Page 8 of Velvet and Valor
Homeless people in the Middle East, picking pockets with their teeth because the authorities had cut both of their hands off for thieving already. Desperate people, families uprooted, all because one group of people had decided to make holes in another group of people.
And did we help them? Did my Ranger unit make the world a better place? The Army told us we shot all the right people. They pinned a bunch of medals on my chest and told me, ‘you’re our boy, Axel. Good old Axel, he always delivers and never questions orders.’
Oh, I questioned my orders, god-damn it. I questioned them every day. Because when we got done shooting the bad guys and put up the ‘correct’ flag on all the government buildings, or the rubble that was left of them, you know what happened next?
Those families were still homeless. That beggar still didn’t have any hands or any food. People were still selling their daughters to save them.
And those children were still burned alive.
When I hit the corner store, I think my foul mood must have been palpable. Both the clerk and the lone other customer looked up at me with more than a little fear in their eyes. That made me feel guilty, and I dialed it back a notch. I couldn’t bring myself to smile in that dark moment, but I managed a neutral sort of nod. As if to say, ‘I’m just here for beer, not trouble.’
My nod doesn’t do the trick. The clerk still looks scared. So does the customer, for that matter. My instincts were dulled by the flashback I’d endured earlier. Not so any longer. I start picking up on things that only a soldier would notice.
The sweat beading on the clerk’s brow. The unusual, angular stance of the lone customer, who keeps his head bowed and his hood pulled low. The way his hand is thrust into his jacket pocket, but only one hand…
Now I can smile. I whistle as I make my way over to the cooler and select a twenty-four pack of the good stuff, plus one of those big, thick cans of Foster. I fucking hate Foster, but it was the ideal product for the moment.
I whistle continuously as I casually stroll up to the counter. The clerk tries to smile, but she is shaking badly.
“W-will that be all, Sir?” she asks.
“Yeah, that’ll do it,” I say. “Whoops.”
The can of Foster’s falls out of my hand and rolls across the floor, bumping into the shoe of the hoodie wearing customer with his hand in his pocket. He glances down at it nervously, then up at me.
“Hey, bro, do you mind?” I ask, smiling, holding my hand out in a friendly gesture for the beer.
He hesitates a moment, then ducks his head down to pick up the can. I thump him on the back of his hoodie with my elbow and he drops to the floor like a prom dress two minutes past midnight.
“Oh, thank god,” the clerk says, grabbing the phone and dialing 911. “How did you know he was a robber?”
I give her a confused look. “He was a robber?”
Her mouth falls open and I laugh.
“I’m just messing with ya,” I say, picking up the can of Foster’s and showing it to her. “Foster’s. Australian for concussion.”
She doesn't laugh. I can’t believe it but she doesn’t. I did the accent and everything.
“I did the accent and everything,” I say, hurt, before laying down a fifty on the counter. “Keep the change.”
I don’t think she’s in any condition to ring me up at the moment. I haul the beer up to my shoulder and make my way back to the office. The adrenaline shock had been good for my state of mental health, but I’m still wanting to spiral back into the darkness. It’s going to be a long day. I’m dreading when the party ends and I run out of distractions.
I take the long way back to the office. By the time I get there, more people have showed up for the party. Including my boss, Jax. He meets me at the door, which takes me by surprise.
“How are you feeling, Soldier?” he asks.
“Um, sober?” I say, holding up the beer. “But thankfully not for long.”
“For a bit longer, I’m afraid. An emergency situation has come up and I’ve got a job for you.”
I hand the beer over to Cole, suddenly all business.
“When do I start?” I ask Jax.
“Right now.”
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