Driven

Headlights go dark upon impact with the barrier. Wrenching metal twists and snaps, scraping an expensive paint job, one designed to stand out in traffic. But there are no witnesses here. There might have been a squeal of tires and the reverberating hum of anti-lock brakes... except there was no hint of regret; no thought of reversing a decision, until the Ascari A10 was already airborne.

***

Kyle's running full-speed in what will be his final professional game. He has no idea that his leg will momentarily twist violently, shredding both cruciate, both collateral, and his patellar ligaments in his left knee. He's already internationally famous in the football world. And the YouTube replay of a leg heading one direction while a body heads another will make him an Internet sensation.

He's flanking the the opposing striker, dutifully engaged in a battle for position as an attacking midfielder sets up what would otherwise be a breakaway. But Kyle's challenge fails. And since a fellow defender had been drawn hopelessly out of position, he finds himself alone on his side of the field. Another fellow defender rushes towards the goal, but he's too far away. It is the attacking midfielder that Kyle fails to see who charges him, freeing the opposing striker to fire a shot into the goal.

It bounces safely off the crossbar and into the hands of Kyle's goalkeeper while the attacking midfielder, unable to change his momentum, knocks Kyle to the ground while Kyle's left cleat is planted firmly in the grass.

The goal is saved and the red card awarded. But Kyle cannot get up. He hasn't screamed this loud since his brother was killed.

***

As if some futile cosmic joke, the Ascari's brake lights engage in mid-air as the top of a Jeffrey Pine snaps, throwing needles to the ground like confetti in a welcome-home parade.

***

In the Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital, Kyle gradually accepts that his playing career is over. His agent, unwilling to let a friend and client worry about the future, quickly obtains an assistant coaching position for Kyle in America's nascent Major League Soccer organization. Kyle remains understandably upset over his situation, but he appreciates the gesture. He's been a football mentor since his high school days, often volunteering to coach in local youth leagues, and many agree - the press benevolently included - that the switch will fit him like a glove.

It is only two weeks into his physical therapy that Kyle receives his second injury of the year. A childhood friend has committed suicide. The news is hard to accept and, upon acceptance, even harder to bear. Though Kyle never mentions exactly why, those closest to him accurately surmise that Kyle somehow blames himself... just like, years before, he blamed himself for the death of his brother.

His agent tries unsuccessfully to convince Kyle to remain in therapy; to forgo the funeral. Not out of disrespect for the dead - quite the opposite, in fact. Kyle's agent seems to know what seeing a friend, lying dead in a casket, will do to the former football superstar. Particularly this friend. Whose picture - known only to Kyle's teammates, coaches, and his agent - lovingly adorns Kyle's locker. The agent realizes that he never knew the girl's name until the funeral notice arrived. And even before he told Kyle, he knew the notice was of the girl in the photograph.

***

Another tree shifts the trajectory of the sports car, initiating a spin that is only stopped by yet another tree. Bark and pine needles fire their way through shattering safely glass and transmission axle begins to cut through foliage. A deploying airbag mercifully deflects the end of a branch away from the driver's face, resulting in only a burning cut on right cheek.

***

Kyle lost his virginity to Elise in high school, even though he had been dating someone else at the time. He was 18; Elise was 17. It happened in a guest bedroom at a friend's Valentine's Day party. Kyle knew Elise and his brother were practically an item, but he justified it in that neither Elise nor his brother ever came out and said it. Kyle was - is, really - also in love with Elise. Both were drunk, and he makes no excuses for taking advantage of the situation. He asked her several times if it was okay. She only responded by opening her legs to him or squeezing them around him. When he felt unable to resist his lust for her any longer, he unzipped his trousers, flipped her dress, and entered her body. Though completely drunk, it is his most powerful - and favorite - memory.

He left her there by herself when they finished. She passed out after faking her orgasm and though he tucked her under the blankets, he failed to lock the door behind him. She was raped by a teammate while Kyle was off having sex with his girlfriend. He's never forgiven himself. For leaving her there. For being with another girl. For betraying his brother. And for not killing the rapist, though he tried.

To this day, he knows why Elise ran to Keith and not Kyle after the incident, even though Keith had not come to the party. She must have known where Kyle was and what he was doing. She must have figured that Keith loved her more than Kyle did. Kyle's since refused to determine for himself if that was the case or not. But he did love her. Still does.

She moved away shortly after the rape. Kyle never saw her again. He wanted to, of course, and was planning on doing so. But Keith's death changed everything. And Kyle couldn't live with any more guilt.

***

The chassis' forward progress is halted by a sturdy trunk and the car begins to slide straight down. A branch bends but does not break, flinging the Ascari into a rolling descent. Seat-belt burns a mark into neck as wooden hands begin tearing apart carbon-fiber and leather.

***

Kyle remembers the calming nature of the Sierra Nevadas. The crisp mountain air, the moon's reflection on mountain lake. He's tried everything to outrun his ghosts - both of them - but nothing's seemed to work. The winding highways through the mountain range offer brief solace. He drives dangerously and it's making him focus.

At least for a while.

He can smell the brakes heating up. He can feel the transmission struggling through constant downshifting. He can see the red-line on the tachometer. He can hear his brother. He can hear the lover he always wanted. And he wants to join them.

A guilty conscious makes for a poor passenger. Kyle is well-aware of this, having lived with one for years. He decides to finally let it drive.

There is no hint of regret; no thought of reversing a decision. Until the sensation of flight reminds him of what it means to be alive.

You're Beautiful

"You're beautiful," her mother said the first time she held Elise in her arms. Elise didn't remember that instance, but one of her first memories was of her father holding her in his arms and telling her the same thing. She didn't realize that the fall she remembered happening just after he said it was a memory of his heart attack until many years later.

Her father had been a successful man and while he was alive Elise's mother was well-cared for. The estate wasn't insignificant, but a damaged worldview and a broken heart tore through its assets far too quickly. More a defense mechanism than a desire to marry someone new, her mother eagerly attached herself to any man willing to have a second date. Nothing ever came of the many men that entered and exited her mother's bedroom, and unable to maintain their lifestyle, Elise's mother was forced to move them away. Seeing her mother cry one night, Elise asked what was wrong. "Nobody wants me. I'm too ugly."

"No, you're not. Dad wants you."

It was by sheer fortune that their new neighborhood introduced Elise to the two best friends she would ever havw. Kyle, 11, and his brother Keith, 10. On appearance, they looked quite similar to each other - not quite twins, but one easily mistaken for the other in bad lighting. They were, however, as different as the cliché allowed. Kyle was an athlete - he excelled at baseball and soccer - who preferred studying history and grammar. Keith was an artist - a pianist, guitarist, illustrator, and writer - who preferred science and math. Dichotomies between each other and within themselves. Before she even learned their names they had both told her, in unison, "You're pretty." She doesn't remember which of them was her first kiss - innocent enough - because they happened so closely together.

By the time Elise was old enough to drive, she truly was what even grown men would call beautiful. It was a blessing in that it made her inadvertently popular. What was a curse was that she preferred to keep a small company of friends - mainly Kyle and Keith - and it caused many a rumor during her high school years. And, like all rumors, trouble followed. She was raped just after her 17th birthday by the junior varsity center-forward. "Relax, beautiful," he had said while tearing her skirt from her nubile legs.

Keith had found out what happened and he, along with Elise's mother, was present when the doctors ensured there would be no pregnancy. Keith's face was bloodied and bruised, a valiant unsuccessful attempt at exacting some sort of vengeance for Elise. His injuries would be revealed to be rather severe - a broken jaw the least of his worries - and he would spend much time undergoing reconstructive surgeries. During this period, Kyle wound up in juvenile hall after a valiant successful attempt at exacting some sort of vengeance for both Elise and his brother. Other than that, the center-forward was never punished. Elise's mother again moved them away, supposedly to protect her daughter. But taking Elise away from the brothers was the worst thing that could ever have happened.

Still, Elise and the brothers stayed in touch, usually on a daily basis. After high school, Keith surprised Elise on her doorstep, dressed in an Army uniform. On his way to becoming a warrior poet, he professed his love for her. Even to her surprise, she kissed him. "You know, you're beautiful," Keith told her. It would be the last time she'd ever see him. While away at college, Kyle called to inform her that Keith had been killed in action. She couldn't stop crying that night, but that didn't prevent her college boyfriend from subduing her - calling her his beautiful baby all the while - and forcing himself inside of her. The moment destroyed Elise.

She tried many times to visit Kyle, but he was usually away in Europe playing professional football - he had taught her, at least, not to call it soccer - and skyrocketing to fame and fortune. Truth was, he couldn't bear to see her, for he was in love with her, too. And the sense of betrayal was amplified in the shadow of a dead brother. He didn't even attend her mother's funeral.

Throughout it all, Elise lived a good life. She never succumbed to alcohol or drugs, despite the plethora of opportunities, and rarely gave herself away to men. Her beauty, though, combined with her sad and private demeanor, continued to foster her place as an object of rumors. "See that hot chick? She gives good head," was as commonly spoken of her as was, "Poor girl. Such a difficult life for one so young."

Unexpectedly, Elise killed herself on her 27th birthday. At her funeral were no family and few real friends. It was mostly a church full of false mourners - misinformed from years of lies Elise had no energy to dispute - secretly satisfied that Elise got what she deserved. The well-dressed and obviously wealthy stranger who approached the open casket would only prompt more posthumous tales of Elise's infidelities. The stranger limped - whispers abounded as to its cause, none knowing it was from an injury that ended a playing career.

Kyle, the only remnant from her childhood, places a hand on her cheek and leans in to kiss her, a tear from his eye falling gently on to hers. "Don't listen to them, Elise. You will always be beautiful."

*Learn more about Kyle... in Driven

Hopeless Memories

I didn't want to write about Memorial Day again... not for a while. But I've been mentally exhausted since Saturday. At first I didn't know why, but then the dawn of realization crept up on me. Blinded me, really. I should've known better, but I can honestly state that even with awareness of the encroaching "holiday," it took me by surprise.

The old (and dishearteningly accurate) cliché is that ignorance is bliss. Memorial Day was a far better weekend back when there was no one to remember. But those days are long ago, never to return. And the fucking list just keeps getting longer.

Sure, I can bitch about the wars, the politics behind the wars, the politicians behind the politics, and the seemingly ignorant voters (blissful voters, perhaps) behind the politicians, but that's never been and never will be the point behind being in the military. Not for me, anyway. Soldiers, sailors, marines, airmen, whomever... they don't care. It's a job. And as blasé as that may seem, it's how most active service-members and veterans view it. There are no politics at the bottom levels. Only co-workers and friends.

Some of these men and women will continue to spend Memorial Day the way they've always spent it. With friends and family at the beach, or at a barbecue, or at an amusement park, or wherever it is their own personal traditions dictate that they go. For many, the status quo is a safety net... their way to cope. For others, it's a preservation of something. But they'll notice something different. They have no other choice.

Me, though. I'll be somewhere, lost in thought. It is a strange biological clock that reminds someone that it's time to be a little depressed and more reverent than usual. There's no point in fighting it. I'm already mentally exhausted, after all... why add physical exhaustion to the fold?

My time in the military - both the direct and indirect involvement - is now safely over. This newer status is likely never to change again and, for that, there is a small modicum of gratitude. But memories of names and faces remain, along with questions both hypothetically useless and hyperrealistically hopeless. Still, for one day at least, I'll allow them to be asked... and offer responses that have no answers.

Halos

"You scared, Jimmy? It's okay. If you're scared, say you're scared."

"I ain't scared."

Point of fact is that I was scared. Still am, really, and probably even more so. Though I never told my parents what I did while they were alive, they most certainly know now. I've done a lot of wicked and cruel things in my life, but what I did that day is the only thing that is... unforgivable.

Mrs. Taylor kept to herself. She was not an old woman. Early 50s at the time it happened, she might have looked 60 or so, but that's what happens when life gets too stressful or, in her case, too depressing. Of course, I didn't know that then. All I knew about her was that she had money and how her smile looked when she bothered to say hello as people walked by on the street. Other than that, she didn't interact very often with anybody. My mother was the only person who - to my knowledge - had ever been in her house. Mrs. Taylor hadn't even owned a car, preferring to ride a bicycle to wherever she needed to go.

All the really young kids thought that she might be a witch. Those slightly older imagined her as a cannibal, preying on unsuspecting children, despite the complete lack of kidnappings and disappearances in our neighborhood. By the time one reached high school, she ceased to be much of a curiosity to anybody. But I hadn't been in high school yet.

Whenever she rode by, everyone took notice of a floppy red hat that either stuck out of her oversized purse or was otherwise attached to her clothing. Perhaps tucked away under a belt or shoved into a pocket. No matter what she wore or what she was doing, she had that floppy red hat with her. But never, and I am not exaggerating, did she ever have it on her head. She never wore it. She simply kept it with her.

I, and my friends, were at the age when the witch stories were fading and the cannibal stories were brightening. You could say that, at the time, we viewed her as a spell-casting eater of human flesh.

"Well, are you going to do it?" John was, by and large, the leader of our little group. It wasn't because he was the biggest - which he was - but that he had the strange ability to manipulate everyone around him. Well, everyone his age, anyway.

"Yeah, I'm going to do it." I knew then that I shouldn't, but peer pressure is ridiculously powerful at that age, especially when Sally Foster happened to be there staring at me. Maybe I should mention that Sally Foster became my first wife, but then again, that might just make this story worse.

"I hear she sleeps with it." Billy always had a propensity to exaggerate - still does - and even then I assumed that he was just embellishing the tale. In retrospect, however, I now vaguely recall my mother talking to my father about the hat one night, and she had mentioned that Mrs. Taylor had indeed slept with it. Heck, now that I think about it, I think my mother might have known why Mrs. Taylor carried it around. Should have asked her. Hindsight, you know?

But the truth was she didn't sleep with it. Not on the bed, anyway. When I had broken into the house and sneaked up to the second floor, I spotted that floppy red hat on her nightstand, placed carefully next to a black and white photo of an older man - her husband - and a color photo of a younger - her son. At the time, I thought nothing of it; merely relished in the fact that I could walk so silently. I remember that the clock on her other nightstand read 3:13 AM. I remember the slight red hue to the room from both the clock and a decorative nightlight on the other wall. I remember everything about it.

And, yes, I took the hat.

Before I could tell everyone the next day that I retrieved it, Mrs. Taylor was at my front door, frantically explaining something to my mother. I knew immediately that whatever was going on was about the hat. And I knew, probably even prior to that, that I was in a world of trouble. So I did the sensible thing that all sensible children do: I hid the hat and kept my mouth shut.

Mrs. Taylor killed herself three days later.

Years later, when I returned from a tour of duty overseas, I found the red hat still tucked away in my closet. It wasn't red at all, but maroon. Made of wool; a leather sweatband; a drawstring cut and burned, obviously sized for a specific head. A beret. When I first joined the Army, I wore a black one. Maroon was reserved for the Airborne. Those crazy bastards who somehow thought jumping out of airplanes was the best way to attack an enemy. I didn't know any of this when I took... no, when I stole the hat.

It was upon my decision to research how Mrs. Taylor acquired the beret that I finally learned the truth.

***

Local Hero Buried With Full Military Honors
By Stephanie Jenkins
Wilmington, NC (AP) - Kyle Taylor, graduate of New Hanover High School, was buried amid a 21-gun salute and a military funeral detail on Saturday. A paratrooper of the vaunted 82nd Airborne Division out of Fort Bragg and a two-time recipient of the Silver Star, Taylor was killed during an unspecified operation last Monday. Known locally for wearing the maroon beret of his father, Kevin Taylor, who was killed in action 17 years ago this July. Kyle's squad leader personally ensured that the beret made its way safely to Kyle's sole-surviving relative, his mother Genevieve.

***

I was arrested for digging up her grave in an ill-advised attempt to place the beret in her casket. Mrs. Taylor's sister, then herself on her deathbed, gave permission to exhume the grave in order for the beret to be reunited with its rightful owner.

Though all chargers were dropped - thanks to the sister - and my chain of command declined to pursue a military investigation, I know I await final judgment. St. Michael, the patron saint of warriors and paratroopers, cannot possibly bless a man who has desecrated the memory of two of his chosen. Still, needing to face - and, maybe, hasten - my punishment, I am now a paratrooper, at the whim of the wings and the sword of an angel so powerful. I'm not sure I've slept a full night in years.

May Mrs. Taylor forgive me. Even if St. Michael never does.

Judicial Contempt

"Your book is stolen, you know? That you have convinced yourself that it is some sort of original Word is not my problem, but yours. There are, in fact, older stories. Rough drafts of what you call Logos, logic, the Truth, but they are in themselves nothing more than Fable. Some would call them Lies, but I don't claim - as you do - to know anything.

"Did you write it? Of course not. Were you there when it was written? Of course not. Are you so irresponsible that you believe everything you're told because of who tells it? This is again, not my problem. What sort of fruit grew there? What sort of fruit grows there now? True logic - that of independent thought, borne of experience - dictates that your facts are incorrect and, hence, not facts at all. Where did the first woman go? Are we truly all the product of incest? And why are there equal bars on the cage? From one did not come the other. Surely a mistake was made, but you cannot admit that. You will not. Persecution is far easier.

"The days change on a whim, though not since the Age of Enlightenment. Coincidence, I think not. Control is everything to you and yours, which is why your children are accosted so easily. Perfection? Such a subjective term. Some view marriage as perfection, and yet there is an absence of such in one so important. Love is a Myth, so easily swayed and difficultly proven. That you created rules for it is evidence of its fiction. Lust is a Truth, so difficultly swayed and easily proven. That you created rules against it is evidence of its fact.

"Tell me, then... have you ever thought for yourself? Or is your basic programming like that of a computer's? Easy to modify, but only if the basic language remains. By true logic - that which is at ease with its lack of a capital - you are an automaton. Your children never had a chance to discover the World for themselves. A pity you call this Faith. A pity you feel you need to be saved. Why do you disregard your free will so readily? The choices are yours. Books can be edited, and the one you read is constantly so. Which edition do you Believe? And why did you choose it? Forgive me for assuming, but it was likely chosen for you.

"Thought is a survival skill. Our bodies are weak in the face of Nature. Tools gave us the ability to live, to proliferate, to kill, and to disappear. Where we are is where we should be. It's a beautiful place, even with the presence of the Cavalry. That you believe all four preexisted humanity is proof of the wickedness of your Truth. No... quite obviously, Humanity created one of them. That it exists is a stain our History will never live down. But we also created its opposite: Peace.

"And that's all we know. In this life, that's all we can know. Everything in between is a story to tell. For you to claim otherwise is perjury in the face of Death."

Uriah stands, proud of his statement, ready to face his punishment. But there is nothing there.

"Guilty," he mutters, grinning widely.

One day, he may very well serve his sentence. Until then, however, there is a life to be lived. And, perhaps, time to write his own book.

Yellow Butterflies

She was old enough to know, but young enough to disappear within her imagination. Her kingdom of calla lilies had to be tended to, after all, regardless of what tragedies took place in the deceptively dull realm of the real world. Ruling alone was an awfully gigantic task, and there were no princes of worth nearby. Some were too ugly; some were too smelly; most were too stupid... and they all had cooties. She had a quest to begin soon, anyway. A journey her uncle told her that could take the rest of her life. There were no worries, however, for she didn't think she'd be away from her calla lilies for too long.

The quest was, perhaps, the kindest thing her uncle had ever given to her. The little girl refused to come to terms with her father's death. Car accidents and heart attacks didn't exist among the callaliliputians (a term her father had coined), so why should they exist for her father? An artist by trade, her uncle had recognized the girl's defense mechanism, and instead of following the suit of modern advice and making her confront the cold facts, he simply played along.

"But where did daddy go?" she asked, frowning, though she wasn't entirely convinced a frown was called for. She was simply imitating the expressions of the adults that were present.

Her uncle sighed, tired from reluctant and public tears, but turned to her with a big smile. "He moved, princess. He went to a different kingdom to rule."

Her eyes widened as big as the muffins she had stolen the week before (but told no one about, not even her sister). "Does he have a castle?" She seemed excited.

"Oh, yes," her uncle replied, "but it's a castle in the sky."

The girl frowned again, but this time with purpose. "How do I get there to see him?"

Her uncle picked her up and propped him on her lap. "Well, it's a very, very hard journey. One such a little girl might not be able to make. It might even take forever."

She crossed her arms, keeping the frown intact. "I'm not that little. I can make it."

"All right, then. First, you have to go to the gardens of stone and find the one with your daddy's name on it. That's his street sign. Understand?"

She nodded.

"Second," he continued, "you have to follow the yellow butterflies. One will lead you to another, and then another. Sometimes the butterflies will disappear and you'll have to look around for a hidden clue."

"Like when the Easter Bunny hides her eggs?" she interrupted.

"Yes, exactly like that." A telephone rang from the next room and her uncle set her down. As he got up to answer, he reminded her, "Follow the yellow butterflies."

"To the castle in the sky!" she exclaimed with a giggle, her frowns now an unimportant memory.

***

It was the tenth anniversary of her father's death, and she was weary of visiting him. Her life was about to take her to the far reaches of the world, and a hint of regret threatened to stain her aspirations before they had a chance to shine.

Remembering a childhood emotion, she glanced around for something, struggling to hold back her tears.

"Please," she said aloud, to no one in particular, "let me know that it's okay to leave you."

Not really expecting an answer, she parked her car and began the short walk to her father's gravesite. It was a beautiful spring day and there was still some moisture in the soil from a gentle rain two days prior. The birds were calling and the sun was warm. Only her mood darkened the beautiful and peaceful landscape.

As she approached the headstone, her eyes grew as large as those muffins she once stole. She fell to her knees and began to cry. Upon her father's marker, basking in the sun and flapping its wings to a song that no one could hear... a yellow butterfly.

Wiping the tears from her cheeks she looked up to the sky, imagining a cloud in the shape of a castle.

His Final Lover

He could never understand what it was about strange, new places that reminded him of home. Or, rather, of her. He had no home, per se, but he often thought of her. No matter how far he ran away, there was a memory chasing her down. Someone had told him that it was simple matter of survival instinct: men faced with dying need reasons to live. Not that she was his reason; only that he had nothing else. She was a carefully written fiction of the book in his mind, and he only turned the pages to see what she would do next. A movie star gracing a screen of gray matter. His Girl Friday of yesterday, and of tomorrow.

She had a smile dependent on her mood. Most women do, to be fair, but he only ever noticed it in her. He only ever noticed anything in her. If he'd missed something when she was standing in front of him, he was sure he'd dream of it later and be able to pick out the details as he slept. There was a vague recollection of her telling him that his memories were inflated, but such straight-forwardness only convinced him further that those memories were accurate. She had a softly and slowly spoken voice, one that hid experience and education, punctuated by an occasional yawn that was vehemently denied as boredom and excused as the result of being a restless sleeper. Whether or not he believed her, he couldn't recall.

In reality, he couldn't recall much, for he hadn't seen her in a very long time. Such a long time, in fact, he wasn't even sure she was real anymore. Imagination in the face of loneliness runs rampant, after all. And in this part of the world, loneliness is the rule, for it is a long way from familiar. And he wanted to survive.

The warmth he felt wasn't from any embrace, nor was it from the heat in the region, though it was particularly warm. Rather, it was from freshly bled blood escaping from a wound somewhere underneath his uniform. He lacked the presence of mind to be able to find the hole; merely maintained the presence to know that there was one. There was a parting thought that friends should be somewhere nearby, but the notion was brief and more than futile. Were friends here, he'd have been carried away by now. There was no realization of this, for his eyes had been gazing upon the memory of a smile soon to be forgotten. The picture in his mind no longer matched the picture in his hand, but he had known they were of the same face. A small comfort in the acknowledgment of missed opportunity.

In a final passing breath, instead of a longing smile, a hint of regret for things left unsaid.

It would've been better if he hadn't remembered.

"... and death will be my final lover, and life will always be something that I never understand." - Bob Schneider

*Find out who she is... in You're Beautiful

A River in Epirus

Her kiss was sweet in a way that it has never been before. The man smiles at the woman and gently places his thumb on her chin.

"Will you miss me?" she asks.

"I always miss you."

Behind them a limousine pulls up, for the man was a wealthy man and his payrolls control much of the city. No driver exits, but the passenger door opens anyway. This shocks the woman and she peers into the compartment, but sees no shape nor movement. The man takes no notice. He smiles again and she returns it, hesitantly. He can tell that something is wrong, but she's just a throwaway, and her emotions concern him not. He enters the vehicle without so much as a wave goodbye.

The limousine pulls away and the privacy barrier lowers slowly. As the man tastes his lips, there's hint of something obscure on them, he realizes that he does not recognize the driver.

"Where's Smith?

The driver turns and winks, he looks friendly enough. "He's sick today, sir. There's something going around. How are you feeling?"

The man ignores the question, but notices his forehead burning up. He turns on the air conditioning in the compartment and shakes his head in the cool air. The driver smiles widely at him. The man hits the button to raise the barrier, but nothing happens.

"Driver," he says, "raise the barrier, if you don't mind."

"I do, actually," the driver responds, continuing to smile but returning attention to the road.

There's an attempt at rebuke, but something catches the man's throat and he loosens his tie.

"What does your wife think of your trysts, sir? She can't possibly approve."

Grunting, the man forces his voice to work. "None of your fucking business, puke. Who the fuck do you think you are? Do you know who I am?"

"Yes, sir." A mocking nod accompanies the driver's words. "But you do not know who I am."

"Whoever you are, you're an insignificant fool. I'll have your job."

"Oh, I doubt that. My job has been the same since before you were born."

A closer examination of the driver reveals the face of a man who could not be older than 35 years of age. The man takes a deep breath, noticing for the first time that he can smell whatever it is that he's been tasting.

The driver laughs. "Sure, the medium has changed, as has the mode. But I still go back and forth to the same place, carrying poor saps like you."

"Poor saps?" The man is barely able to speak. He glances in a vanity mirror: his skin is deep red and clammy.

"Yes. Many men who have crossed the river did so because of poison. You are not the first, nor will you be the last."

River? Poison? That fucking bitch! Did the harlot know he was going to leave her like he did all the rest? The man glances through watering eyes at the driver, who shakes his head as if reading the man's mind.

"Your wife left this for you."

The driver hands the man an envelope. There's something heavy inside. Through struggled breath and clenched teeth, the man opens it. It's a coin. One unlike he's ever seen.

"What is it?" asks the man.

"Just an old piece of silver," responds the driver, not turning his head.

"I see that, you fuck. What's it for?" Left arm heavies and breath continues to labor.

"Your mouth."

"What?"

"Put it in your mouth." The driver turns this time. His eyes no longer human, reminiscent of fire; smile demonic. "It's my fare."

Blink; Whisper

It was obvious that trachea crushed beneath elbow, but no chances are taken. Silencer jams into throat and teeth scrape gun-sight a millisecond before sinew and fluid from spinal cord splatter onto the wall behind. The shadows were perspective, and no enemy would share the view.

Hands move in silhouette, speaking a language known only to the blurred outlines signaling acknowledgment. Dark shapes of what should be men appear under encroaching starlight and the fresh kill is carefully dismembered and discarded in nearby piles of trash. But what manner of men would act in such a fashion?

Devoid of thought, these shapes knew only one thing: an objective had to be met. They were here to stop a murderer, and the irony that they themselves were murderers in the eyes of whatever God or gods they believed in was not lost on them. But killers, be they state-employed or simple criminals, always exist on the fringes of society, and they would sleep well tonight.

Stealth is shed as the sun finally sets. Shadows take their rightful place as masters of fear and rush their adversaries. To the awaiting enemy, floating Cheshire grins create a sense of horror as the blurred outlines fail to even bother with pulling triggers. One man momentarily tastes the metal of a rifle stock before he begins a slow death choking on his own teeth and tongue. Another never even looks up from his freshly-lit cigarette as a well-placed thumb and forefinger violently rip out his larynx.

Guttural screams finally raise the alarm, and the enemy camp springs into action, only to fall amid ballistic spitting and noises that vaguely sound like rubber bands flying through the air. Those smart enough to remain still in attempts to listen for their attackers fare no better, as pools of arterial blood from cleanly slit necks will reveal under tomorrow's rising sun. Though there is no scythe reflecting moonlight, the presence of Death is unmistakable. Pure and unadulterated. Remorse forgotten with the loving smiles of wives and children left behind many months ago.

Their objective lies in the dark, believing himself to have an advantage. The stars and the moon should offer at least a warning glimpse of the unknown assailants. Such would, no doubt, be the case, were the assailants now not crawling on their bellies as snakes in the grass. Mother Nature makes no judgment, and her creatures are the most efficient killers, second only to those men who are able to cease being men when the need arises. There's almost a hiss as a dark outline rises behind the objective and places a black blade against throat.

The objective begs for his life. But shadow takes neither prisoner nor creates martyr. It simply wishes to create more shadow. Screams of false penance are doused in gasoline and set aflame. For a moment, the eyes of living men reappear in the flickering light, apparitions of life in a place now completely dead. One places fingers to lips in a silencing motion. When it is decided that pain has been felt enough, those same fingers reach for trigger and end the screaming once and for all.

A rare offering of mercy, out of shadow and into light, only to fade away again.

Walk a Mile...

The dead tell no stories, but possessions left behind do. Photographs on the wall or in frames on the desk. Pictures are worth a thousand words, they say, but too often the awareness of a camera forces an image worth a thousand lies and the memories they depict are false. Possibly the intent, but likely not. Nobody asks anyone to walk a mile in their image.

Letters and journals tell more truth, but the author's ability to capture a moment leaves most to the imagination. A reader's subjective lies in lieu of a writer's subjective truths, strangers running with words they can only interpret using experiences from their own lives. The journey from birth to death lost in translation. It's easy to walk a mile in someone's words, but it is often not the same mile.

By the bed, a set of slippers. They, too, tell a story, of feet afraid of a cold or dirty floor. Watermarks reveal they were worn to the shower and back. An errant hair betrays a cat or a dog, not always allowed on the bed, curled up to sleep on the scent of a master's feet. A disdain of filth combined with an irrational love of animals.

Well-worn dress shoes near the front door. Matched with clothes found in a wardrobe, a tale told of one who cared enough to dress to impress. A salesperson or a manager. Hints of white collar abound, secrets whispered of a lifetime spent taking care of family. And younger days prowling expensive restaurants and bars for the one with which to start a family with. Perhaps the one in the photographs.

In the closet, stuffed diligently in the bottom of a duffel bag, a pair of ragged boots. A brush of black polish speaks of days long gone when a reflection could be seen in the toes. Sand from deserts and jungles, clues of days when friends were friends and enemies were enemies. A sense of duty lost in footprints made on other continents. Or just a need to do something different, something few were willing to do. Hidden for reasons unknown. Embarrassment from deeds better left unremembered, or maybe tears from memories of friends long buried.

Running shoes still in a box. Recognition of a life gone frail and an attempt too late to extend waning years. Or nearby broken-in cross-trainers, perchance, simply offered more comfort and familiarity. There are sandals worn on trips to the beach. Bronzed baby shoes a gift from a mother long departed. Clogs and sabos, souvenirs from travels abroad. Loafers for days when arthritis was too much to handle. And, most telling at all, plastic hospital shoes worn during a battle with life destined to be ultimately lost.

Stories never told, only walked. Forgotten stories of too many miles traveled before a much needed sleep, earned every step of the way.

Life is Interesting

Yep, I'm stating the obvious. Life is definitely interesting. It never quite matches your hopes and dreams, but it never quite matches your fears and nightmares, either. It just sort of happens, oblivious to anything you try to plan or do. Money comes and goes, health comes and goes... even people, friends and loved ones, come and go.

It sure is interesting.

Interesting despite the fact that all lifetimes can be summed up in three simple words: born, lived, died. Inconspicuously simple, and any biographer with an honest bone in their body will tell you that those three words are not only the most important descriptors in a life story, they're the only relevant descriptors in a life story. Born. Lived. Died.

Two of those words are absolutes. They happen exactly the same to everything on this planet. It's that middle word that is open to interpretation.

Some people view their lives as complete failures, while others can view those same lives as historic successes. Some view their actions in life as honorable, selfless, and totally within reason. Others see those actions more objectively: completely selfish.

People go about being honest to some, lying to others, hating a few, and loving still fewer. They work or don't, they play or don't, but all manage to affect and effect those who surround them, for better or worse.

In the end, though, what does it really matter? History books record a dishearteningly small portion of the events and people that have populated our planet in the eons since its formation. Nobody will ever hear of your aunt's neighbor's grandmother; nobody will ever hear of your friend's hairstylist's cousin. Those people just fade away, and everyone else will be none the wiser.

But, still... people like to think that they matter. That somehow the ebbing nature of time will recall the insignificant presence of the insignificant lives that are ours. Somehow, though, I don't think time gives a shit. In fact, I know it doesn't. It just ticks away in the perceptions of our minds, while we grow older and start wondering just what does happen after we die.

I don't think I'll care what happens. At last I hope I don't care what happens... I have a fear that one day I'll turn into a hypocrite and start spouting one of the humanist mythologies that we call religion as fact when they are so clearly fiction.

Time, though, is not a fiction. It may very well be relativistic, but we know it's real. And to truly live, we have to accept and acknowledge that our time, like our lives, is finite. I don't want to experience lives that don't want to experience mine... and I don't have time for those who don't have time for me.

I'll fade away, one day... of that I'm certain. Completely forgotten by people who pretend to care, but don't really give a shit.

It's all so very interesting.

Alone in His Absence

Standing in the rain, he was alone in a crowd of several hundred. His mind blank, he was perfectly still, with a face devoid of emotion. A few present thought they recognized him, but none were convinced he was who they were thinking of, so he was left alone. A solitary wave in a sea of people.

He watched intently as the flag was lifted from the coffin, folded, and presented to a grieving widow. A familiar effect from a familiar cause, hanging heavy on a conscience he thought he managed to let sink into the quicksands of time.

Almost never formally invited, he still managed to almost always show up at such events. It was, as often proverbially pointed out to him, the least he could do.

Surveying the gathered mourners, his gaze crossed some of the men in uniform who were present at his friend's death. He knew that many of those men secretly ridiculed him, the long-haired Army drop-out who had seemingly run from the wars, and this almost made him laugh. For his secrets were far darker and deeper than theirs.

But nobody could know that, not without betraying circumstances and oaths that had long spiraled beyond his control. So, he just stood there in the rain, trying to fight off the creeping guilt of not being there when another friend was killed.

It was a futile guilt, he was well aware, as even when he had been there, friends were still killed and maimed. He, himself, had been injured on a mission, but it wasn't from enemy action... merely the random placement of a random rock that he and his parachute were blown into by a random wind.

The funeral came to a close. The people left, in groups and one-by-one. He continued to stand there and lit a cigarette in order to help pass the seconds ticking away from his mental clock. After a while, only he and the widow remained. Even the pastor had gone to have lunch, a hypocrite in sentiment and in purpose.

Initially, he was going to wait for the widow to leave. He preferred to pay his respects in solitude, alone in the presence of his friend, six feet beneath his shoes. She stayed, however, and didn't seem to want to leave. She wanted to stay with her husband forever, and until the pragmatic conclusion that her own life still needed to be lived, she would continue to stay.

He approached her, offered a cigarette. She wasn't a smoker, but she accepted. The two of them stared at the grave, their silence as deafening as the infinity of dreams in eternal sleep. Cognizant of the stranger beside her, she finally spoke.

"Do you believe in God?"

It was an odd question, he thought, for a woman who just buried her husband in a church cemetery to ask. He shook his head "no" in response. She laughed quietly, disconcerted by the unsympathetic, if somewhat expected, answer.

"Where do you think he is?"

He took a final drag from his cigarette, flicked out its burning embers, and placed the butt in his pocket, an action not unnoticed.

"Did you serve with my husband?"

Turning to her, he allowed the corner of his mouth to smile. He nodded slightly, both acknowledging and ignoring the question, and walked away... leaving her alone in his absence.

For the dead offer no company.

Dying Happy, Inc.

Everyone wants to die happy, right? Sure, by "dying happy," people usually mean they want to die having lived a full life, with a strong family and/or most of the goals they set for themselves accomplished.

But what about the actual death part? Why not "die happy?" And, no, I'm not talking about hearing harps playing, seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, or reliving the moment you lost your virginity.

Well, actually...

Why doesn't someone invent a machine that gives a person an instant orgasm when they experience, say, a heart attack or other mortal shock? Think about it. You're 85, out for a jog since you're trying to "stay young," and suddenly your left arm feels heavy. You're in your jogging shorts, so you don't have your cell phone, and nobody else is around or paying you any mind. And then you collapse.

Now, normally, you'd just lay there, dying in agony as you wait in vain for someone to help, but with the H-DOI (Happy Death Orgasm Initiator), you instead experience the all-encompassing orgasm you've never experienced before in your life. Instant hard-on, instant wet, followed by an instant ejaculation and the sensation of riding a rocket to the moon. G-spot's got nothing on this. You just died with a smile on your face.

Wouldn't that rock? Can you imagine a person opting for an H-DOI instead of a pacemaker? Or an H-DOI instead of an organ transplant? Ah, the possibilities.

So, I put out a challenge to all of you bio-engineers and medical scientists: create the H-DOI, and let humanity all die with a smile on its face.

But First, a Funeral

Looking at himself in the mirror that day, he couldn't tell how old he was. Sure, he knew how old he was, but either his eyesight or his mind was partially deceiving him. The grays in his hair seemed to be hidden, the lines around his eyes were gone. Perhaps it was the uniform. After all, he hadn't worn it in a long, long time.

Those were the days. He had escaped relatively unscathed from nearly a decade of service in the Army, but many of his friends had not. Drinking buddies were now lying beneath Mother Earth. Others were making their ways through life missing an arm, a leg, or both. Or all.

It wasn't fair.

Who was he, after all? Often he was referred to as a jerk. A know-it-all asshole who would just as soon shoot his superiors in the back as he would his enemies. So far in life, by his own measure, he had accomplished nothing. Why was he spared?

Certainly, he knew, his old friends were more deserving of a good life. Even the relatively few medals on his chest reminded him that he always fell a little short of the accolades. Not that he minded. He was a bit camera shy, after all, but his friends were red-blooded heroes. And the man in the mirror was not.

He took a breath, straightened his uniform as well as he could. It didn't fit as well as he remembered. A little tighter around the waist, a little looser around the shoulders. But it was his. He had earned it. His friends had died wearing it. And he would put up with looking a little out-of-place in order to honor them... because who else was left to do so?

As he exhaled he realized one strange, yet completely natural, truth. He had to live for all of them. Accomplish all of things that they, together, should have accomplished. His life must turn around, for his existence now had a meaning far greater than he deserved.

Yes, he thought. Great things will happen. For those whose only future is the eternal silence, the eternal darkness, that is memory.

But first, a funeral.

An Age of Friends

His coffee didn't taste good to him tonight. Nor, for that matter, did his cigarette. It's as if decades of his old reliables had eroded any pleasures his pleasures had afforded him. But he didn't mind. He knew the time was coming. And, so, he wrapped himself up in his ragged Army blanket, barely noticing the pain in his chest, and returned his attention to trying to keep warm in front of the roaring fire.

His memories wandered as the flames ebbed and the embers cooled. Family would have been on his mind, but he had none to speak of. Instead, he remembered his friends. His ages of friends.

When he was a little boy growing up in a San Diego suburb, he remembered that all he had to do to see most of his friends was walk a few hundred feet west or east, down a few houses on his block, and ring a doorbell. Sometimes a mother or a sister who he would feel attracted to would answer the door, and his shy little voice would ask, "Can he come out and play?"

Occasionally the question would be answered with a seemingly heartless "no," usually on Sundays when one of his overly religious friends had to read from something referred to as "the Good Book" or some such nonsense. His agnostic upbringing couldn't discern the concept, so he would continue down the street and ring another doorbell.

Usually, though, the answer would be yes, and he and his friend or friends would revel in a game of street ball (either baseball or football, both of which often resulted in broken living room windows or dismembered rearview windows from an unluckily parked car) or mock costumes consisting of blankets for capes and last year's Halloween masks in an imaginary world of superheroes.

Later on in life, through high school, college, and the military, he remembered that hanging out with friends required a bit more effort. Plans had to made, times had to be coordinated, and walking places was generally out of the question. Everybody had to drive, since everybody lived in different parts of the city. Being friends with neighbors was in the process of becoming an afterthought, and camaraderie seemed to belong in the realm of the workplace or the classroom. Back then, though, he didn't even notice. It just seemed natural.

Despite being older and more "free," hanging out with friends was more limited. Occasional movies, more than occasional drinks, and frequent loud, crowded, yet ultimately boring parties rounded out his repetoire. Sometimes he and his friends would get more creative and actually go away somewhere for a while... perhaps a camping trip, or an overseas adventure, maybe a skydive or a scuba dive or two... or both.

Still later in life, his friends were even farther away from him, as most moved away, or back home, or to one of those countries they might have visited during the overseas adventures. Neighbors once again became "friends" of sorts, but only because his mobility was becoming more and more hampered. Acquaintances, more likely, as he knew who his real friends were. Those men and women he grew up with, when friends were made without prejudices, and those men and women he served with, when friends were made in spite of prejudices. Everyone else, it seemed to him, were just faces in the crowd. Touched and gone, as it were.

Walking was definitely out of the question this time, as was driving... at least most of the time. Usually, seeing a friend involved a few hundred dollars and an uncomfortable plane ride. He went through a period of time in which he avoided them, under the auspices of saving a little cash, but when the destinations starting becoming funerals... well, he had too much respect for his friends not to go.

He remembered how he used to love hopping into an airplane, either on his way somewhere exotic or new, or on a one-way trip to a drop zone. Now, he hated them. Airplanes merely became a symbol of seeing a friend that one last time... only the friend wouldn't remember him coming, or even know he was there, laying the flower on the casket, throwing the dirt into the freshly filled grave. His tears went unnoticed... so much so that he soon quit shedding them altogether.

The fire had died long ago. The coffee long cold. The cigarette burned to ash down to the filter.

He remained there, curled up in his chair, underneath his blanket. His face seemed peaceful, serene, and had a hint of a smile.

A smile one only has when with friends... forever.

And We'll Never Know His Name...

A sad song plays on the radio. The lyrics reflect a life that was not his, but his memories wander anyway. Eventually they find their way to two specific points in time.

The first, the first time he had seen a dead body. He was a soldier, but the death had not been caused by combat. The woman had merely been a victim of a car accident. An accident in some Latin American country. The woman's daughter stood nearby, crying as she watched her lifeless mother placed on a gurney and loaded into the ambulance, red and blue lights glistening off her tears.

And then the tears became his own. Tears in another time, another place.

This time, the dead body was on his back. His best friend. He carried his companion across the desert, ditching his own survival equipment along the way in order to bear the weight of the man he shared drinks with not three days earlier. This death was from combat. Many more deaths surrounded the incident, but the man did nothing about the others. It was only for his friend that he was concerned.

No, that isn't true. He remembered the rage he felt when blood splattered from his friend's neck onto his uniform. He remembered the decisive, yet chaotic, response of firing half-aimed shots into the crowd where their assailants were firing from. He remembered the woman with the baby. He remembered her falling. On that trek through the blistering heat, he remembered replacing the baby in his mind with a bomb.

Until the song, he would remember only the bomb, and not the cries of a baby crushed under the weight of its mother.

Then, however, he only knew one thing. He had to bring his friend home. It was only 70 more miles to the nearest border. His friend had to make it home.

Later, he would be told that the actions of he and his team saved many lives. At the cost of many. At the cost of a dead friend whose body lies less than 15 miles within an enemy country, for the weight became too much to bear.

A sad song plays on the radio. A man some call a hero begins to cry. He doesn't stop until he falls asleep. A hero... shamed.

He never talks about what happened. He doesn't talk about what he did or didn't do, and when he does his replies are inconsistent, shrouded in self-mystery. He won't admit to being a hero. For he was, is, a soldier. And the world doesn't need to know his name.

MySpace After Death

As I sat around one day, twiddling my thumbs... I was probably at work, mind you... I got to wondering. You know, all the crazy things one wonders wonderfully about when he or she is supposed to be doing something far more important. Yeah, that kind of wondering. Stuff like, "Why did my parents become vegetarians?" and, "Why is chocolate the only flavor of ice cream that possibly tastes better when it's been freezer-burned?" As you can tell, I worry about the state of the world quite often. Of course, there were more serious questions, like, "Why can't I get the one girl I want to go out with in the world to like me... even just a little?" and, "Where, oh, where have my little cats gone?"

Then, the ultimate question hit me... the one that pertains to us all in this glorious virtual world of communication known as the Internet... "What the flying fuck will happen to my MySpace page when I die?"

Seriously, in the real world (the one that few of us even bother with any more), the problem of "virtual property" after a death is becoming a big one. In fact, I even read an article recently concerning email accounts after one dies... it's important, too... go find it and read it... and no, I read it after I formulated the MySpace after death question... so there.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, the real world. Anyway, so what happens? Has Saint Peter installed the Internet at his desk in front of the pearly gates? Does he have a MySpace page with which to message Tom and ask politely to close Joe Schmoe's MySpace account because Joe had a little too much to drink and veered off the bridge into the foamy brine? And what about Satan? Oh, wait, I know... Satan is the one that posts and reposts all of those stupid ass bulletins that morons can't seem to get enough of.

But what if you're not a Christian? Does Allah play? I know Muhammad can't show his picture on his page, but does he have a minion that screams at Americans for their disparaging and immoral pop culture while deleting MySpace pages in the glorious afterlife? And what about Jews? Hindus? Sikhs? Baha'i's? Buddhists? Never mind that last one... Buddha doesn't seem like he'd care. And I'm sure the Scientologists just take their Thetan-invaded laptops with them to their Heaven, so they probably get to keep their MySpace pages when they die.

And the agnostics? Well, they obviously don't know what happens to their MySpace after death, and they probably don't really care. The atheists? I know this one... there is no MySpace after death.

Seriously, folks... this is something we need to figure out. Tom can only handle so much.

Pointless Musings

I've only recently come to the conclusion that the music of Steely Dan is really, really bad. Anyone know who the idiot was that signed Steely Dan to a record deal?

Wilmington, North Carolina should quit trying to pretend that it's a "little Charleston" or a "little Savannah" and start trying to pretend that it's a "little San Diego." It'd be a much nicer place that way.

Even though I was born there, Jacksonville, Florida, should not have a football team (Los Angeles Jaguars, anyone?).

Why can't some roommates grasp that leaving a shower curtain extended keeps the mildew from sticking the curtain together and turning it brown?

Why are women willing to break the sound barrier on large highways, but absolutely terrified to pass people on two-lane ones?

I'm not sexist, I'm just curious.

Not that kind of curious.

I hate you all, except for a certain brunette who absolutely and unequivocally does it for me.

But I hate the rest of you.

Really.

I do.

One Billion Tobacco Deaths? Big Whoop

I read an article a couple of days ago that claimed the 21^st century will see one billion people die from tobacco-related causes. One billion. The American Cancer Society and World Health Organization see this as a huge problem; one worthy of being declared an "emergency."

I say screw 'em.

I don't mean that in a bad way, but seriously, one billion people? Over the course of a century? That's not too bad, if you ask me. In fact, it helps out another "problem" that the World Health Organization is worried about: overpopulation. Not only that, these smokers are dying from something that, in all likelihood, THEY WANT TO DO. It's not like one billion people are getting run over by drunk drivers or getting thrown off of cliffs. It's smoking, which is an acquired habit, and which they can quit if they really wanted to (as a former smoker, I feel entitled to say that). But you know what, most of them LIKE IT.

I say let 'em smoke.

One billion people over 100 years really isn't that bad of a number. That's about 10 million deaths per year on average, which is less than 5% of the American population. Given that the birth rate is still high enough to blow the death rate out of the water, what is everyone so concerned about? Besides, wouldn't we all like a little more elbow room? I know those living in Los Angeles, New York, Seoul, Mexico City, Tokyo, and all of those other crazy places sure as hell would.

Now, I'm not claiming that the world is overcrowded, or is anywhere near it's "sustenance limit," but the fact remains that in 1950, the world's population was only about 2.5 billion. It is currently estimated to be about 6.5 billion. Think about that. Thanks to medicine, technology, and the like, we went from taking THOUSANDS UPON THOUSANDS of years to reach 2.5 billion to taking only 55 years to add another 4 billion more. And, at the current growth rate, the world is expecting to hit 9.2 billion by 2050.

Shit... let 'em smoke, let 'em die. Like I said, at least it'll be from something chosen, and not some fucked up accident.

Eulogy for O. Hawkins

I met Omer Hawkins in 2000, when I had transferred from the C Company to the Headquarters and Headquarters Company of the 37th Engineer Battalion. I didn't know what to make of him at first... a short guy, a chain smoker like the rest of us, with a grating voice that reflected his pack-a-day-plus habit.

He loved the Army and what it had afforded him. Maybe a little too much. When we first started talking, he was on his way out. He wanted to go overseas again... he felt that being in the Army was about being somewhere... anywhere but here, I guess. He wanted to go to Ranger School and a ton of other schools, too. For some reason, the Army wouldn't let him. So, he and I usually talked about what we planned on doing when we got out. He's where I found out about the North Carolina small business start-up loans. You see, he wanted to open up a small vintage bookshop. As I'd come to find out, that was typical Omer. He was very interested in literature, history, art in general... a veritable warrior-poet, one could say. Seriously, because of his interests and his stature, you would wonder what the Hell he was doing in the Army in the first place. But that was Omer... a soldier to the last. Art be damned.

His name was Omer, but we called him Tom. I guess that was his middle name. Regrettably, I have no idea. Although I knew him fairly well, it was only because of work. I had other friends, Dan and Tony, who really hung out with him. Through them I knew Tom liked comic books, liked an occasional game of Dungeons & Dragons. He was eccentric. But, like smoking, so were we all.

Tom died on October 14, 2004. He was killed in Iraq by a roadside bomb along with two others. Because Tom being Tom, or Omer being Omer, he had reenlisted and gone back to Korea. When he got there, the 44th Engineer Battalion deployed to Iraq. The first time a unit from Korea would deploy in decades. He was a part of history.

I don't know why I'm writing about him now, almost two years later, but I guess it's no secret that those who have served are often swept by a feeling of nostalgia for the military. I guess today was my day to really think about what I had done during my enlistment. That, and I never really got over the fact that I didn't find out about Tom's death until the day before his funeral... I couldn't make it... and I NEVER miss a funeral. It's called respect. But his was to be the first.

I still have friends that won't face his death. It's too real, too close to home. People often think of soldiers as cold-blooded killers, or, at least, as people who are trained to be... but we're no different than anybody else. Death hits us the same way it hits the rest of society. Some of us can take it, some of us can't. Some of us wait to deal with a friend's death for two years, some of us never deal with it. What do you expect?

There's only one thing I know for sure... I wish to God that Tom would have opened his fucking bookstore.