Humvee in Iraq (Photo via Wikipedia)
Waste
Part 1
- On the Street
The wrinkled cardboard sign sat on the
concrete beside him.
Homeless Iraq Vet
Please Help
Thank you.
The Saturday shopping
crowds strolled past, intent on their destinations and distractions, barely
noticing the man in their midst. Joe wore a grimy green overcoat and a faded baseball
cap which shaded his face from the late morning sun.
A young woman stood near
the kerb, brown hair tied up in a ponytail. Her wrinkled tan coat flapped open,
exposing dark smudges near the hem. Under it she wore a pale pink dress that fluttered
above her knees in the slight breeze. She watched him for a while, glancing up
and down the street every few seconds. Finally she strode purposefully towards
the man. She stooped and slowly placed five dollars in the battered enamel cup.
“Hey soldier. How you doin’?”
His eyes flickered up to
her face momentarily. “Appreciate your help, Ma’am.” His voice was subdued, little
more than a loud mumble. He dropped his gaze again.
Another passer-by reached
into a pocket and deposited some money in the cup, then another. “Thank you Sir,…Thank
you.” His eyes remained lowered.
The flow of pedestrians
thinned out. He glanced up and down the street and rubbed the straggly beard
that clothed his sunken cheeks. Then he sniffed. Need a shower.
A truck rumbled past. He
flinched. Damn noisy things.
A group of teenagers drew
near, slogans covered their clothes and basketball boots. “Yo homey. What’s
going down?” A boot tipped over the cup. Another boot kicked his leg. A jolt of
pain shot up his body. He flailed his arms blindly, then scrambled onto his
knees and groped for the money strewn over the concrete. The teenagers’
laughter reverberated in his ears. “Don’t lose any of your precious money bro...”
A figure crouched down
beside him, he shrank back, arm raised in front of his face. A pale hand picked
up the cup and put some of the money back. He glanced up. A teenage girl. His
eyes dropped to her feet and their bright red toenails. Her perfume wafted over
him on the breeze. He mumbled, “Thanks.” He coughed and spoke louder. “Thank
you.”
“You’re welcome.” The
girl stood up and walked away.
Another girl fell in
step beside her, glanced back and gushed. “OMG I can't believe you did that,
the guy is so... “
“Shut up will you. He’s
not deaf.”
His trembling hands slowly
fumbled all the all the money into the cup and placed it back in front of the
sign. He wrapped his arms around his legs to stop them shaking and began to
rock slowly back and forth.
He looked around for
more punk kids and rocked faster. The Wizard says it helps to focus on
something else. He blinked several
times and looked at the car parked by the kerb. He stared at a hub cap, old
style, chrome, some little dents. He can see reflections in it, concrete,
cigarette butt, rubbish in the gutter, his own dark green form, tiny, moving.
Nice hub cap. Shiny and
clean. Not like the dusty camo paint and nuts and bolts sticking out on the
Humvees. Lots of nuts and bolts. Didn’t stop the Ali Baba IEDs blowing them
right off though.
A car honked. He rocked
back and forth again. He glanced up at the cars going past coughing smoke and fumes,
burning fuel on shopping and useless trips to who knows where.
In the desert you didn’t
waste a drop. Fuel was too precious. Napoléon said an army marched on its
stomach. Not anymore it don’t. An army runs on gas. No gas, no movement, no
generators, no air-con, no nothing.
He shook his head. People
think $2 gas is expensive. They don’t have a clue. In the sandbox it could cost
$40 a gallon by the time to got to some of the remote outposts. If it got
there. Tanker convoys were prime targets.
He frowned and shook his
head in frustration. Focus on something else. Chess. Yes. He was still trying
to work out how to beat Carson. In the last game he might have been able to
stave off defeat if only he could have gotten one of his pawns to the other end
of the board. Every time he ran it through in his mind he thought of different
ideas to try. He’d ask him for another game later.
The woman in the coat stopped on the
sidewalk and looked up at the sign.
Homestead
Bar and Grill.
She took a deep breath
and pushed open the door. A few customers were already propping up the bar and small
groups were sprinkled around the dark wooden dining tables. “Hey Jeannie.” said
the bar manager.
“Hey Bill.”
“Letter for you in the
office. Looks official.”
“Thanks.”
The barman nodded to
her, muscles rippling under his tight t-shirt. She smiled back. “Hey Ronnie.”
She slipped behind the
long polished bar and into the kitchen. The cook was standing over the fryer, sweat
already running down his face.
“Hey Raul.”
“Where you been? It's
getting hot in here.”
“You fry ’em, I’ll serve
’em.” She grinned at him and went through another door into a hallway, threw
her handbag into a locker and hung up her coat. She pulled an apron over her
head, and tied the strings in a tidy bow behind her back. She glanced in at the
manager’s office. An envelope lay in the centre of the large wooden desk. She
went in, stood by the desk and stared at it. An eagle in a circle sat in the
top left corner. She picked it up and turned it over, hands trembling. She tore
it open and pulled out the letter. Her eyes scanned side-to-side quickly down
the page, then closed. She held the letter tight to her chest and tried to slow
her racing heartbeat. She whispered softly to herself. “Thank you.”
Joe lifted his head as the
sun dropped behind a building across the street. The steady stream of shoppers had
disappeared for homes and bars and restaurants; all the sorts of places he
never went anymore.
He emptied his cup of
money into a pocket of his long army surplus overcoat, folded up his cardboard
sign and slid it into the ripped interior lining. He smiled to himself, not a
bad day so far, and tonight another opportunity beckoned. First it was time for
some dinner, then, when it got properly dark, he would go hunting.
********
Read Waste (Part 2) - On the Hunt here next week.
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