Touching Scars(5)

I bowed my head then eventually looked back up at him. “Thanks, me too.” I was desperate to keep the shaking from my voice.

We sat together for a bit longer before he got up and walked to the sliding glass door. Before he went inside he said, “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. Happy to have you home, son.” Then he went in and headed to bed. I stared at the door and realized that I appreciated our quiet times. Sometimes it’s not about the words that are said, but simply knowing that he was there when I did need someone to talk to. His presence meant more to me than any amount of words. I knew my dad had been disappointed in me for not going to college like I’d planned, but when I had graduated, I felt like my life had a greater calling. It wasn’t that I wasn’t going to go to school again, but that it was on hiatus after I’d served my four years. I had been granted a scholarship to a pretty good school my senior year, however it was only for two years. I had planned on going to a four year school, and I couldn’t guarantee that I would have the funds for the remaining two years. My mom was the understanding one. She knew that it was my decision. I wanted to insure I could complete a full bachelor’s degree. The Army seemed to be the right choice.

I sighed and got up to move over to the rocking chair. Leaning back, I took a long swig of my beer. The chilled bubbly sensation burned the back of my throat. I remembered doing this exact same thing after my first tour. I’d come back home to the house I’d grown up in, and sat on the back porch with my dad drinking a beer. This time it felt so different. It wasn’t just the house that had changed. I knew I had changed. My last year I’d spent my nights on post with my boys, shooting the shit and doing security checks. Then two weeks before we were coming home, I’d lost them.

All of them.

Shaking my head and refusing to think about it, I got up and found my dad’s stash of the good stuff. He had a bottle of Black Label Whiskey that he had gotten for his sixtieth birthday stored in the cabinet above the fridge. I would have preferred the richer flavor of bourbon, but this would do in a pinch. It would get me drunker a lot faster than I would if I stuck with the beer. Feeling slightly inconsiderate and not really giving a shit, I put my mouth on the lip of the bottle and leaned my head back. This liquid couldn’t even be described as smooth. It felt like a hot branding iron hit my mouth. It was rough, and the taste had a bite that made the first swallow hard to get down. I set the bottle on the counter and felt the liquid heat my insides. The minutes ticked by and I found myself staring at the digital clock on the microwave. Before I knew it, I’d drunk four more large gulps and I couldn’t tell if the numbers read ten fifty-three or ten fifty-eight. That was faster than I thought it would take. I knew it was only a matter of minutes before I laid down right here on the kitchen floor and passed out, so I dragged my ass down the hallway, swaying and running into the walls. When I made it to the guest bedroom, I flopped face first into the pillow.

I was numb. Mission accomplished. My facial hair made a scratching sound against the fabric of the pillow case. I turned my head to the side since I couldn’t breathe with my face mashed into the pillow. My eyes were shut tight and I tried like hell to let the booze take me away. Behind closed lids, I saw bombs exploding and shrapnel hitting me in different places on my body. I could feel my muscles twitching involuntarily. My inebriation was taking me deeper into my dream, but it wasn’t enough to make me forget. I should have drank some more. Before I was completely asleep, my last thought was, I forgot to take my fucking boots off.





…2 months later



PUNCHING IN, I KNEW THAT Slim was going to chew my ass out for coming in two minutes late, but I didn’t really care. I was his hardest worker and I knew he’d never fire me. Besides, who gets canned for being two minutes late? Except I have been two minutes late pretty much every day since I started working here.

Three weeks after coming home, I decided I needed to get out of the house. I went looking for a job, and came up empty every fucking day. The news wasn’t kidding when they said we were in an economic slump, and jobs were hard to find. While I was overseas I had saved up every penny of my paychecks, but I knew that if I continued to drink away my savings, I’d need to find a job to support my newfound habit. One night, while out at a podunk bar, I overheard some suits talking about an oil and gas field that was looking to hire new guys. It was a few hours south of Houston. I figured I might as well give it a shot since I wasn’t finding jack shit up here. Plus, I’d still be close enough to my dad that if he needed me I’d be able to make the quick drive back. I left the next morning around noon and drove the three hours to Port O’Connor, Texas, aka No Man’s Land. The company primarily dug for oil, but did some gas production on the side. It was called A&S Emissions. I’d gone to speak to the person that was referred to as the Toolpusher, who was essentially the head honcho of the field, and see about setting up an interview. When I found him, he was sitting with a very large man that was sporting a beer gut and was balding on top. Turned out the overweight, sweaty man was Slim. Go figure. The man in charge was Roger. They both took one look at me, said a few words to each other, then Roger said, “You’re a big son of a bitch. You’re hired. You start on Monday, and you will report to Slim here.” That was that. I was never asked about my previous work experience, or even what my name was. I’d learned a week later that Roger hired me because of the Army tattoo I had on my right arm. It had been peeking out from underneath the sleeve of my shirt. He had served twenty years, and he figured any man that could serve his country was good enough to work on his field.