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An Excerpt -- Jack was thinking just that, that he may have overdone it. But the pleasant floating sensation washed over him, so he let go. Vigo was looking at him, he noticed. Not thinking about TD, or even about himself, Jack said to the dog, “What’re you, my mom?” TD cut loose with a full laugh, hearing the man ask the dog if he thought he was his mom. Good one. Then he said, “So Jack, what’s your plan, man?” Jack did reply immediately, but thought about it, said, “I dunno, maybe join the Marines?” TD laughed again. “Yeah, good idea. But for real.” “Right. Fuck if I know. Maybe time to rob a bank.” The guy sounded serious and this time TD did not laugh. “Hmm, yeah, banks are tough. And they aren’t keeping much cash in them, these days. Maybe you should start with something smaller.” “Yeah, okay. Well, let me know if you have any ideas.” TD seemed to think, then asked, “And what about Vigo? You still want to sell him?” Jack looked down at the dog, the dog looked back at Jack, TD thinking they were sort of communicating, even if neither one of them knew it. “Here again, I dunno,” said Jack. “I don’t think the dog much likes me, so I kind of figure why give him a break, let him him off easy.” “But you got to eat, right? You and the dog?” “True. I maybe will get by the rest of the week, catch a break by then, who knows.” TD looked at Jack and thought, man, this cat ain’t gonna catch no break by the end of the week. Maybe never, the way he was going. He reached to his coat pocket, pulled out his clip. Jack saw TD peeling off a couple of bills, objected, holding his hand to wave it off, said, “No, no way, man. No handouts.” “Handout? Nah, not a handout. Just a couple hundred as deposit on Vigo, if you decide to sell him. If not, just return the deposit, or we’ll figure something else out.” Jack heard the something else, but was he high, not wanting to think about it, and it just hit him, 200 bucks. He could really use 200 bucks. TD held out the cash, Jack took it. Then he said, “Okay, done. Pride don’t mean much to hungry doggies.” TD laughed, thought, good, better he just got to it, took the cash. Would save TD the trouble of arguing with him over it, the two of them pretending, doing that dance, knowing he was going to take it in the end. “Good play,” he said. “No fucking around, get right to it. We’ve all been there.” “Right, thanks.” Jack thought about it, then asked TD, “When was the last time for you?” “Huh?” “When was the last time you were there, needing cash?” “Oh.” TD seemed to need to think about it. “I guess about four years ago, things got pretty lean, had to make a move.” “A move?” “Yeah. Had to do something to get right, get right fast.” Jack thought about asking what he had to do, but let that go, instead asked, “You mind me asking what you do, I mean, for a living?” TD took another light pull on the vape, let it sit a moment in his lungs, exhaled slow and said, “I’m a crook, Jack. Among other things.” Jack stared at the guy, smooth mocha skin, strong features, a little taller and a lot better dressed than himself, those slightly green dark eyes. “Well, it looks like it’s working out for you,” Jack said. TD chuckled, then laughed, clapped Jack on the shoulder, tucked the vape into his coat pocket, stooped, gave Vigo a scratch on the ear, started down the alley. “If you would like to carry on the conversation, see you here tomorrow night, this spot, not inside, 10:30. Bring Vigo. He didn’t wait for Jack to respond, so Jack did not. He watched TD disappear into the darkness of the alley, looked down at Vigo, said, “Come on, mom, let’s go home.” The dog stood and together they walked slowly down the alley to the dark street beyond. # The next morning Jack was still thinking about TD when he opened the door to the real estate office. Last night's conversation went to the back of his mind while dread moved to the front. The receptionist stayed on the phone, waved him by, giving his worn jeans, old windbreaker and scuffed hiking boots a look, pointing towards Wilk’s office in the rear of the space. She knew who he was, what was coming and probably didn’t want to deal with a shabby downer, so close to lunch time, Jack thought. He kept going to Wilk’s glass-walled office, the door open. Wilks looked to Jack like a middle-aged ex-jock, maybe got into real estate brokerage right out of undergraduate school, people telling him he had the looks and charm for it. He maybe did okay, serving his property owner clients, rehabbing buildings, first tossing the old ladies out, jacking up the rents. This time Jack was the old lady. Wilks looked up as he ended a call on his cell, looked Jack over, standing there in the doorway, dressed like an impoverished graduate student. “Hey,” he said. “Hi,” said Jack. “What can I do for you?” Wilks asked, not inviting Jack in. “I got your notice. About the lease, got that notice.” “Yeah, and?” Wilks clearly not wanting to deal with this, wanting Jack to disappear – permanently. “I was wondering if we could work something out.” “Like what?” “Well, Isabella, my girlfriend…” “Yeah, I know who she is. We did the lease with her. She still your girlfriend? Thought she was deported.” “Yeah, no. I mean, she wasn’t deported. She had to head back to Panama for a while until the green card suspension thing is worked out.” “Yeah, I know about the green card stuff. We’ve turned over a lot of properties, foreigners getting the boot. Sounds like they got deported to me.” “Not really. New president comes in, all that could be reversed.” Wilk’s eyes went wide, like not believing. “You gotta be kidding me! Wait, you’re waiting for a new president so your girlfriend can come back?!” “What I mean…” “Dude, forget it. Not gonna happen. Anyway, our lease is with her and she’s gone.” “She was going to add me to the lease and she might be back.” Jack said it, heard in his own voice the surrender. This asshole is right, of course, he thought. She’s not coming back. He tried another approach, knowing this wasn’t going to work, either. “We, I mean, I, always paid the rent on time.” “Sure, nice work. Gold star on that one. But you aren’t on the lease. That means you’re occupying the premises in violation of the lease. Means you’re a squatter, basically.” The blood was going to Jack’s head again, hot. He fought it back, said, “How can I be a squatter when I’ve been paying rent?” “Yeah, that don’t mean jack shit.” Wilks paused, gave a snort of impatience, then said, “Listen, it's not me. It’s my client. They don’t care about your girlfriend and they don’t care about you. They want you out. It’s not me.” He began to shuffle a few papers on his desk, busy man that he is. For a flash, it crossed Jack’s mind to take a few steps forward, slam the guy’s stapler into his face, maybe do a little stitching, while he was at it. But then he thought, then what? So, he said, “No, you don’t have anything to do with it? You don’t get paid a commission?” At this, Wilks looked up, eyes narrowing. “Hey, listen, I’ve got some calls to make.” “What about the rent I paid, what about what I’ve already paid.” Wanting Jack out and gone, Wilks said, “Yeah, right. Whatever. You’re paid up until the first. Be out by then. If you’re still there, we’ll come in with the cops, throw your shit in the street and you in jail, trespassing charge, illegal entry, whatever. Cops got all kinds of stuff they can hit you with.” He smiled, said, “Hey, maybe I’ll have them add on resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. That’d get you a new place to live.” Wilks smiled big, like this brightened his day. Jack fought it back, calmed down. Guy probably has the district cops on speed dial, he thought. He gave Wilks a last look. Wilks, catching it, “Ohhh, tough guy, huh? Real tough guy. Well, tough guy, maybe you shouldn’t have shacked up with an illegal wetback, huh?” The blood pounding in his head, Jack turned and got out of there. # The Marines didn’t work out as a career move for Jack. As a junior officer, he got along with and was respected by the noncoms, the sergeants, most of them, and he moved on to increasingly more elite assignments, finally heading up a Force Recon unit. But he often had problems with the mid-rank officers. In simple and general terms, he had a problem with authority. The executive level guys, the upper rank officers, he experienced nearly no conflict. But, then again, he wasn’t dealing with them much. It was the majors and colonels that brought on the head-butting. Most of the time he got away with it. His combat record was exceptional, his men respected him, he got the job done and, a lot of times, the Marines admire a little insubordination, even if they won't cop to it. Then, three years in, stateside for an exercise, Major Bilke strutted into his squad bay, locked up at attention his platoon and commenced an inspection, most of the guys still in their underwear, just gearing down after two days playing the bad guy in the bush. “On your feet, lock it up!” was the first Jack knew about it, in the office rapping on the laptop trying to get a field report written up and sent so he could hit the shower – after two days grubbing around in the mud, weeds and trees, ready for it. He recognized the screaming as coming from Marvin, the staff sergeant who seemed to relish his role as suck-up to Bilke. As far as Jack knew, neither had done any time overseas. Bilke was Naval Academy, son of a state senator. Jack forgot what state. “You call that locked up, Marine?! Or are you even a Marine?!” Marvin was doing his best drill sergeant, and as Jack headed out, he figured he must be screaming at Rafael. Rafael wasn’t much for locking up at attention. Kind of always slouched into it. Jack never figured out if the guy was physically or mentally predisposed to a slack stance. And after watching his own sergeant, Blitz, go through the motions a few times, trying to get Raphael on the straight and narrow, after a few patrols in-country Jack told him to lay off. Blitz was happy to do so, both knowing that Raphael had some moves and was always looking out for his team. “Let him slouch,” Jack told Blitz, the sergeant at ease in Jack’s office. “Yes, sir,” Blitz said, meaning no problem, glad to let him. “Roger that.” And so, Jack entered the squad bay wondering what the fuck was going on, Bilke and Marvin, playing Patton with his men. Jack approached the two from behind, noting their similar, almost brotherly-like wide asses and child-bearing hips, himself taking a not-so-deferential stance, “Sir,” he said, ignoring Marvin, “May I ask what the major is doing, sir?” Both swung around, turning away from Raphael, Raphael’s eyes immediately switching over to look at Jack. “Captain, not that I have to advise you of my activities, but we are conducting a snap inspection.” “Sir, a 'snap' inspection?” “You heard me right. And let me say, captain, I’m none too impressed.” “'None too impressed', sir?” “Affirmative, captain… And what is this, you repeating my words?” “Sir, you are conducting a snap inspection and you are none too impressed, do I have that right, sir?” “You heard me right.” Jack noticed Marvin there, smiling, more smirking, and he made a mental note to fuck with the guy. Later. “Roger that, sir. And may I ask, how are my men not impressing you?” “For one,” Bilke turned back to Raphael just as Raphael again locked his eyes forward. “This man here, this supposed Marine, what sort of attention is that. He looks like a jellyfish.” “A jellyfish, sir?” “You heard me… And while I’m at it, you yourself don’t seem to be much at attention.” He was right about that. Jack made no move to correct his posture. “Is that the way you address a superior officer?” Jack ignored the question. “Sir, these men have been in the field for two days. And that’s after returning stateside just the day before. Four days ago they were in combat. I thought they deserved a little downtime.” “Downtime?! These are supposed to be marines, captain. This is not a resort!” Jack again ignored the statement. “And sir, what is the reason for the snap inspection?” “Reason?! I don’t have to give you a reason!” And then Jack said, “So you and this smarmy suck-up here,” not bothering to look at Marvin, but giving a short nod in his direction, “You didn’t have anything else to do.” It was then the snickers started, up and down the squad bay, some of the 15 marines trying to hold it back, some not so much. “What!” demanded Bilke, Marvin looking to him, both men’s eyes were now wide. Jack added, “You just figured you would haul your lazy stateside asses in here, start fucking around, hassle my marines.” Those marines were now openly laughing. Jack heard an “Ooo-rah!” from down the bay, but focused on these two, blood pressure up, Jack was not sure who it was. It wrapped up pretty quick after that. Bilke and Marvin waddling out of there. On his way out, Jack hearing Bilke shout back something, only catching the word “insubordinate,” missing the rest, the marines now busting up, laughing. Jack had a couple meetings after, first the base commander, then the division commander, neither seeming to have much problem with Jack calling Bilke and Marvin fat asses, but having to follow the book to some extent, Bilke’s father causing a stink. Jack could have been busted out. Instead they blew him out of his unit and out of Force Recon, telling him he was done with combat for a while. That was okay with Jack. He wasn’t much happy with the combat lately, anyway. During his final meeting with the division commander, a combat vet going back to the Gulf War, the gray-haired but still sinewy, sharply featured major general, sitting at a rigid right angle in his ergonomic leather chair, summed up Jack's limited options. First eyeballing a printout on his desk, the senior officer peered at Jack over the frameless reading glasses propped halfway down his narrow nose, his otherwise marksman-like blue eyes targeting Jack's own blue eyes. “I might be able to narrow it down for you. Right now, there’s an immediate slot in admin, that’s at Quantico. There’s logistics at Pendleton, or, oh, this is good, Public Affairs. I don’t know where the fuck that bullshit is happening at.” The general looked to another paper on his desk, said, “Yeah, I thought so. You got a degree in journalism. Perfect” While he did his final six months as a “Combat Correspondent” but seeing no combat, less than a month to go before he discharged he received an email from Blitz. It was routed through the platoon’s encrypted server. It went:
Jack felt himself tearing up. Fought it back, thought. Even with the encryption, he kept his reply short and nonspecific:
Twenty-two days later he was out. A referral from one of the guys in Public Affairs took him to an interview with The Independent. The editor, Jacobs, was also a former marine. Jack started out with local government, moved on to the International Desk, a few years later he was also doing Opinion and Commentary, working his column. His cynicism was compounding daily, along with the bonus sense of futility and purposeless. Then the election happened and the already not good became the purely horrendous. About four months before the election, while piling some frozen dinners into a basket, he met Isabella. It had been a while since he had a regular and he was looking for something to happen, so he carried on. A few weeks later, Jack gave up his smaller apartment, moved in. Again, not so much because he loved Isabella, but, as he later self-diagnosed, because he was trying to change the pattern. It didn’t work. The numbness seemed to reach further and further into his soul. Each day he cared less about his work. The day ViTech took over The Independent, the same day they gave Jacobs the boot, Jack thought back, found himself not able to recall why he joined the Marines. The day Isabella flew away for good, Jack could not recall why he started the relationship. And then there was Vigo. -continued-
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