so this is perfect.” His jacket erupts with a sound of bubbles surfacing on water and Cameron reaches into the pocket and pulls out his cellphone. “Shit, sorry about that,” he swipes his thumb across it and a huge pair of brown titties fills his screen in a text message. “I forgot to set it to vibrate. I’ll do that now,” he leaves the tits and changes his settings.
“Looks like you’ve got it pretty rough there, Armstrong,” I nod to the phone. “A hard knock life, huh?”
My old Corporal shrugs it off. “You know how it is, all these girls are all flash and no substance. Not like what you’ve got with that Lauren chick. That shit looks like the real deal.” He chucks his phone back in his pocket and takes a long gulp of his beer.
Twist the knife, why don’t ya?
Instead of getting into any of that mess, I just down another third of my beer.
“You know, it’s the craziest thing,” he continues, looking down the neck of his bottle, “I’ve got all this easy poon chasing me left and right, but I haven’t been able to get Lauren’s sister out of my head since the game. Did she, uh, mention me at all?” He looks up at me.