by Jeff Vrolyks
The answering machine light was blinking, and for a second I aroused from the idea that Holly had called. I then remembered that she had given me her number, not vice versa. I pressed play.
“Hey, brother, just seeing if you’re back yet. I got your pills so let me know if you want me to drop them off or give them to you at work tomorrow. Call me, though, because I’m dying to hear what happened with that girl. Her friend Alison… Jesus. Call me when you get this. Bye.”
I placed the scrawled-on napkin next to the phone and stared at it, debating myself as to when I should call her. She said she’d answer on the second day, but it was said in jest. I resolved to call her tomorrow.
I grabbed a beer from the fridge. Having been without pain medicine, beer had been an adequate substitute. The thought of Holly had been the end-all in pain suppression, yet the moment my fantasies subsided, pain returned with a vengeance. “Medicine time.” I popped the top and downed it in two pulls. I peeked inside to see if I had anything to snack on. Regardless of the lunch I ordered, I had not eaten since an early morning granola bar. All that remained was one last beer and plenty of condiments. I shouldn’t have passed on a doggy bag at the restaurant; I just wanted to get rid of the waiter as fast as possible. I decided to pick up the pain meds tomorrow and grabbed the last beer.
Pain kept me awake through most of the previous night, so I chased a couple sleep aides with my beer and got comfortable on the couch. The First Sergeant would probably put me on light duty, probably in the snack bar or something else extremely boring. The only thing more agonizing than not being with Holly would be having all the time in the world to think about it. I would have to talk the sergeant into something more reasonable. The sleeping pills loved the beer. After thirty minutes on the couch I fell asleep. A deep sleep. The kind that when you awaken sixteen hours later, you have no idea where you are, what day it is, and if the golden light is dusk or dawn. I didn’t recall my dreams, but I had a faint recollection of being annoyed by constant phone ringing. But it was only a dream. Or so I thought.
As I drove to Travis Air Force Base that glorious morning, I debated the importance of an after-work bath (and a pre-work bath, for that matter). It was miserable washing myself with the use of only my left arm while keeping my right arm away from the bath water. The cast was soft and consisted of splint running the length of the humerus with an abundance of Ace bandages wrapped firmly around it, then stuffed in a sling. It was annoyingly snug and insanely itchy when wet. I hated the cast and I hated baths. Before reaching the squadron I decided I would wrap my arm in a trash bag and take only showers from now on. I was pleased with the idea.
I pulled up to the squadron dreading the many anticipated inquiries of my arm. There was nothing I hated more than being the center of attention. If I ever went to a psychologist, they would likely say I suffered a mild case of agoraphobia. I refused to let it interfere with my life and did whatever I needed to do, even if it meant having a panic attack. I could easily handle a handful of people at a time, especially if they weren’t focusing on me, but I had major qualms with being the center of attention in large crowds. Speech 101 was a class I would avoid like the plague.
As expected, my every acquaintance asked me the same obnoxious question. By the fourth or fifth occurrence, I rattled off an abridged recital of events so I could get on with my day, which I desperately wanted to end so I could call Holly.
After role-call, First Sergeant Annon wanted to see me in his office. When I entered, he stood and thrust out a hand, withdrew it when he saw my right arm in a cast and sling.
“Airman Reed, please have a seat.”
We sat in unison. He produced bifocals from his breast pocket, opened a folder and browsed the paperwork. He asked me the same annoying question that a dozen others had. I summed it up in a handful of words. He said everything I imagined he would—in a fatherly tone, minus the sympathy—and sentenced me to the snack bar for the next month until I ‘mend that sucker’. I pleaded my case and reminded him that I was two weeks away from becoming a civilian. I suggested alternate tasks. He held out his hand to silence me. “You’re right. Go and tell Sergeant Kennedy to assign you to two-three-two. They got a lot of stuff goin’ down on her, and I’m sure the crew chief would love some help on the HSC inspection.”
“Yes, sir. I appreciate it. It really has been a pleasure serving here and I will miss everyone.” I looked around to make sure he wasn’t nearby before saying, “With the exception of Airman Tenney, of course. What a douche. I’ve been hoping he’d get orders overseas for the last couple years.”
Airman Tenney had been the long-running joke of the squadron. Tenney’s uniform was a dirty dish rag. His boots were scuffed. Coke-bottle glasses made his eyes look like softballs. I’d feel bad for the guy if he wasn’t constantly snitching on coworkers for any number of wrongdoings and tomfoolery. He had no intention of making friends—or attracting the opposite sex, for that matter. It was common knowledge within the squadron of well over a hundred men and women that you could rip on Airman Tenney with anyone and find common ground. He was comic-relief at Travis.
Sergeant Annon bolted out of his chair, bushy brow knitted together. He jabbed a finger deep in my chest and snarled, “Airman, who the hell do you think you are deriding a fellow Airman? You are screwed, do you hear me? You’re gonna—” A smile cracked through his enraged mask. He roared laughter and sat back down, savoring the moment. I was so petrified that I hadn’t considered he might be joking.
After catching his breath, struggling to regain his composure, he pointed in the direction of the flight-line. “Airman Reed, get out to two-three-two. She’s a mess.” I nodded and thanked him, took my departure. “Oh, if you see Airman Tenney out there, tell him I need him on two-three-two as well, to give you a hand with the HSC.”
I stopped in the doorway and waited for the punch line. I was sure he was joking, but his sober face said otherwise. “Yes, sir.” I strode away muttering obscenities. The day was going to be long. At least Mike would have the prescription that I needed to dull the pain in my arm as well as the one in my ass named Tenney.
After procuring a handheld radio from the tool shop I strolled to the flight line at a leisurely pace. At the security checkpoint an M.P. checked my security badge and smiled. “Sergeant Annon wanted me to tell you that he was fucking with you about being stuck with Tenney today.” I sighed and flipped him off. I sauntered toward two-three-two.
It turned out to be a promising day. Airman Greg Jones, a good friend of mine, was the crew chief onboard two-three-two. I didn’t love Greg as I did Mike, but he was still the type of guy you could yuck it up with, throw back a few beers with from time to time. I ascended the flimsy stairs into the aircraft, then up to the flight deck.
“Greg! What’s up, my man?”
“Kev, how’s it going bro? I heard about your accident. Maybe you should find a safer hobby than snowboarding; say, killing some brewskies at Casa De Jones after work? Mike is gonna be there, along with dumb and dumber.”
“I would, but I have plans already. And—”
“Dude,” Greg interrupted, “you’re outta here in what, two weeks? We’re all gonna miss your ass around here. You’re sticking me with Penrose and Tenney; you suck, you know that? Come hang out with us tonight. I’m not going to let you say no, so don’t bother trying. Besides, I bet the doc gave you some good pills. You’ll be having more fun than any of us, bro.”
Greg wasn’t the softest and most well-spoken guy, but damned if he didn’t make good sense. I was going to miss these guys. It was the end of an era. I figured I could break away and use Greg’s phone to call Holly at some point. I had to stop by my apartment to change anyway; I could grab her number. “All right. You make a fine point there, Gregory. I’ll stop by after I change and pick up a twelve pack at the commissary. Now what is it I hear about your piece of crap airplane needing a lot of work? Why is it always your crappy airplane that’s broken? What kind of outfit
are you running here?”
“Shut it. Don’t bring beer, I got plenty.” Greg unseated from the pilot’s chair and tossed aside the aircraft’s paperwork. He removed a pack of Marlboros from his fatigues breast pocket. “They gave me the biggest pile of crap on the flight line, that’s why it’s always broken. Let’s go smoke, I’ll tell you about it out there.”
Greg knew I had long quit smoking. This was sport for him. “Yeah, let’s go smoke.”
He led the way to just outside of the aircraft’s safety-circle. It seemed at any given time a quarter of the workforce was gathered in front of their aircraft’s safety-circle, smoking and bantering with their buddies. I estimate that half of the squadron smoked just to take prolonged smoke breaks in lieu of working. I stood beside him as he lit a cigarette. In the mild breeze was the aroma of JP-8 jet fuel. It was a good scent. I’d miss it. The low morning sun was obscured by thick white clouds. A large man was hulking toward us from a distance. It was Mike. He had gotten word that I was assigned to Greg’s bird. Mike is one of many who don’t really smoke, but puffs on cigarettes so he can hang out with his buddies.
I greeted him. The guy was perpetually and contagiously upbeat. The kind of guy you want to be around when you’re having a shitty day. He smiled and reached into his pants pocket, withdrew what looked like a cigarette. He put it in his mouth and pretended to light it. I noticed it wasn’t a cig. It was a white pen cut in half, made to look like a cigarette. I laughed out loud. He continued to take imaginary puffs of his Paper Mate cigarette with a cheese-eating grin. “The Twinkie Bandit strikes again!” I exclaimed. As we laughed, Greg grinned confusedly.
“Dude,” Mike said, “I still have those tags on my car!” I laughed even harder.
Greg asked what the hell we were talking about. After catching my breath, I explained. “You know Mike’s piece of crap red Hyundai Accent?” Greg nodded. “He got pulled over a couple times because his tags were expired. Mike would rather spend his money on beer and a new snowboard than tags, so he decided it would be brilliant to make his own tags. He cut out a perfect one-inch by one-inch square from a Twinkie box and with a marker he colored it black and outlined the year on it. He taped it to his license plate. He…he—” I laughed hysterically. I tried thinking of something sobering. Holly. My darling Holly. I was no longer laughing, but grinning from ear to ear. “He was driving home from work one day and a cop pulled up behind him. He followed Mike for a couple miles. The cop finally pulled him over.”
“I was scared shitless!” Mike said. “I knew I was screwed!”
“So Mike is sweating bullets in that little go-cart of a car. A Hyundai Accent is like eight feet long. Mike needs to grease himself up just to get in it. Anyway, the cop swaggered to the car, gestured Mike to roll the window down. But it jammed after about an inch. Mike jiggled the handle but it wasn’t moving. So he tried forcing it down and the damn thing broke off!” My gut wrenching laughter was back and there was no subduing it this time. “The cop shook his head and signaled him to step outside the car. At this point, Mike was thinking about the fine he’d get, his car getting impounded, maybe losing his license. The cop went to the back of his Hyundai and folded his arms, frowned at Mike’s license plate. The damned tag was coming off! It was taped to the plate and flapping loose like an old Band-Aid!”
Mike continued the story for me. “It was so funny looking, Greg. So obvious that I made a fake tag. The cop looked at me and said, ‘Your tag is falling off. You need to be sure to clean the old sticker before applying the new one or the glue won’t adhere. The DMV can give you a replacement sticker.’ I told him I would take care of it right away and he left and I drove off!” Mike took another imaginary puff from his pen’thol cigarette, and did a victory dance, a football shuffle.
“The damn Twinkie bandit escapes unscathed!” I said. As a shift supervisor drove by, Mike puffed again and gave me a devil’s wink, then tossed me a prescription bottle.
“Thanks, Mike. You are a true friend to do that for me.” Greg raised a brow at me. To him I said, “I met a girl at the pharmacy yesterday.” It wasn’t easy downplaying the impact she had on me, but I didn’t want to gloat or seem arrogant. “I had to pick up my medicine but the line was long. This girl and I made plans to go to lunch; Mike insisted on getting my meds for me. What a guy, huh?” Mike wasn’t fond of compliments, shrugged it off like anyone would have done the same. He took another puff from the cancer Bic and tapped it, dropping its imaginary ashes to the tarmac.
Impressed, Greg cheered, “Nice, man! That’s my boy! Is she hot? Did you guys hook up?”
That’s Greg for you. To Greg true love is defined as an evening with a beautiful woman with questionable morals, and measured by how little she speaks after allowing you to have sex with her. Real Love is an idea better left for the Imagineers at Disney, he would say. The real kicker is while Mike and I were stuck at single, this guy was married (and to a sweetheart, at that!). I’ve been anticipating him saying a variation of the words, “She left me, man, and for no reason!” but they never came. On the other end of the spectrum was Mike. The question Mike would ask is: Is she someone you can see spending the rest of your life with? And that’s why he’s my best friend.
“No, Greg, we didn’t hook up. I even offered her fifty bucks but she still wasn’t interested.” Greg chuckled, he knew he was a pig.
“Greg,” Mike said feverishly, “you gotta see these girls.”
“Girls? Plural?”
“She had a friend with her. She’s the hottest chick I’ve ever seen. Her name is Alison. Man…”
Alison would become a staple in Mike’s vernacular from this point on. He had little interest in making anything of it; she was pretty and he was average (on a good day). But that didn’t stop him from talking about her incessantly.
Mike complained that I never called him back when I got home. I said I was too tired. He asked if I was with her all day. I wished I could have said yes. I was happy to tell him the details of what little time we shared: “It was great. She and I clicked. We ordered food, but it sat there as we talked non-stop for an hour and a half. Her pager eventually started going off every couple minutes from her brother Kloss—paging nine-one-one—otherwise we would have stayed longer. It was like nothing that’s ever happened to me before. When we were talking we couldn’t wait to hear the other person’s response to what the other just said. It went back and forth and it’s crazy how much we have in common. I think she’s The One.”
Mike asked if he was going to be the best man, and of course I said yes. I reminded him that I met Holly because of him, because he played a role in me breaking my arm. Heavenly Valley is quite heavenly indeed.
Greg didn’t heard a word after Kloss. “Kloss? As in, Kloss? Singer of VonFurenz? Tell me her brother is not Kloss VonFuren. I know VonFurenz is from Vacaville; is it the same Kloss?”
My announcement of meeting my dream girl had zero affect on him, but the singer of a rock band? That was earth-shattering. “Yeah, same guy. Her name is Holly VonFuren. Turns out that she and her brother were born in Roosendaal, Netherlands, and when their—”
“So are you going to meet Kloss?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t thought much about it. I like their music but it’s just music. I just hope Holly feels the same way as I do.”
“And I just hope you invite me backstage next time VonFurenz plays in the area, you lucky bastard.”
The rest of the workday went by surprisingly fast. I drove home to get the phone number and change into civilian clothes, wondering what time I should call her. Maybe around eight. I couldn’t wait to hear her voice again. Good times were here again! I truly thought so. But I would come to think of these last twenty-four hours as the calm before the storm.
Chapter 6
I drove home significantly faster than usual. Not that it would make my phone call with Holly come quicker, but psychologically it helped. As I pulled into my parking spot, Pirate radio began playing Vo
nFurenz’ latest single, Commodity. I stayed in my truck and listened to it in a whole new perspective. I heard the voice of someone who shared the same DNA as Holly, someone who had the privilege of growing up with her. In all honesty, the music was excellent. I had always preferred less mainstream music, which VonFurenz was, at first. It wasn’t their fault that masses of people fell in love with them, thrusting them into an insatiable mainstream.
As a guitar player, I focus on the guitar contribution in music. The lead guitarist, a drug addicted jackass named Gerry, was exceptionally gifted. My own guitar style varied, but some of my riffs had a similar sound to Gerry’s. I decided to learn the new VonFurenz song before changing clothes.
I jaunted up the stairs to my apartment two at a time, cradling my broken arm, and went straight to the guitar. I put it around my neck, careful not to bump my broken arm, and turned on the amplifier. The familiar hum of distortion came alive from the four twelve-inch speakers. I spent a good while at work contemplating how I would play the guitar with a broken arm. And, like most things in life, it was harder than it seemed. I strummed a few chords, careful not to move anything more than my wrist on my right arm. I quickly found the song’s key and scale, mostly just four chords with a little scale climbing between them. Minutes later I was playing the song from beginning to end, pleased with the resemblance. The song could have just as easily been my own, not that I thought I was a virtuoso guitarist, but I never pretended to lack talent when it was the biggest God-given talent I possessed (if loving someone could be considered a talent, it would replace guitar as the greatest talent I had to offer).
