Ben
I suck the last of my chocolate milkshake up the long, red and white straw, uncaring that it makes that annoying slurping sound people hate so much. I feel their stares on me and imagine their eyebrows pulling tightly together as their frustrations mount. The milkshakes are mediocre today. They were the best once. Now I’m not so sure.
I pick up my napkin and swipe it once across my lips before scrunching it in my fist and dropping it into the tall, empty glass. Exhaling, I slide out of the spacious, red leather booth and pull my wallet out of the back pocket of my worn jeans. The milkshakes here didn’t always cost five dollars. I swear they hike the price up every time I come back from duty.
Bastards.
I drop a twenty-dollar bill on the table and turn toward the exit.
“See you tomorrow, Ben.”
I don’t look at the waitress, Donna, as I saunter past the counter where she pours an obese man in a dirty trench coat a fresh, hot coffee.
“See you tomorrow, Donna.”
Bells clash together as I press my palm to the door of the isolated little roadhouse on the edge of town and step outside. Fresh spring air on the tail of a gust of wind whips my face and I fill my lungs with it. In the desert, the air never smelled like this.
God bless America.
Stomping down the metal stairs in my heavy, brown boots, I reach into the front pocket of my jeans and pluck out a half empty packet of cigarettes. The packet is a little worse for wear since I’ve been carrying it around in my back pocket as I jump from job to job. Flicking the cardboard flap back, I pluck out a cigarette and pinch it between my lips.
“What do you want from me, Samantha? Tell me what you want!”
Slipping the packet of cigarettes into my back pocket, I turn toward the ruckus across the parking lot. Car doors slam. Oh goodie. A milkshake and a show. I move toward my big black truck and rest against its bull bar, bending my leg at the knee.
“I don’t want anything from you!”
“Bullshit!”
The guy comes into view long before the girl does and I light my cigarette as he storms across the lot, gravel crunching underneath his crisp, white sneakers. He tugs his blue letterman jacket together at the front before pushing ten angry fingers through his short, jet black hair.
“I’m not going in there with you if you’re going to keep yelling at me!” A short blonde pops out from behind a yellow Beetle, clenching the thick strap to her handbag.
I simper.
“So don’t,” he shouts over his shoulder as he clears the roadhouse steps in a single bound before disappearing inside.
I drag on my cigarette, watching in silence as she throws her hands up and mutters to herself. I take in her cut-off jean shorts, white halter top, and the belly button piercing that pokes through the slice in the fabric and glistens in the sun. She must be in high school, given her sugary tone and her boyfriend’s jacket.
Turning around, she spots me and pauses, eyeing the cigarette in my hand.
“Hey!” she calls out. “Can I get a cigarette?”
I squint as the sun slips out from behind a fluffy, white cloud, its bright light reflecting off the stones. Flicking my cigarette to the ground, I crush it under the sole of my boot.
“Sorry,” I say. “Last one.”
Of course I’m lying, but I think she knows that. The young girl cuts her eyes at me as I push off my truck and saunter around to the driver’s door.
“Fuck you,” she snaps, planting her manicured hands on her hips.
My lips quirk. Yep. She’s definitely in high school.
I climb into my truck and shut the door. Kids these days feel so entitled. Where I spent my last tour, they’d cut off her head simply because she spoke to me. Again, God bless America. This little girl doesn’t know how good she has it. Besides, I did her a favor anyway. Smoking is a filthy habit.
I don’t smoke often. I’ve had this packet of mine for a solid month and I’m only now nearing the end. Even though my days no longer leave me trembling with anxiety as the safety of the sun sinks into the horizon, I can’t seem to kick the craving for that four p.m. smoke.
The tiny blonde storms toward the roadhouse, not bothering to spare me another glance as I turn the key in the ignition and reverse my truck. The engine’s gentle but vicious rumble is music to my ears. I thought she’d sound like shit after my recent eleven-month absence, but she’s just as mouthy and glorious as ever, thanks to my neighbor, Josh, who took her around town to stretch her legs every few days.
Vrrrrrrt.
I frown as I pull out of the parking lot and onto the main road. There’s another muffled vibration followed by a familiar ringing. I glance down at the center console, but I can’t seem to pinpoint where it’s coming from. Returning my attention to the asphalt, I turn my radio dial down to hear the ringing better, but the radio is off anyway.
Where the fuck…? Stretching, I reach over the center console and pop open the glovebox. The ringing becomes clear and loud, so I snag my cellphone and answer it.
“Yeah?” I slam my glovebox shut.
“Really, Ben?” my angry little brother snaps. “You quit your job?”
“Yeah, I quit,” I tell him, moving into the right lane to overtake a light green campervan driving grossly under the speed limit. “Fetching coffees and watching assholes mix cement isn’t me.”
“It’s the first day!” he counters. “You think they’re gonna let you pour up an entire driveway by yourself on your first day?”
Frustration bubbles underneath my skin. My brother doesn’t understand what I need to survive. I’ve done four top secret tours throughout the Middle East. Four. The last eleven years of my life have been filled with action, blood, violence—hard-fucking-work. I’ve rebuilt entire homes with my bare hands. I’ve helped construct schools, fix vehicles, and detonate roadside bombs. Hell, I’ve performed major surgery in the middle of a damn desert to keep a friend alive. There, I had purpose. Here…here I have nothing.
“I’ve built schools, Declan.”
“I know you have, but this isn’t the fucking Middle East, Ben. This is the real world! I stuck my neck out to get you this job and you quit before the day is through?” He pauses, and it’s lengthy, before finally exhaling. “You were nobody when you first went to the Middle East. You had to work your way up. Same goes here in this country. You gotta work for it. No one is going to give you a hand out. They don’t give a fuck who you are or what you’ve done. If they want you to fetch them a coffee, you fetch them a damn coffee.”
I lick my lips. Of course, he doesn’t understand. I can fetch coffees until the cows come home but, why should I? Why should I have to settle? I’d give anything to be back serving my country. I know it’s a horrible life to want to live, but I don’t know anything else…and now that Mom’s gone, every time I come back here, it feels less and less like home. There’s something else missing too, and I can’t pinpoint what it is. It’s not luxuries. I’ve bought everything I can possibly want—even a motorcycle that I don’t like riding. None of it keeps me distracted long enough to stop thinking about those hot days I spent smoking cigarettes under a makeshift umbrella, my focus never leaving the horizon. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but the way my heart raced every time the breeze blew sand off the top of a dune…I never felt so alive…and if I didn’t promise my mother on her deathbed twenty-four months ago that I’d stop touring over there and start a life here, I’d go back in a heartbeat.
“Good talk,” I mutter, pulling the phone from my ear.
Declan’s voice is rushed and unintelligible as I hit the red button to end the call. Exhaling, I toss the phone onto the passenger seat and continue my drive toward the city. It’s not often I drive into the city, but someone I know is getting married tomorrow, and the only way I could get out of attending the wedding was to agree to show up at the bachelor’s party—which is tonight.
I smooth my hand down the front of my gray tee. I don’t look like much, but this is the cleanest shirt I currently own, so it will have to do.
Indicating right, I slip onto the freeway and head toward a bustling Las Vegas.