“Everything okay?” asked the woman.
As a drunk, manipulation was something with which he had become well accustomed. “My mother, she’s dying. They need me to get to her as soon as I can.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, that’s terrible. Where is she?”
“D.C.,” said Joe, a tear welling in his eye.
The woman looked at him carefully. She had worked the center long enough to know when she was being played. “Have you any way of getting there?”
Joe shook his head. “Hitchhike, I suppose.” He shrugged. “I’ll have lunch and get going on a full stomach,” he said, walking towards the door.
The woman didn’t stop him. She waited for him to ask for help. He didn’t. He walked over to the door and took his seat on the steps outside with his dog, who waited obediently, as it did every day. He opened the can of dog food he had been given and tipped its contents onto a paper plate he had taken. The dog, like Joe, wolfed down the food.
“Okay, I can’t give you money,” the woman said, “although I can give you a ticket. There’s a flight this afternoon that will get you to Washington this evening.”
Joe shook his head. “That’s very kind but I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“I’ll take you to the airport and give you the ticket,” she said, not sure he understood her offer.
“I’m afraid I can’t fly,” said Joe.
“I can look after your dog if that’s the problem.”
“No, it’s not that. I have no ID, no documents, there’s no way they’ll let me on a plane,” Joe explained.
“So you can’t hire a car then?”
Joe shook his head. His blood alcohol level would be illegal for the best part of the year, even if he stopped drinking there and then, never mind his lack of a license.
“Which leaves the bus,” he said.
“Can you get a bus to Washington?” she asked with genuine surprise.
“All the way from here,” confirmed Joe.
“Let me grab my jacket and bag and I’ll take you to the station.”
The nameless woman, whom Joe had seen every day for the last two years, walked back into the church hall. She smiled and thanked the volunteers for their help. She hadn’t once come out of the office in all the time Joe had visited, spending her time on the computer and phone while lunch was served. He assumed she had felt she was too good to deal with the drunks and down and outs. Perhaps he had misjudged her.
She returned a moment later with her purse and car keys.
“This is kind of you…” he paused to allow her to give him her name.
“Jane,” she replied. “Not at all, every mother should get to see their son one last time.”
A wave of shame hit Joe. The lie had come too easily, a by-product of a life spent on the street. Jane pointed to her car and let Joe in the passenger seat, the dog happily jumped in the back.
“We don’t see you out in the hall much,” Joe remarked.
“It costs about two thousand dollars a month to run the lunches, and I spend every second I’ve got fundraising. If I don’t do it, you guys would go hungry. I’d love to be out helping and chatting but I can only afford so much a month myself.”
“You pay for some of the lunches yourself?”
“When there’s a shortfall somebody has to make it up.”
“And my bus ticket?”
“I’m happy to help.”
“It’s not the church that’s paying?”
She shook her head. “It’s not the church that gives the lunches either. I hire the hall for a couple of hours each day.”
“You have to hire the hall and pay the church for its use?!” exclaimed Joe.
“Yesterday when the cameras came, it was the first time the church got involved, insisting we use their crockery, and they provided the beef for the roast.”
“In the two years I’ve been coming the church hasn’t paid for a meal?”
“They ask for their parishioners to volunteer, which is helpful,” she said, defending the church.
Joe shook his head in anger. He had picked the church due to its wealth. One of the best funded and supported churches in the area. If he had known it had fallen on one woman to provide his meals he’d have…
What would you have done?
He was hungry and there was free food on offer. He’d still have gone. Although it still didn’t make it right. The impression given to the world was that the church was doing its bit for the poor. The minister had even done his rounds on numerous occasions during the lunches, perpetuating the myth.
“Why?”
She looked away. “Because somewhere out there I hope someone is doing the same for my son. A veteran, I assume like yourself, who struggled to reintegrate and ended up on the streets.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I’ll see him again one day,” she said with conviction, pulling up in front of the bus station.
She got out and went inside, returning a few minutes later with a ticket in her hand.
“Bus leaves at seven, I’m afraid dogs aren’t allowed,” she said. “He can stay with me while you’re gone.”
“She can travel,” Joe said, pulling a vest from his inside pocket, on the side of which ‘Service Dog, Full Access’ was written. “She helps keep me calm,” he said, patting the dog with a wink.
Joe had sponged and taken advantage of situations many times over the years, always satisfied that in some way he had deserved what he received, given his sacrifices for his country. He had led a simple, selfish life. He didn’t need much and received it without much effort. “Life’s a beach” was his motto and thanks to the temperate southern climate, he could sleep under the stars on the beach nearly the entire year. Only during the coldest days of winter did he seek shelter.
He bathed each day in the warm waters of the Gulf, afterwards drinking himself into oblivion as night fell. Each day was the same, awakening to the dull thud of a hangover, a punishing swim in the sea, lunch at the church, followed by whatever he needed to do to earn enough to help him once again have a restful night. Begging, yard work, manual labor, whatever got him the few dollars for a bottle each day, that was all he needed.
Guilt was not something he had felt, certainly not for some time. However, looking at Jane, guilt raced through him. The woman was a saint and there he was, taking advantage of her and had been for years.
“She’s lovely,” said Jane, reaching over and patting the dog.
“I’d be lost without her,” Joe said wistfully, realizing how true that was.
“Does she have a name?”
“Sandy.”
“Why Sandy?” asked Jane, stroking the black and white Border Collie.
“We live on the beach and she’s always covered in sand,” he shrugged. There was no greater meaning. Life was simple.
“As good a reason as any.” Sandy groaned her satisfaction at being petted, leaning into Jane’s hand.
“I will repay you for this,” said Joe, holding out his ticket.
“It’s not necessary, I only hope you get to say goodbye to your mother.”
“I promise you’ll get the money back.”
It was the first promise he had made to anyone in many years. Joe felt a wave of nostalgia. In his past life, his promises meant something. A Joe Kelly promise was worth its weight in gold. It was a Joe Kelly promise that the president of the United States was calling in and he was answering all these years later, despite what had happened between them. His mood suddenly darkened, his thoughts drifting back to events and places he drank to forget.
“We’ve got a few hours until your coach leaves. Why don’t we—”
“We’ll be fine here,” Joe cut in, climbing out of the car. A short whistle had Sandy jumping to his heel. Joe waved Jane goodbye and without a second look, he walked across the street to the bar, its neon light suggesting it was “OP_N” for business. Sandy knew the routine, laying down in the doorway as Joe pushed the door open.
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Jane was left bemused as to what had just happened. A pleasant conversation had simply ended without warning. Joe’s mood had changed in an instant. She had worked with street people for years and knew the reasons they lived on the street were many and varied. However, Joe had never really fit into any of the normal categories. A tall, powerful figure, he hadn’t lost any of his stature. Stalking across the road in his Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, and flip flops, he looked like any tourist enjoying the sunshine with his dutiful dog. Sandy stuck to his leg like glue as they walked. It was uncomfortable to witness, as at any moment you thought he might trip over her, but they made it across with ease. Jane turned the ignition. She didn’t know why, she had received many broken promises in the past, but something about Joe made her believe he’d be back, if nothing else to make sure he kept his promise to reimburse her for the ticket.
Chapter 5
The clock read 13.47 when he walked into the bar. He had twenty dollars to his name and a day and a half of travelling ahead of him. He slapped the twenty on the bar. “Bourbon.”
The barman quickly fulfilled his sole client’s needs. His reward was a gruff “Another!”, as the glass was lifted, emptied, and replaced in one motion.
Joe swallowed his second mouthful and the cloud began to lift. The drink blended with his already elevated blood levels, redirecting Joe from his sober state towards his far happier drunken one.
His glass was filled for a third time. A sip rather than a mouthful gave the barman leave to place the bourbon bottle back on the shelf and return to his other duties. Another sip and Joe was reminiscing over a childhood long forgotten in the rugged wilds of West Virginia and the treacherous mining towns where death was all too prevalent. As a child, death had never been a concern. The hills and caves were the perfect playground. Joe and his friends would leave home when the sun rose and if they weren’t too busy exploring, be home for dusk.
Joe had known Clay Caldwell as long as he had known himself. They had been neighbors, born merely months apart, and in every memory of his childhood, Clay was there. Even in bed, separated by a paper thin wall, the two boys were, in reality still together, chatting incessantly through the wall until finally sleep tore them apart. Inseparable, the two spent every waking minute together. Even at school, they were kept together. The school had tried once to put them in different classes, an experiment that was never repeated. The chaos caused by each of the boys in their separate classes far outweighed the annoyance of their incessant chatting when together.
Joe finished his third drink in a final swig. A dark day in his history had been reached. Clay’s father’s death in a mining accident was the day that ended his childhood friendship with Clay. Clay’s mother had taken him and gotten as far away from the mines and West Virginia as she could. Barely had the funeral ended when she had packed and was hauling out of town. Joe’s memory of Clay crying, his hand raised towards his friend in the back window as the car disappeared around the corner never left him. Promises had been made, they’d keep in touch and see each other regularly. Promises children made, not realizing the distance between West Virginia and Florida. They were fifteen then, and it had been close to forty years since they had been ripped apart. The Internet, instant messaging, WhatsApp, Facebook—none of them had even been thought of. Long distance phone calls were expensive and neither family had the money.
Joe continued to underachieve, doing the bare minimum of work required to graduate high school. His parents took little or no interest in his education. Mining wasn’t for rocket scientists, and as far as they were concerned, Joe would follow his father like his father before him, into the mines. Joe and Clay had other ideas. Clay had talked of joining the Marines and seeing the world and it was a plan that Joe was going to follow, fully expecting to see his friend again.
At seventeen, after much persuasion, his parents let Joe sign up. His days playing in the wilds of West Virginia had created a powerful, fit young man. Running up and down hills, scaling mountains, and exploring caves had been the perfect training ground for the recruiter’s recommendation that Joe aim for the elite Force Recon division. Joe sailed through training and selection, moving quickly into the Marine’s special ops team. Throughout his time, he looked out for Clay, assuming he too would have gone for the elite option. It would be years before the two would cross paths again. Clay had joined the Marines, as Joe had thought he would, although not Force Recon, and only after gaining a college degree and joining as an officer.
“Move!” came a shout from behind the door, bringing Joe back to the present. A thud followed by a yelp had him moving in an instant.
The door opened as Joe approached it and in came a laughing group of men. Joe pushed past them to a number of “Hey!” and “What the…”
Sandy was cowering a few feet from the door, her tail tucked under herself, looking at her left rear leg. Joe rushed over and patted her, checking her leg for any damage. Her tail soon moved back to its more familiar wagging position as Joe fussed over her. Joe stood up and turned back to the bar.
Joe was a big guy, six three and powerfully built. His stomach could have been a little more toned but in general he was not a guy who had to prove himself. His daily swims were punishing routines that, despite his lifestyle, kept him in shape. Although in his early fifties, he could easily pass for a man in his forties.
The six laughing men were like himself, well-built, although younger and fitter, ranging in age from mid-twenties to mid-thirties. If he had to guess, football buddies or a work crew.
“Who kicked the dog?” asked Joe.
The laughing started again.
“I’ve only got a problem with whoever kicked my dog,” said Joe, his voice rising to counter the laughs. “The rest of you can walk out of here, just tell me who kicked my dog.”
“Look, buddy,” said the barman. “I don’t want any trouble in here, the cops are all over us as it is.”
“Perhaps we should all go out and give her a kick?” laughed one of the men to his friends.
“You’d have to get through me first,” Joe snarled.
The laughing stopped when the challenge was thrown at them. Some old guy was disrespecting them in their own bar.
“Guys!” shouted the barman. “Let him go, there doesn’t need to be any fighting.”
Joe waited but nobody was moving. He didn’t believe in waiting for the first punch to be thrown, not when you knew it was going to be coming in any event. You may as well get it in first. Hit hard and fast. Joe stepped towards the guy who suggested they all kick the dog. He laughed as though it was hysterical that Joe was coming towards them.
Joe didn’t hesitate and swung his right foot up and into the guy’s balls, crushing them with his bare foot. Had he been wearing shoes rather then flip flops it would have been a deadly blow such was the force he used. Before the others had time to react to their fallen comrade, Joe had swung his fist and broken another’s nose. A backhanded follow-up had taken another in the neck. From there, things got a little harder. Three enraged men threw themselves at him. Unfortunately, none had cowered out. It was always a hope when there were many opponents that some would step back and fail to engage. Not on this occasion. All six were up for the fight. Six against one, no matter how good you were, the odds were not good.
Joe caught one of the three square on the jaw. He joined the other three on the floor, though only at the expense of a punch to Joe’s own head. He let his head roll with the force of the blow, taking as much of the strength out of it as he could. Still, it was a mighty hit. Joe staggered and took a boot to the thigh from the other attacker. He threw himself into the puncher and used all of the momentum from the kick and his own weight to take the puncher down with him, raising his elbow and powering it into the guy as he fell on top of him. A massive oomph suggested he had taken every ounce of air out of the puncher’s lungs as a result. The kicker had him on the floor but Joe was ready, rolling off the puncher and avoiding a second massiv
e kick which landed squarely on the puncher’s hip. Joe was back up and ready, five men down and only the kicker still in the game. At least for the moment. Some of the friends were coming to terms with their injuries and pulling themselves back into the fight. Joe needed to end it quickly. He surged forward, catching the kicker by surprise and landing a massive uppercut, lifting the kicker off his feet and sending him a few feet back towards the bar.
While three were trying to get to their feet, Joe moved, delivering three more blows in rapid succession that sent them back to the floor.
“I’ll ask again, who kicked my dog?” he wheezed. He hadn’t exerted himself that much in years. He looked around. Six powerful younger men lay in various states of discomfort while he remained standing. He still had it, just. They had caught him twice and if they had known what they were doing, he would have been down and out. If they had been better, perhaps he would have been more careful. Whatever the case, it wasn’t a bad result after many years of inaction. His mind had remained calm and his moves calculated. He had continually re-evaluated the situation and altered his actions throughout to benefit from any potential advantage.
Two hands indicated to the guy whose nuts Joe had crushed. His face was a whitish gray and he was tucked in a fetal position with his hands hovering over the injured area, too painful to actually touch. Joe looked at him with some pity. There was every chance he had done some permanent damage.
“I think he learned his lesson,” said Joe.
One of the men raised his hands as he stood, accepting the fight was over.
“Not bad for an old man,” he said, rubbing his chin. Two more stood up, one nursing a bloodied and broken nose, all accepting the fight was over.
“Drink?” asked one of the men.
None of the six looked up for more of a fight, and the guy who kicked Sandy was in no state for anything. Joe shrugged. What the hell? If they were going to be magnanimous in defeat who was he not to have a drink with them?
Captive-in-Chief Page 2
