Homeland Security

by William L Casselman

  She was working part-time at the airport, working private security at the security scanners and couldn’t think of anything more boring. It was either this, drive cab or dance topless, and cab driving was beneath her and the other vocation, her father would disown her. But much like cab driving, she spent her shift listening to people’s complaints. Except this time, it was as she ran her hands over the female’s bodies, tried very hard not to smile and be very gentle with the frightened children.

  Emy thought this whole thing was stupid. Anyone who had anything they wanted to bring across our borders could easily slip across through our northern or southern borders quite easily. If they wanted to blow up a plane, they could rent a hotel room outside LAX or any number of airports and use an RPG or three of them to take out a DC-10 taking off or arriving. All this did was anger the citizens and try to make them think the government was doing something. She saw a lot of this sort of thing in Iraq. She never felt anyone truly wanted to win the war, much like she heard the Viet Nam vets speak of in the VFW’s and American Legion Bars. Yeah, that’s where I need to go tonight, and I’d better take a cab home. I feel a good drunk coming on, and I don’t need a DWI on my record to block my chances of becoming a cop…If we even survive next summer and I’m not in Leavenworth Federal Pen on an all expense 20-year vacation.

  Out of her geeky looking security uniform, which looked as if it came from one of Walmart’s overseas bins and into her more relaxed faded blue jeans and Seattle Seahawk Football jersey, Emy locked the front door behind her and quietly left the house. A friend from work waited for her at the curb to give her a ride down to the Back Door Lounge. She often began there and would then end up at either the American Legion or VFW. She liked to be somewhat on the comfortable side before all the war stories began. Nowadays, there were vets from Korea, Viet Nam, one or two guys who actually owned up to going ashore at Grenada, then Desert Storm and the two wars that brought the US back to the sandbox. Most of the regulars knew her and how she had served as a combat MP in Iraq, how she earned a Purple Heart from an IED and a Bronze Star for Valor by pulling her supervisor from out of the bottom of their burning overturned HMMWV. She’d been put in for a Silver Star, but someone back in the states didn’t think women belonged in combat and a Silver Star might highlight their heavy involvement as MP’s. She cared, but she and her supervisor were both alive, that was the main thing. Whenever the challenge coins came out for the next round, her Bronze Star coin usually kept her from buying. But with this war going on so long, she’d been buying more and more lately. The last time some guy from Anchorage tossed out a coin, it was for his Distinguished Service Cross, and she felt proud to buy him a drink. But she saw it in his eyes; they were dead like. He had that infamous 1000 yard stare made famous in Viet Nam. She wondered if she had it too.

  Sometimes the coins were for who gave you the highest ranking coin, and there was always some clown in the group with a general’s coin. Or highest medal, not their own and once she had seen a Medal of Honor coin tossed on the table. It made for an interesting game and kept the drinks flowing, which helped hide the wounds, and before long everyone was an Audi Murphy, John Wayne or George Armstrong Custer. She had one 101st Airborne veteran who claimed to be a direct descendent to Chief Crazy Horse, and she thought he had the look.

  The American Legion on South Cushman usually closed at 2 a.m., while the one on 1st Avenue wrapped things up depending on the crowd. The VFW stayed open until the last drunk was dragged out feet first by a counselor of the AA and that’s where she was headed tonight. Liquor laws in Alaska said the bars had to close by 5 a.m. and could not re-open before 8 a.m.

  The Yellow Cab that picked her up had a new driver, and between the bar and VFW, they shared looks in the rearview mirror. She didn’t feel like talking, and because she smelled of booze, he didn’t feel much like starting up a conversation with her. Clay never liked intoxicated women, even good looking drunk women and this one was probably another loyal wife who was out partying while her devoted husband was off fighting to defend her growing bar bill. He had listened to too many sob-stories of young troops who received “Dear John” letters in the mail.

  He dropped her off at the door to the VFW and didn’t bother to get out of the taxi to open the door for her. He told her the fare, which was $7.60 and took her crinkled up $10 bill through the passage window. With all the robberies, the taxi driver association had gotten the owners to purchase bulletproof windows that separated the passengers from the driver. There was a small pass-through slot for money. But as she climbed out, she told him to keep the change, and for some reason, she couldn’t explain why, she grew angry and flipped him the bird with the middle finger salute, slammed the car door and stormed into the VFW.

  Clay looked down at $10 bill and felt like tossing it out the window. But he had rent to pay on this cab and couldn’t be tossing good money aside. Why such a beautiful woman was behaving like such a jerk was beyond him, and then he suddenly wondered, did she get the government telegram today? Was she informed her husband, brother, or maybe even her father was killed in some training accident? He sat there for a moment, waiting to see if anyone was coming outside in need of a cab. He then decided she was probably simply a boozer and at least happy she wasn’t driving tonight.

  Perched on a tall bar stool at the left side of the nearly empty bar, a Long Island Tea set untouched in front of her. Emy felt teary eyed and wasn’t sure why. She couldn’t understand why she was so nasty with that good looking cab driver. She hadn’t flipped off anyone since one of the Marines in Iraq gave her a hard time. Then to make matters even more memorable, that same Marine corporal visited her in the hospital on base, and they shared a few moment together. He had apologized for his conduct, having learned of what Emy had done and remembered what his mother would’ve said to him had she still been alive for being so rude to a women. They had a good laugh, though it hurt a bit as some of the stitches stretched and then he left. After coming home, she learned from the corporal’s buddy how he’d been killed by a sniper a month later. She cried that night, while her mother held her. The first time she had cried since coming home.

  Emy pushed the drink away. She had had enough for one night and looked at her wallet, counted her money, and saw that she had spent nearly $50 and felt like crap. Shaking her head, he looked over at George the bartender and said, “Georgie, would you call me a cab, please. I’m done for tonight.”

  “Sure thing, Emy…would you like some free hot coffee? We use regulation GI grounds to give you that home town smell.” George reached over, picked up the VFW cell phone, and made the call to Yellow Cab. Most of the bars preferred Yellow Cab after dark. The cabs were easily identifiable, and after a couple cab drivers in Anchorage had used their cabs to commit rape of their female passengers, bar patrons simply felt safer in them in the dark.

  “No coffee,” Emy replied. “I hope to get some sleep, but I’ll probably wake Mom up when I get home and then we’ll sit down and have one of our long talks. Second thought, give me the coffee. I need to be prepared for that old woman. She can blindside me and the strangest times. Last time it was about how old she was getting and her desire for grandchildren. Do I look like I’m ready to have kids?”

  “No comment,” George answered.

  “Good answer,” Emy said.

  A moment later, Emy heard the horn honk outside and knew her taxi had arrived. She wasn’t even thinking of her last driver when she walked outside, opened the rear passenger side door, and climbed in, only to find Clay glaring at her.

  Suddenly, without being able to stop herself, Emy burst out laughing hysterically, but before Clay could react, she vomited all over his back seat, and the vile odor filled the taxi. Clay opened his door, ran inside the VFW, and advised the bartender what had happened. George came outside with an armful of clean bar towels to clean Emy off, while Clay worked on the upholstery. He kept some upholstery cleaner and towels in the trunk, along with some lemon odor spray to
kill the stench.

  “Man, what should I do with her?” Clay asked the bartender. “You got anyone inside who can take care of her?”

  “All I got are old boozers waiting to die,” George replied. He looked her over and decided, “I don’t think she needs to go to the hospital, and she lives right here in town.”

  Emy was sick and just semi-conscious, but she was able to hand her license to Clay and holding a towel in front of her mouth, she whispered, “Take me there…mom an’ dad…they’ll take care of me.”

  “All right,” Clay agreed, “but we’re going with all the windows down and lady, this is going to cost you extra!”

  Emy responded with a nod of her head, and then she leaned back against her seat. George took his towels and walked over to the trash dumpster and tossed them inside. He then went inside and washed himself up, before announcing, “Last call!” George had gotten weary of drunks 35-years ago, but by then, he didn’t know what else to do for a vocation. He’d worked as a bartender from one end of Alaska to another, from Unalaska to Nome, across to Skagway, Juneau, and Ketchikan, to Valdez and Anchorage and back to Fairbanks, where he’d received a Medical Discharge from the Army and retired on 50% disability for mistakenly standing in the way of an AK-47 bullet in the Battle of Hue, South Viet Nam in 1968. He was an alcoholic, a heavy user of marijuana and had recently learned he was dying from Liver Cancer. So, he decided he was not going to bother with washing those foul-smelling bar towels and in fact, treated himself to the Long Island Tea Emy had left behind. He hated to see good booze wasted.

  Though the drive to Emy house took less than 8-minutes, for Clay the minutes slowly ticked by and he was breathing through his mouth. He knew his driving was done for the night and he’d be busy the rest of his shift trying to clean up his cab and trying to get the odor out of the back seat. He had to turn the taxi over to the day shift driver, and he would not be very happy with the shape it was in now. Very rapidly he was learning there was a lot more to this taxi driving then he ever thought there was. He couldn’t wait to see the face on his so-called doctor at Bassett for his visit next week when he briefs him on the people of night he meets. Every two weeks he was going on Fort Wainwright for his official visit, sometimes for medication refills, lab tests, x-rays, and mental check-ups, and other times to actually visit the doctor. But in each case he’d be in a room with his case officer; a senior FBI agent, who would record whatever Clay had to report. Which hadn’t been much so far, but they knew it would be slow going at first and that’s why they wanted him up here so fast.

  Clay pulled up into Emy’s driveway and noticed in his headlights in the carport in front of a two-car garage a vintage Camaro body shape under a gray cloth cover. He thought about leaving the taxi running, but turned to look at his unconscious passenger and decided it safer to turn the engine off as he went to the front door to wake up the house. It only took a moment before mom and dad were at the door, saw the cab, and dashed out to see if their daughter was okay. Only when they reached the cab was Clay able to explain what had happened and being her parents, he tried to make it easy on them with, “Could be food poisoning. It comes on pretty quick, and once they upchuck, they begin to feel better.”

  But dad knew better. He had a nose. “She’s drunk and baptized your cab, right?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Clay said, almost apologetically and then helped dad carry his daughter inside the house.

  “We’ll take her from here, son. But uh, how much does she…do we owe you?”

  “Look, I’m done for the night, and that’s the truth,” He had to stay in role. “I gotta clean this heap up for the next driver, or I’m out of a job.”

  “You can do it here if you want,” Dad said and pointed toward the end of the house garage door. “I’ve got power washers, steam cleaners, even power waxers… you name it, and I got it.”

  “Is that Camaro out there yours?” Clay asked.

  “You knew it right away didn’t yuh. Most Camaro lovers would,” Dad said. A smile on his face, he waved him toward the garage, “C’mon, my wife can handle Emy, while I get you started, and we can talk cars later.”

  “Sure, anything that saves me money is okay with me.”

  Clay was having his second helping of pancakes, with real homemade boysenberry syrup, when a very subdued Emy walked into the dining room. She wore a floor-length white terry bathrobe; her hair still wet from her second shower and what Clay thought to be well-faded two-piece light blue flannel pajamas under her robe. She also had white bunny slippers on her feet. Mom came into the dining room with a steaming mug of hot coffee and handed it to her daughter. “Come, honey, sit down and meet Clay. We’ve gotten to know him, and you two have a lot in common.”

  She glanced over at Clay, trying to decide what his ethnic background was. At first sight, she took him for an Italian or possible Greek, but then she went with Plains Indian or possibly an Alaskan Interior tribe, but not a full blood. She was pretty good at picking people out, which helped her with her job, and she had nailed several insurgents because of it and been awarded an Army Commendation Medal for snagging a carload of Iranians insurgents attempting to get on base overseas. They were found to be in possession of automatic weapons.

  Emy sat down beside her father, opposite Clay and couldn’t help but notice the man had a pretty good appetite. She kept looking at him over the rim of her cup, as she listened to her father and he discusses cars. When she heard how her dad had removed the tarp off the Camaro so Clay could see it, she knew her Dad liked him. A lot of people came by the house who heard about her father’s muscle car, and he’d never give them a view of it. He’d tell them to wait for next summer, explaining how the taking the tarp off and on could scratch the paint- which was hogwash. He just kept his baby private and only let her drive it to support the party and help the Colonel. She knew how he missed Old Joe Vogler.

  “Hope you don’t mind, honey, but Mom took Clay over to show him your medals.”

  “Awe, Dad!” Emy complained. Clay could see she was embarrassed, but he also saw how proud her parents were of her duty to country and display of valor.

  “It’s okay, honey,” Mom said. She had sat down beside Emy and grasped her right hand. “Clay here, he was US Army too. He was a Captain with…what’d you call that group, young man?”

  “I was with the 82nd Airborne. I went into the sandbox as a 1st lieutenant and got tossed out on my ear a captain. Couldn’t make my gold leaf, so they offered me a 70% discharge for my wounds, and I accepted it.” Clay pointed towards the living room. “You should be very proud of those awards, Emy… if I may call you that? Not a lot of women were allowed to see combat, much less win an award for valor. The Purple Heart part, we’ll we all got those for forgetting to duck.”

  Emy nodded her head, agreeing with him and then she said, “I’m glad you’re still here, Clay. I wanted to apologize to you for how I acted last night. I behaved like an ass, and when I climbed back into the cab and saw it was you again, I just couldn’t hold it in. After that, well, I paid for my sins.”

  “All is forgiven… your parents told me about working out at the airport. All I could find was driving cab. Even with my DD Form 214 and my college degree, I’m still a half breed from Minto, stuck between two worlds that still don’t get along that well, even now. I’ve got cousins out there that won’t acknowledge me and family on my dad’s side who hate having a breed for a grandson.”

  “Sounds like some sour grapes there, Clay. College up on the hill gave you a great education, the military a lot of experience and even better, the leadership of good men and women. Now is a new chapter in your life, don’t enter into with a chip on your shoulder. Nothing good comes from it. I’ve known a lot of people from all racial and religious backgrounds, and I still say a jerk is a jerk and the rest can always be your friend. Now admittedly, I don’t understand these Muslims you two had to deal with, but… well, I’ll shut up. I’m entering an area I’m not up to par on. I’d just pref
er Alaska for Alaskans, whatever color or creed.”

  Clay looked at Emy’s dad for a moment, unsure exactly what to take from all that. He glanced over at Emy, thought of her war record and for a brief moment, wondered if she was a member of the Alaskan Defense Force. But she knew better than to step too hard and let it drop. “How do you feel now?”

  “Like I should’ve known better…But how much money did you lose last night? I must have cost you a dozen fares or better. From what Mom says, the car really stunk!”

  “It did,” Clay said. “We came here with all the windows down, and that was after the bartender cleaned you up and I worked on the back seat.”

  “No photographs, right?” Emy asked. “It would look pretty bad for me out on YouTube or Facebook.”

  “Nope, I missed my chance,” Clay said with a laugh. “I could’ve sold them down at the airport for $10 a copy.”

  “So, Clay, what sort of medals did you come home with?” Dad asked.

  “Dad!” Emy couldn’t believe her dad had asked Clay that. “You’ll have to forgive them, Clay. He’s not prior service and doesn’t understand the whole humility thing.”

  Dad stood up and walked around the table, pointing toward an antique buffet in the living room. It held several very nice car show trophies. “See those. I’m proud of those because I rebuilt that Camaro from the frame up. I did everything on it. I love looking at those trophies, and I love my car…not quite as much as I love you two. But those are my medals. That’s why I have your medals out there on display. I’m proud of them. I never served, but you chose to and did us proud. You nearly got killed, but you saved someone’s life and caught some bad guys in the process too. Humility is fine, but when asked, it’s nice to reply, so a man knows the answer.”