Alan Jackson comeson the radio as I make my way into the heart of the city, crawling along through a mid-morning rush hour. The song is “Drive.” One of my favorites. I’m tapping the wheel with my fingers, feeling good. Operation Drop-Off-Kailee-at-Gramma’s was a success. I’ve got a cigarette going. The coffee is starting to hook into my brain, pulling it out of the sludge it’s been stuck in all morning.
I’m trying not to think about work too much. Don’t get me wrong, the job is great. The closest thing to a true brotherhood I’ve found since returning to civilian life. Butthinkingabout work—yeah, not as great. That’s how it always is though, ya know? Take war, something I’ve dabbled in. The combat never was the worst part of it all.
It was the waiting. The silence. The constantly being on edge.
It’s weird, the sound of gunfire actually calms me. I know—I’m probably nuts. But it’s true. And it wasn’t getting shot at in Iraq that sucked, it was the fearof getting shot at. The uncertainty of it all. Wondering when the next time Johnny Jihad’s gonna peek around the corner and open fire. That was the thing, the locals didn’t want to take on the United States Army in any kind of serious way, so militants would just chip away at us from the edges. A little gunfire here, an IED there. After a while, you start to wonder what the hell you’re doing over there. They fed us nonsense about helping a country set up a democracy. It always struck me as odd considering we’re having so many problems back home.
There I go again thinking about deployment instead of listening to Alan Jackson’s butter smooth baritone.
I try to be present in the moment, like the therapists recommend. I sing along with Alan, halfheartedly. I feel anxious. Restless. Tired.
And I want another cigarette. Work makes me anxious.
It’s not fighting fire that scares me. It’s the sitting around, waiting for something bad to happen. Something horrible.
I get to the station and the smell of sizzling bacon greets me before the guys do. They’re hanging out in the kitchen, in the middle of a poker hand, except for Manny, who’s busy cooking.
Manny Guerrero is our driver engineer. In other words, he’s responsible for getting us to where we need to be as quickly as possible, and without running over anyone in the process. Manny’s a smooth operator—and not just behind the wheel. He does really well with the ladies. And he likes to give me crap about being uptight—he’s convinced there’s an old man stuck in my body. And I usually give him the middle finger. It’s a beautiful friendship. But in all seriousness, I got no problems with the guy. He keeps his cool under pressure, and we’re lucky to have him in our company.
“Yo, Harp,”Joey says, looking up from his hand. He’s got a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and without even thinking about it, I reach into the inside pocket of my Carhartt jacket for my own pack.
Even though I still think of him as the new guy, Joey DeStefano’s been with our battalion for a couple of years now. Damn, time really does fly when you’re . . . I don’t know, perpetually anxious? Anyway, picture Tarzan with tattoos, a gym membership, and access to one or several tanning beds, and you’ve got a rough idea of who Joey is. On the surface at least. Underneath the wild-man image, he’s an enigma. One night he’ll be the life of the party, and the next, he’ll be a total dud and just sit off to the side, staring into space. I actually think me and Joey got more in common than either of us realizes, but we’ve never really had a heart to heart talk.
Joey’s a married man now. He started dating the sister of—get this—one of our lieutenants, Jax Crestwood. And then, as if that wasn’t bold enough, he went ahead and married her just a couple of months later. So I guess that’s one thing I know about Joey DeStefano—his balls are just as big as his biceps.
“What’s up, Harper?” Jax says, without looking at me. His brow is furrowed in concentration as he studies his hand.
Jax is the youngest lieutenant this house has ever seen. Tall and strong, you’d expect him to be this total alpha male. But he’s actually kind of shy and awkward. Definitely not one of those guys who rises up through the ranks by shouting the loudest. I’ve known plenty of drill sergeants in the Army—I can spot them a mile away. No, Jax is nothing like that. He leads by example. Hardest working guy you’ll ever meet, and a damn good lieutenant. I’m proud of him for coming so far in just a few years. His dedication to this job is unparalleled.
The third guy sitting at the table is Dennis Anderson. He gives me a quick smile and a nod. Dennis is the other lieutenant in our company. He’s been at our house for a little over a decade. He’s not the biggest or the strongest or the fastest guy in our battalion, but he might be the smartest. And he’s definitely in the running for most level-headed. I’ve never seen Dennis lose control, not even when he’s drinking. He’s observant, rational, deliberate. And if he wasn’t such a nice guy I’d say he’d make a great soldier. He’s just a few years older than I am—in his mid-thirties now—but I’ve always thought of him as being a good deal older. Maybe it’s because when I was a probie, Dennis went out of his way to show me the ropes. Being a probie ain’t the easiest thing in the world, but Dennis always made sure I was adjusting, and that I felt welcomed into the family. The man will always have my respect, and I’d follow him into the gates of hell.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and plop down next to Dennis. I check out his hand. He’s got shitty cards.
“Dammit,” Joey says, throwing his cards down on the table. “I’m out.”
Jax inhales sharply through clenched teeth and says, “Me too. Fold.”
Dennis winks at me and then turns back to his opponents. “Guess I win this hand,” he says, putting his cards face down on the table and claiming his chips.
“What you got?” Joey says, narrowing his eyes at the coolheaded lieutenant.
Dennis chuckles softly. “That’s for me to know.”
“C’mon on, bro, let’s have a look.”
Dennis crinkles his nose. “Nah.”
Joey taps his foot impatiently, staring at him. His nostrils flare. Then, in an impulsive movement, he reaches forward and grabs Dennis’s cards. Looking at them, he begins to shake his head in disbelief. “You sly son of a gun. You had one pair?”
“Damn right,” Dennis says.
Jax places his head in his hands. “I swear, Dennis, one of these days I’m gonna figure out what your tell is.”
Dennis smiles. “Good luck with that.”
“Alright, boys, breakfast is ready,” Manny says, approaching the once-white (now yellow) plastic folding table. He’s carrying two plates. One of them is stacked with bacon, the other with egg whites. I blame Jax and Joey for the egg whites; they’ve been on a strict bodybuilding diet lately, trying to one-up each other’s physiques. He’s also got a bottle of hot sauce tucked under his chin.
I don’t feel like eating. And it’s not because of the donuts. Usually, two breakfasts would be standard operating procedure for me.
