by Ponzo, Gary
For a moment, Samuel is able to see things from the outside looking in. He seems to float above himself, over his body. Over the building. Can see himself standing by his car. Hears the flag flapping in the early morning breeze.
His mind surges with positive energy. He can do this. He can be a recruiter. He can get through whatever it is they’re going to make him do. Talk to high school students? He can do that. Talk to mother and fathers, telling them what a great experience the Navy has been for him? He can do that.
As long as no one fucks him or tries to sabotage him, everything should work out.
No more shit like what happened in ordnance. With that fucking prick Wilkins or like the asshole Nevens…
But they both had it coming.
Samuel shakes his head. He can’t think like that. He’s right, but it’s too risky.
But it feels good. It feels… powerful.
His body calm, his mind focused, Samuel walks to the building, opens the glass doors and steps inside.
Thirty-Nine
Julie Giacalone is crunching numbers. It’s all about numbers. Meeting the Quota. A never-ending process. Get the recruits. Fill the slots. Kiss ‘em and ship ‘em. Keep the leads coming.
It’s something that she’s always been able to do. She’s good at achieving her goals, the professional ones anyway. There’s something about the quota, the concreteness of it that inspires her and motivates her. It’s something that is a driving force in her life and yet it’s a game to her - it’s still fun. How to achieve those numbers? Especially when the economy is relatively good? A good economy is bad news for a recruiter. A good economy means companies are hiring and paying good money - better money than the Navy. And that means young men and women are less inclined toward the Navy.
She looks at the charts, at the numbers, at the lists of leads that come in from many places: headquarters, the web site, phone calls, school counselors, a few letters from potential recruits as well as influencers (usually parents.)
Julie looks at the leads, recognizes them for what they are; pure gold. A handful of these names will become sailors - the question is, which ones? And what will it take to get each of them to see the merits of joining the Navy? It’s not a con job, for the most part. For the majority of the names on the list, the Navy would be a good thing. Broken homes, no chance at college, a complete lack of discipline. These are the kinds of things most of these young men and women suffer from.
And the Navy’s the answer.
It’s just a matter of overcoming their misperceptions of the Navy, of military life.
Something Julie Giacalone is very good at.
She’s just about to go over the names again when there’s a knock on her door. It’s Paul Rogers, a short, pudgy recruiter with too little hair and too much cologne. Paul is her right hand man.
“The new guy’s here,” he says. He sniffs and raises an eyebrow. “New perfume?”
Julie feels blood rush to her face but calmly puts down her pen. She glances over Paul’s shoulder but can’t see the front desk.
“Send him in,” she says.
Forty
Unfortunately, the place is just what Samuel expected; recruiting posters on the walls, a few offices scattered around the front lobby, the look, smell and feel of a used car dealership. Cheap wood paneling, the plant in the corner, industrial-looking clock on the wall.
The only difference is all the Navy crap. If it weren’t for that, you’d think it was a gynecologist’s office. He gives his name to the chubby guy with the big double chin - Paul is his name - and waits by the front desk. He looks out the window, watches traffic for a moment before he hears a clear, crisp voice.
“Ackerman?”
Samuel turns, sees the woman in a petty officer’s uniforms and salutes. “Yes, Ma’am.” She’s a tall woman, semi-attractive, somewhat masculine, and the nose is too big.
“At ease,” she says, smiling. “Welcome to Recruiting District Three, sailor.”
Samuel gives her an easy grin back. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s good to be here.”
He follows her into her office, noticing the way she walks - is there a slight swing in her hips? He takes a seat across from her desk. The office smells like fresh perfume and old soda cans. She sits down and pulls his file out. Samuel carefully suppresses the nervousness rising in his stomach. There’s nothing to worry about, he tells himself. If there were, I wouldn’t be sitting here now. I’d be locked up somewhere, or on trial. Samuel stops himself. He’s got to concentrate. Ever since the visit to the cemetery, he hasn’t felt right.
His temple throbs and he absentmindedly rubs it. He looks up and sees the woman, Giacalone, looking at him.
“I’m sorry?” he says, realizing she’s asked him a question.
“I just wondered how your trip was. From Pensacola, right?”
“Right. It was…fine. I found a place, probably temporary, but I’m pretty much settled in.” He realizes he should show some enthusiasm. “I’m ready to get started. Sort of anxious to use what I learned at Pensacola.”
She beamed at him. Oh, this one was just a bundle of ambition, he could tell that. “That’s what I like to hear!” She leans forward a bit conspiratorially. “It isn’t always easy to keep up the enthusiasm. As a recruiter, you can face a lot of rejection. But starting off with the right attitude -that’s the way to go. Now, let’s get started by me telling you what our obligations are as recruiters for District Three.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Samuel listened as Giacalone rattled off the areas - pretty much all of Detroit and the suburbs within a hundred miles. It is a big territory and there were only four recruiters. Out of this mass of people, they were expected to get fifty recruits every three months. Of those recruits, the numbers were broken down between high-quality recruits - college bound or college grads with prospects for becoming officers, and lower-quality recruits- kids who may or may not have finished high school and have no hope of ever being officers.
She wraps up her spiel and Samuel notices her brown eyes, the way her dark hair falls to her shoulders. She’s got a pretty mouth, a nice smile. “Now, you’re probably wondering what’s expected of you.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
“Well, we expect each recruiter - even a rookie like you - to bring in some high-grades and one low-grades within the first three months.”
Samuel nods. “Okay.”
“Now, don’t put too much pressure on yourself, just take your time. The most important thing is to treat the potential recruits with respect. Even the ones that aren’t respectful to you. I’ll be understanding if you don’t bring someone in right away, but if I get a complaint over rude sales tactics, or anything unprofessional, it won’t be tolerated. You wear that uniform - you’re representing the United States Navy.” She holds her hands out, long, slender fingers. No wedding ring. “There. That’s my little nasty speech I have to give.”
She stands up and Samuel notes the hips - a little too large for his taste.
“Paul will show you to your office. Welcome, Samuel.” She holds out her hand and he shakes it. It feels warm and slightly moist. Does she hold it for a beat too long?
Samuel says: “It’s good to be here.”
Forty-One
Petty Officer Julie Giacalone sits back in her chair after Samuel leaves. She breathes a deep sigh. Damn, he’s good looking, she thinks. Get a grip, she tells herself. She’s a professional. An officer. Since when did she start lusting after men under her? No pun intended.
Since I haven’t gotten laid in the last six months she answers herself. It’s not how she normally is. Growing up, she was always a tomboy, with four older brothers, that goes without saying. And she’s always been tough, strong and well, not to put too fine a point on it, she’s always had balls. And a lot of guys have been intimidated by that.
Samuel doesn’t seem like the type to be intimidated.
Stop it!
Julie
gets up from her desk and paces around her small office. But Christ, he’s so good looking. The dark hair, the blue eyes. And a great lean, hard body.
Oh I am helpless, she thinks.
Forty-Two
The best thing about her left knee exploding is that it is in fact, her left knee. Not the right. Which means she can drive - as long as the car is an automatic. And tonight, that small fact seems like a minor fucking miracle. For it affords her the opportunity to escape. Although not the escape of the proportion she’d like.
The ride home from the hospital is a silent one. Beth has the sense her mother wants to say something, but what is the point? Beth doesn’t want to hear it anyway. She turns on the car’s tinny radio, loud enough to prevent any talk.
She drives to a fast food place, grabs a burger and fries, and then heads out of town. She has no destination. She just wants to go. To get away from the house, her mother, the failed ambitions. Everything that Lake Orion now represents to her.
The truth is, she is still somewhat traumatized by her mother’s collapse. The image of her sprawled out on the living room carpet, the pale waxiness of her skin. The paper dry feel of her lips as she did mouth-to-mouth. It turns Beth’s stomach to think of it, and a stab of fear pierces her insides.
Some days she hates her mother, hates how she’s let the death of Beth’s father’s destroy her. Stories Beth has read make tragedy somehow romantic, the heroine longing for the man she’ll always love. But there’s no romanticism in what Beth’s mother is doing.
For a brief moment, Beth wonders what would have happened if her mother had died. As much as she despises what her mother has done and is doing, she doesn’t want her to die. Beth just wants to get away from her.
So for now, she’s content with just driving.
Her mother’s car is a beat up piece of crap Chevy Cavalier with an engine slightly more powerful than a lawnmower’s. Despite its paltry horsepower, it sucks gas as if it were a V-10. The brakes are almost useless, the radio barely works and the shocks are completely gone.
But it gets her where she wants to go.
And tonight, she just wants to go.
Beth turns onto Highway 23, which heads east. The night is cool, but not too cold. She rolls down the window and lets the brisk air beat at her, cleansing the smell of the hospital from her nostrils.
The road takes her toward small towns like Chilton and Two Rivers, Menominee and Sterling Springs. The highway dead ends in Lake St. Clair, the buffer between Lake Huron and Lake Ontario.
She doesn’t pick the route out purposely, it just seems to be where the road is funneling her. Her thoughts race as the feeling of movement pleases her. It’s a rare moment of pleasure. She realizes she desperately misses basketball. It used to be that when things troubled her, she would head to the gym, and shoot the fucking lights out. She was the all-time gym rat of Lake Orion. Saturdays, Sundays, it didn’t matter. You could find her launching bombs from well past the three point line - hell, she shot from behind where the NBA three point line would be. Sometimes she’d stand fifteen feet from the wall and bang the ball against the white painted cement blocks. Over and over, firing pass after pass until her arms ached and her palms were threatening to bleed.
Now, driving out of Lake Orion, she realizes how much she misses that temple. How much her psyche has suffered from not being able to shoot, pass and dribble. She misses the big, open space of the gymnasium where she could let her thoughts roam as her body was busy with the task of technique.
It was her therapy.
A car zooms by Beth and honks at her as it passes. Beth feels a surge of anger, but it just as quickly dies. Beth drops a hand to the thick brace. It feels tight, and beneath it, her skin is wet with sweat and it itches. This is what it’s like, she thinks, to be old.
Suddenly, her mind revolts at the thought. She stomps on the accelerator, and the Cavalier does nothing. She presses her foot all the way to the floor and slowly the car builds speed. She zooms along Highway 23. Where is he and what should she do if she finds him? Flip him off? Force him off the road and whack him with her crutch?
Who cares? She just wants to compete. She wants to fight. She’s not dead.
Come on, she urges the car, soon, she’s nearing a hundred miles an hour. The car is shimmying and shaking, its metal screaming in agony. It feels like she’s doing two hundred miles an hour.
Beth careens over the top of the hill, nearly leaving the ground and as she roars down the hill, she can see the road stretching out in front of her.
It’s completely empty.
The car is nowhere.
She eases off the accelerator and the car slowly heads back toward fifty-five. Suddenly, Beth feels stupid. Beyond stupid. Does she have a death wish? The Cavalier shouldn’t even really be taken out of town, let alone taken over sixty-five. What is she doing?
Beth sees a sign for a convenience store ahead and she pulls over. Her hands are shaking. Cold sweat dampens her forehead.
She leans her forehead against the steering wheel, the engine ticking. The tears come fast and furiously. She doesn’t know how long she stays like that, but eventually, she regains control of her breathing. Beth manages to get out of the Cavalier and goes inside the convenience store. She gets a Coke. Her mouth is dry, the fear over what she just did has left her dry inside. Stupid. Absolutely stupid.
She realizes she needs Peter.
Beth climbs into the car, fires it up, and pulls back onto the highway, heading east.
She is a virgin. One of the few in her class. Not that everyone talks about it openly. A lot do, but a lot don’t, too. And most assume that she and Peter have slept together, but they haven’t. And suddenly, she doesn’t want to be a virgin. She wants to feel alive.
It has to be just right, she thinks. And she knows where she wants it to happen. A smile slowly spreads across her face. It will be perfect. She heads east, toward Lake St. Clair. Eventually, the highway spills out into a suburban neighborhood, and there’s one dead-end cul-de-sac where Peter took her nearly a year ago, after they’d started dating. They’d had their first serious talk there.
Now, Beth wants to go there. See if it’s like she remembered. Tomorrow, she’ll bring Peter there.
He won’t know what hit him.
Forty-Three
“How is she?”
The party at Chad Cleveland’s house is in full swing. Chad Cleveland is the back-up center on the Lake Orion boys team and the offspring of two people who have plenty of money but no sense of parental obligation. They left for the weekend, leaving the house in the very capable hands of their fun-loving son. The party started out with mostly Lake Orion kids but soon, friends from neighboring towns began showing up and soon Peter found himself face to face with the Tank. The very girl who took Beth’s scholarship and played a big part in blowing out her knee.
Peter leans in closer to her. “What?” he says.
“I said how is she? Beth? How is she doing?”
Peter, slightly drunk, can smell the girl’s perfume. It’s light, not as flowery as Beth’s. It’s almost a touch masculine. A tendril of her hair brushes his cheek and his body responds. He realizes he’s had way too much to drink.
“She’s fucking miserable.” Why pull punches? He leans back and looks at the Tank. “Just awful,” he continues. He doesn’t know her - why sugar coat it? He even wants to add something about how she shouldn’t feel guilty, that it was an accident, but goddamn it, Beth is completely fucked. Despite the happy buzz the booze is giving him, he can feel enough to remember what Beth is going through.
“It was…” the Tank begins. “It was just…terrible. I just went for the ball and then I heard that horrible…pop…” She shakes her head and Peter can see that the remorse is genuine. He looks at her a bit more closely, he’s touched by the honest sympathy he sees on her face, which, looking now, he sees as very pretty. In fact, she’s got deep, compassionate brown eyes, soft skin and lips that he thinks would tas
te like sugar-
Whoa, he tells himself. Maybe he’s had more to drink than he realizes. He’s in love with Beth. Well, not in love with her, but he loves her, more like a friend. They’ve shared a lot together, but he’s going to Marquette. Things will be hard and he’s a realist. It’s just not going to last.
He just hasn’t told Beth yet.
I’m such a shit, he thinks.
At the same time, his gaze lingers on the Tank - no, her name is Vanessa - and he lets it run down her firm body, the big full breasts. Much bigger than Beth’s.
You shit, he thinks.
Peter’s glass is topped off by a buddy and he drains half of it. The Tank is saying something else to him, but he can’t hear her, he leans and this time slips an arm around her waist. She responds by doing the same to him. The house is shaking with the sound of rock music. It rips through Peter’s body, and combined with the booze, fills him with a sudden burst of manic energy.
He puts his lips tightly against the Tank’s ear.
“You want to go somewhere quieter?”
She responds by pulling him toward the front door.
Forty-Four
Beth feels herself swept away by the fantasy. It seems like the thought of sleeping with Peter has changed everything. It’s not that she thinks it’s the answer to her problems, not by any means. But it’s as if the decision to lose her virginity, to cement their relationship has given her a tentative foothold on her future.
The sky has gotten even darker and the first stars of the night are appearing. The wind has picked up, and it batters the car as Beth pulls into the Metro Beach Park. She drives past the empty swimming pool, the swingsets rusting in the open field.
The cul-de-sac is on the northern edge of the park, a small plateau accessible by a small service road. Most people who come to the park never learn about its existence.
