by Weston Ochse
“Staff Sergeant Nathan Jonson. This is the U.S. Army. Come to us and we’ll help you.”
The sight of American soldiers lightened his heart. He found himself hurrying towards them, running faster and faster. He waved for them, shouting his name. “I am Staff Sergeant Nathan Johnson.”
He saw them turn towards him. Then he saw one raise his rifle. For one brief moment Nathan didn’t understand what he was seeing. Then the flash from the muzzle and the sizzle of the bullet as it struck his clavicle, shattering it into seventeen pieces. The force of the bullet spun him and he ended up falling on his back, head towards the vehicle with the loudspeaker. Somehow he found his way to his feet he stood, his left arm hanging useless beside him. He shambled forward, slower now, but faster than a walk.
“Please!” he shouted. “Don’t shoot.” What was the safety word? What had it been last time they were out on patrol? “Alamo!” he screamed. “Alamo.”
The same man shot him again, this time in the abdomen. He staggered forward a few more feet, before falling to his knees. He clutched as his stomach with his right hand.
“Raghead thinks an old password will get him close enough to blow us up. He gets any closer,” came a voice, “I’m going to put one right between its eyes.”
Nathan was neither here nor there. He was in a middle place where pain was king. But he reacted to the voice. It had a familiar ring to it, Midwest, Kansas. “Petey,” he rasped. “It’s me.”
Nathan couldn’t hold himself up any longer.
“Oh, fuck. It’s Sarge.”
Nathan fell on his face. With one arm useless and the other hand holding in his gut, he couldn’t do anything.
Rough hands turned him over.
“Fuck me,” Watkins said. “Looks like a Haji dressed that way. Has a beard, dirty, face busted up, looks like the rest them.”
Nathan opened his mouth. He worked it around a hundred thousand words, tasting every one, figuring out which one would be the perfect one to convey all the things he’d just learned, the universal secrets everyone wanted to know, but were always just out of reach. Like Jonathan Livingston Seagull, Nathan wants nothing more than to share everything, but all he can say is one single word. “Surfing.”
“What’d he say?” Boot said, Frisbee scooting up beside him.
“He said surfing,” Frisbee said. “Petey. You fucking killed Sarge.”
Petey was already in tears. He dropped the rifle, balled his fists and shoved them into his eyes. “I didn’t mean to kill you, Sarge. I didn’t mean it.”
Nathan wanted to tell him that it was okay, but he was well beyond words. He felt the tides pull him up, and up, and up, until he looked down upon the scene as if he was Uatu the Watcher and the earth was nothing more than a diorama of recurring shame.
Higher and higher and higher still, he traveled through space and time and the 384,400 kilometers between the Earth and the Moon, he sped languorously towards Mare Tranquillitatis, the Sea of Tranquility. As he closed in on it, he saw it filled with the dark matter of the galaxy. His brother Cal surfed the waves, riding the tip of the board like a master. Neil Armstrong in a spacesuit sat in a lawn chair along the shore. When he saw, Nathan, he raised a drink with an umbrella. “Houston. This is Tranquility Base. Nathan has landed.”
A surfboard materialized beneath him and he surfed beside his brother for an eon. When they finally tired, they went to the shore and lounged. Other people he didn’t know, fictional characters he recognized, and multi-limbed amalgams populated the shore, each in their own blue moon heaven.
Nathan searched and found the first human to step on the moon, now wearing a spacesuit and drinking a Mai tai. “Is that Neil Armstrong? I thought I heard him when I arrived.”
Cal nodded. “He comes up here whenever he’s dreaming. I think he left his heart here back in ‘69.”
Nathan watched as a woman in a nurse’s uniform came by and refilled Armstrong’s drink from a pitcher. The astronaut reached out and patted her behind, causing her to mince away.
“Was that you calling, Cal?”
“Trying to get a hold of you.”
“You freaked everyone out, you know?”
Cal shrugged the way any California surf bum would shrug at the knowledge he did something the rest of the world didn’t understand.
“What’d you want?”
Cal turned and focused his sea blue eyes on Nathan. “I wanted to share this with you. I wanted you to know there was something else out there.”
“Pretty smooth move piping into the phones of the Iraqis.”
That shrug again. “I was trying to get your attention.”
They sat a moment watching the reflection of the universe in the Sea of Tranquility. “I’ve learned so much, Cal,” Nathan said in an awe-filled voice.
“I’ve learned it too, Natty. Isn’t it incredible?”
“Is this how it is? We finally get it only to… to get it?”
Cal shrugged. “We all get there eventually. The pace is up to the tides.”
They watched a comet skip across the Horse Nebula, leaving a trail of light like a sparkler on the Fourth of July.
Nathan felt a tug. He turned back towards Earth and knew his men wanted him back. They were doing something to his body. He could return. He knew he could. But did he want to.
“Wanna surf some more, bro?” Cal asked.
Nathan considered it a moment. “No. You go on. I’ll just rest here a moment.”
Cal laughed. “You got the eternity to rest, bro. Come on out and join me.”
Nathan turned towards Earth once more.
“You thinking of going back?”
Nathan nodded.
Cal came up and gave him a hug. It felt as warm as if they were alive. “Forget it. Life is for the living. This is so much different.”
“How much different?”
Cal offered a conspiratorial grin. “Ready to go farther?”
“There’s more?”
Call grabbed him by the shoulders. “Dude. This is just the moon. There’s a whole galaxy out there.”
“Like the Silver Surfer?” Nathan asked.
“Better,” Cal said, a mischievous look in his eye. “Wanna see dad?”
Nathan felt his heart supernova. “He’s here?”
“Not here.” Cal pointed into space. “Over there. First star to the right and straight on ‘til morning. Somewhere in the vicinity of the Crab Nebula.”
“Are you serious?” Nathan pushed away and punched Cal in the shoulder. “You’re messing with me.”
Cal got serious. “Nah, little bro. I’m as serious as the Grand Tetons.”
Nathan grinned and let go of everything he was before. “Wanna surf for a while before we see dad?”
Cal grabbed his board and headed for the sea. Nathan ran close behind.
Neil Armstrong stood and saluted. “That’s one small step for a man, and one giant leap for mankind.”
And they surfed long on to forever.
* * *
Notes from the Author: I began writing this novella back in 2002. To think it took me thirteen years to write is amazing. But I’d written the first thousand words and I knew I had something, I just didn’t know where to go with it. Then early in 2013, right before I deployed it came to me and what you’ve read is the result. This is absolutely the longest I’ve taken to write a work. Sometimes you’re not in the right mental space or time. Sometimes you’re not smart enough to finish what you started. I’m glad that I eventually got to that place where I was able to finish.
The Importance of Building Your Own Shadow
(Written on the occurrence of Father’s Day while stationed in Afghanistan)
FATHER’S DAY HAS always been a man’s day to me.
Growing up, I saw my father and my grandfather as larger
than life characters. Not only did they tower over my little towheaded self in size, but their accomplishments and community stature loomed even larger. Everyone knew them. They were Masons and Shriners and Elks and so much more. I was intimidated by them as a child. Their shadows were long and no matter where I went, I never seemed to escape them.
But then came Father’s Day. It was a day of détente, where no matter how bad I was I couldn’t get in trouble, and no matter how good I was, I’d never be noticed. For perhaps the first time as a child, I realized that there was a day dedicated to someone other than myself. I remember making gifts out of wood, glue and moss. I also remember going to the local drug store and, forcing myself not to buy comic books – which was a tremendously difficult thing, especially with Turok’s run in the early 1970s – where I’d buy a gift I thought was a grown up gift to buy. I think once I even bought my father a bottle of Hai Karate cologne. It was the commercial of the man gleefully side-kicking the bikini-clad girls on the beach that made me do it.
Darn girls. What do they know?
Then, eventually, as time progressed, my shadow grew to almost equal proportions and I became a father too. I’ve been given my share of homemade gifts, store-bought gifts, and cards for when my kids just didn’t have the cash. Each of these gifts, no matter how small or how large, was lovely, an offering of love and childhood fealty. I still have many of them. Some are on dressers or desks or shelves, still others are in drawers, me unable to get rid of them, each gift an inextricable piece of my children.
And now here I am at forty-seven years old, father of two, son of a father and mother, and husband to a wife. It’s Father’s Day in Afghanistan and I’ve been encased in melancholy all day. Part of it was because of the Bram Stoker Awards Weekend I missed in New Orleans. I face-timed my wife several times and got to see a lot of people I think of as close friends. Although I might see them once a year, I’m the sort of guy who would run across a busy highway to save them if I saw them in trouble. I think when I saw Mikey Huyck, it kind of choked me up. See, Mikey and I go way back to the days I first started writing. Although years might go by without us speaking to each other, we hold a special friendship which no one can really duplicate. Seeing him, I realized just how badly I’ve been missing him. And then there was seeing Rocky. I’ve loved that big lug Australian man since I first met him years ago. I’ve always been there for him and he’s always been there for me and I’m afraid that I might have missed my last chance to see him before… well, some things you just shouldn’t say.
And I’m in Afghanistan.
I called my father yesterday. His shadow is as large as ever. He’s a great man. He’s earned tremendous respect which we gladly give him along with great love.
My kids emailed me, showing their love.
My wife wished me Happy Father’s Day too, for the millionth time wishing aloud that she’d rather I be home than here. Normally, I tell her about duty and sacrifice and all those crazy ideas I learned from John Wayne movies and presidential holiday speeches. But not today. Today, for the first time, I really wanted to be home; or if not home, with my wife and Mikey and Rocky.
But I’m in Afghanistan. Sunday is just another day here. Father’s Day is an American holiday and on this NATO base it’s largely ignored. Still, several of my coworkers took time to wish me Happy Father’s Day. Each time I smiled, but each time it was a dagger hurled through my heart, reminding me where I wasn’t, what I wasn’t doing, and who I wasn’t doing those things with.
I took an hour for myself midday. I went on top of the US NSE – basically a third floor covered patio that overlooks the camp and outside the walls. There’s always a breeze. I found a chair, tuned up some old Robert Flack in the headphones, and read some from my copy of Thomas Mann’s Magic Mountain. I’m still early in the book and the lead protagonist Hans, a whining German hypochondriac, has still not realized that the world doesn’t revolve around him and that other people, especially their families, are an intrinsic ingredient to the overall health of the collective. I read for a bit. I listened for a bit. And I dozed – you know that sort of nap where you know you’re indulging but you don’t care because it feels so good – it was that kind of nap.
When I awoke I was still in Afghanistan. I sat up. I watched the people for a time. Soldiers, sailors, airmen, marines, civilians and contractors. Men and women, young and old, American and ally. Unlike Hans, I thought outside of myself. Each and every one of them has someone or something to miss. They all had a father at one point in time.
So what makes me special?
Who the hell am I to indulge in a little self-pitying melancholy?
I reminded myself that although I’m in a warzone, I’m at the Headquarters for all of Afghanistan with all the niceties therein. What about those fathers and sons out on forward operating bases? Somewhere in Nangarhar Province is a father at an observation post manning a gun position and the last thing on his mind is that it’s Father’s Day. There’s a father driving an up-armored vehicle down a dirt track in Paktika Province, ass clenched because he’s not certain the road is actually clear and that there’s a better than average possibility that he might hit a roadside bomb. And there’s probably a Special Forces A Team operating near Khost, within sight of a Taliban safe haven, preparing to take action on them before they can take action on us. I doubt they were weepy-eyed over the idea that they’re missing Father’s Day.
I started this by saying that Father’s Day is a man’s day. In my taxonomy of understanding, a man isn’t merely the sum of his XY chromosomes. A man has always been someone who will do the hard thing for the right reason to contribute to the greater good without intentional personal benefit. My grandfather was a man. My father is a man. These warriors I witness every day are men. The men away from my base are men. And I’m pleased to say that I am a man. I might get a little emotional every now and then, but those episodes are just pit stops along my long journey through manhood.
I chose to come here. I could have stayed home. I had plenty of opportunities. But I wanted to serve my country. I wanted to be that man my father and grandfather showed me how to be. I miss my friends. I miss my family. I miss my wife, even though we talk every day. But I’m here for a season of duty. I’m here to serve. I’m here to build my shadow. I’m her to make it as long as those who have come before me.
It’s Father’s Day. I just got an email from my dad thanking me for the inscribed beer glasses I gave him. He said they’re going to get heavy use. You go dad. You deserve it. And when I get back, we’ll drink some together.
Cheers, Dad.
* * *
Notes from the Author: As it turned out, I got to see Rocky one last time before he passed away. I was glad for that. Rocky built a great and wonderful shadow. It’s still alive in the Horror Writer’s Association as a new scholarship. I’ve always been of the opinion that a man can’t just be a man because he is so. He has to work on it. He has to have character. He has to be able to live with himself first before he can live with the rest of us. On the occurrence of my son’s eighteenth birthday, I wrote him a letter. My advice to him was that he could do anything he wanted to do and be anything he wanted to be just as long as at the end of the day he could look at himself in a mirror and not be ashamed at what he saw. That’s what it takes to be a man and one day a father.
The Road to Painted Rock
TUMBLEWEEDS ALONG THE side of the dirt road danced to the dirge of the grinding truck wheels. A kangaroo rat scurried for the safety of a prickly pear cactus as the rising sun found purchase in a cloudless sky, illuminating too much, too hot, too soon. In the windless desert air, the dust plume hung over the Ford pick-up like a shroud, as if to obscure the past and promote the future as the long brown road unraveled through the cracked windshield. The driver gripped the wheel as much to hang on as to steer. Occasionally, ruts would take hold the vehicle and wrench it towards the road’s edge.
It was during these occasions the driver would lean in and desperately muscle the truck back onto the road.
Emily Cooley had passed Barstow, California, twenty minutes ago and was nearing her destination – Painted Rock. The rattling air conditioner simultaneously cooled her and threatened to overheat the engine. Ever since she’d entered the Mojave Desert she’d alternated between turning the air conditioner on and off. It was only when the temperature became too stifling that she finally relented and allow the tepid air to flow freely. It wasn’t much, but the alternative could kill her.
The desert outside was as barren as her heart. She despised being there. She’d much rather be on the windy plateau outside her daddy’s farm on the outskirts of Yankton, South Dakota. She’d rather be back in the cramped family housing at Fort Bragg. She’d rather be sitting by the telephone waiting for news of her husband after his raid on the Al-Qaida cave system in Tora Bora. By God, she’d rather be anywhere than Death Valley.
But she couldn’t be where she wanted. She had a responsibility to attend. Within the box secured to the passenger seat by the seatbelt was her lover, her hero, and her enemy. Although there had been times when she’d wanted nothing more to do with him, she’d see him buried like the hero that he’d become. She’d see him buried like the demon they’d made him to be. She’d see him buried out of remembrance for the angel she’d once married.
Emily toggled the air conditioner off as the temperature needle surged into the red. She watched the miserable gauges and groaned as the temperature continued rising. She slowed the truck until she found a space along the side of the road where she could pull over. She allowed the truck to idle, and then turned on the heater. Instantly, the temperature of the cab rose twenty degrees. It was the only way to bleed off some of the heat.
