Tripwire
Mark Randall
Tripwire
Chapter 1
“Matt, That kid is back.”
“Same place?”
“Yep, He’s up on the ridgeline. I don’t see any weapons. He just squats there and watches us.”
“Well, Honey, I’ve run into a few of these guys up here. Mostly they’re harmless. Most times, they’ll go to big efforts to avoid contact. But I’ve got a feeling with this one. The way he doesn’t seem to care if we see him or not. I think he might want to talk to us.”
“If you say so, Matt. It’s just that he kinda creeps me out. The way he just sits there, not moving. Then he just disappears like a ghost. He spooks me.”
I chuckled. “Ghost, Spooks?”
She immediately got mad and smacked me in the shoulder. “You know what I mean. Just see if you can talk to him. At least that way, we'll know why he’s here.”
“Alright, I’ll see what I can do. But this guy is probably one of our PTSD hermits. He may not want our help. And to tell you the truth, I don’t know if I can do him any good. But, because you asked, I’ll give it a go.
I took a minute to think about what I should do and then started setting things up. Mainly it was getting a pitcher of lemonade ready. I warned Suzy not to interfere and set Shadow on the porch with a sit and stay command. I knew that if things got bad, he would help. But right now, I had a feeling that too many people or an apparent guard dog would spook him off. I had a feeling this had to be one on one.
I stepped out off of the porch and looked up to the ridge. Sure enough, I could see a figure squatted there, Watching the cabin.
I hauled 2 of the Adirondack chairs off the porch and put them about halfway in the yard, between the fence and the porch. I also included an end table, two glasses, and the lemonade.
Looking up at the ridge at our visitor, I pointed my arm at him and then gave the arm signal for assembly. Finishing with pointing at the other chair. I then sat down and waited. For a minute or two, nothing happened.
Then he got up and disappeared into the brush.
About 30 minutes later, He showed up at the ford over the creek. He stood there watching me and looking over the surroundings.
He was dressed in rags and semi-tanned skins. The odor was almost overpowering. He hadn’t shaved or had a haircut in quite a long time.
I gave him a minute and then called out. “Come on in, friend. The woman and the dog are in the house. If you’re interested, I’ve got some lemonade here. You’re welcome to a glass.”
I didn’t say anything else, just waited. Eventually, like a scared rabbit, He started inching his way into the yard. When he got to the table, He picked up the glass of lemonade and cautiously sipped from it.
It was an obvious success. He closed his eyes and seemed to be in a state of ecstasy as the sweet/sour liquid ran over his tongue.
“Pretty good, isn’t it. It’s just the package stuff, and I don’t have any ice. But it’ll do when you’ve got a thirst on.”
He started to talk, and it was apparent that he hadn’t had a lot to say recently. He started out with what sounded like a croak. He stopped and cleared his throat and then started over. “It’s good.” He whispered.
“My names Matt. The woman is Suzy. She and the dog will give us some time alone if you want?”
He nodded his head and took another sip from his glass. “Thanks, I get nervous.”
“That’s alright. We would like to be your friend. Were you military?”
“Yeah, middle east. Marines ‘04 in Fallujah. Baaaad Shit.”
“Me too, I was Kuwait with Schwarzkopf. Susy was Bagdad and IEDs.”
“You know then?”
“No, can’t say I know, friend. Each of us has walked our own path. My demons are mine, Suzy’s are hers, and yours belong to you. I wouldn’t try to claim ownership or even knowledge. What I can do is offer an ear. I’ll listen. I won’t judge.”
“You a doctor?”
“Nope, can’t claim that either. Oh, I’ll set a leg or tighten a tourniquet. But your head? I haven’t got a clue. All I can offer is an open mind and listen.”
During our conversation, he had sat down on the edge of the chair, not fully into it. Then, he suddenly stood and started looking around. I didn’t say anything. But I had an idea that He was hearing something that he didn’t like.
I gave it a moment, “Friend, you’re welcome anytime. We’ll keep an eye on the ridge. If you want to talk, just come on down.”
He stopped and looked at me. I could see the fear in his eyes. “Thanks.”
Then he bolted and ran into the trees and disappeared.
When I got back to the cabin, Suzy was waiting, “Well?”
“I don’t know what we can do, honey. He’s acting like he’s been through some bad stuff. I think that the best thing we can do right now is nothing. It’s possible that if he was pushed too far, he could suicide or worse. I don’t know if I can take the lead on this one. Hopefully, we can bring him in again. But whether or not we can get him back to society, I just don’t know. I hope he isn’t too broken.”
About a quarter-hour later, Sheriff Paul Thompson showed up. This was unusual. Paul didn’t like to leave things unattended in Elk City for very long, and a hike up to my place was at least a two-day trip on horseback.
As he came into view at the front gate, I called out, “Well, Marshal Dillion, How’s Festus and Miss Kitty?”
“Good to see you too, Matt. Where’s Suzy? She runoff with a grizzly yet?”
From inside the cabin, Suzy called out, “I’m right here, Paul. Want some coffee?”
“Yes, Ma’am, that would hit the spot.” Paul dismounted his horse and tied him off at the rail. “So, Matt, How’s things in the high country? Staying out of trouble, I hope.”
“As far as you’re concerned. But I’ll bet I know why you’re here.”
“OH REALLY? Thanks, Suzy,” as she handed him a mug of coffee. “So, tell me, WHY am I here today, Matt?”
“You’re here because the good folks in Elk City are concerned about the Wildman that they have heard about or maybe even seen. That this ‘Wildman is scaring the kids, tourists, and womenfolk.”
“You got it in one, Matt. The principal at the middle school spotted him going through the dumpster the other day. And then, later that evening, he was spotted at the trailhead leading up here.”
“What’s he done wrong, Paul? I mean, other than looking strange and dumpster diving? Has he committed any crime?”
“Yeah, Matt, he committed the crime of scaring the normal folks. I just need to check him out, Matt, make sure he isn’t wanted or anything, you understand?”
“Yeah, Paul, I get it. Yes, I have seen him. He was here earlier today.
Younger guy, sandbox vet. He didn’t seem violent, and everything you’ve said sort of confirms that. If you don’t mind, I think I might be able to help him. I really don’t think that the nervous nellies in Elk City need worry.”
“Matt, I can trust you. Just keep him away from the civilized folks. Most of them don’t understand and would probably make it worse.”
I sadly shook my head, “I don’t like it, but I agree.”
Suzy had been listening to this, and I could see the den mother look coming into her eyes. Looking back to Paul, I said “I don’t think we’ve got a choice in the matter, Sheriff. Suzy seems to have made up our minds for us.”
Paul looked over at Suzy. She had this fake confused look, “What? I don’t know what you guys are talking about.”
Paul started chuckling, “Matt, the battle was lost before the first encounter. Do your best with this guy. I’d be willing to bet he deserves it. If you can get me a name, I might be able to find out more. But if he’s wanted, you know I’ll have to take him in.”
With a satisfied smirk on her face, Suzy smiled sweetly to Paul, “And You, Sheriff Paul, are invited to an elk steak dinner and home-cured bacon and eggs tomorrow morning. No arguments.”
The rest of the evening passed pleasantly as pleasantly as three old friends can.
Paul left late the following day. After the huge country breakfast Suzy laid out for him, it took an extra hour for him to work up the gumption to move out. I had Suzy move the leftovers to a table I set up on the porch. Then, after starting a fresh pot of coffee, I sat down on the porch.
About 15 minutes after Paul left, our new friend showed up at the ford again. I called out, “Come on in, friend. We’ve got bacon and scrambled eggs. Hash browns, toast, and fresh coffee. You’re welcome to any or all of it.”
Suzy called from inside the cabin. “Come and get it. I’ll give it to the goats, if you don’t.” She stepped out on the porch and sat down next to me. Shadow was curled up behind us in the doorway.
The kid started inching his way towards us. About halfway through the front yard, Shadow raised his head, and the kid froze. A scared rabbit look in his eyes. It quickly faded when Shadow's tail started thumping the floor. He stood there for a moment. Then with a greater confidence, he walked up to the porch.
That dog is smart. So smart that it scares me at times. It seemed like he could tell that the kid was hurting, and Shadow might be able to help him.
Again, with a voice rough from disuse, he croaked “Thanks” and started building himself a plate. He sampled everything twice. When he was finished, he leaned back against the porch railing and sipped his coffee.
He looked up at me, “Why?” Up to that point, nothing had been said by anybody.
“What do you mean, why? This is what folks do for each other. Especially up here in the high country. We dont turn away strangers. You obviously needed help, so we'll help.” I motioned to myself and Suzy.
He sat there for a moment. Digesting this information.
I continued on, “You aren’t the first one to come up here. We get a lot of folks. Some are passing through. Some are looking for something. Some are up to no good. But for the most part, well, the mountains tend to humble us, all of us, to an equal level.”
“You are welcome to stay for as long as you think you need to. We can talk, maybe even about some of your demons and ghosts. Suzy and I’ll even tell you about some of ours. What I won’t do is judge you. Or expect something from you. You can give or take what you need. Just be honest with yourself and with us.”
“That man yesterday? He’s the law?”
“Yeah, that’s Sheriff Paul. He’s a good guy. Seen some time himself. He’s worried about you, though. The townies in Elk City got scared when they saw you foraging in the dumpsters.”
“Yeah, I was really hungry. It’d been a while, and I could smell something good in that can. But then the kids came round, and things got a bit confused.”
I could tell that he was reliving something. His eyes lost focus, and his jaw got slack.
“What are you seeing, brother? Tell me.”
“It’s the kids, you got to watch the kids. The insurgents use the kids.
They know we won’t shoot em up.”
Chapter 2
It was always the kids. They might have been wearing bombs or carrying weapons and ammo. They might have been telling the bad guys what we were doing, or, and this was the scariest, they would just disappear.
We got to the point that if the women and kids disappeared, we knew we were in trouble.
We were on patrol in yet another nowhere, noname, neighborhood, looking for, who knows what. They didnt say it, but we all knew we were bait in the machine. And the worst place to be bait was on point. So, it usually fell to the newest rookie to cover the point position. Not far behind would be the sergeant, and safely in the middle, but easily identified,
was the team leader. Just look for the radio antenna and bingo, you found the boss.
Our point that day was a youngster named Roof, Michael Roof. He was so new that nobody knew anything about him other than he was from Buffalo, New York. By this time, most of us had learned not to make friends with newbies. If they survived, then they were accepted. But the first patrol or two, it might have been a waste of time, so nobody tried.
I was second behind Roof and I had to constantly warn him to slow down and keep his eyes open. This wasn’t a field exercise at Pendleton, with blanks and flashbangs. This was real life and real bullets.
I had started to notice that things were getting too quiet and that the burkas and babies had disappeared. So, I called up to Mike and warned him to watch his cover Then the biggest warning flag I could think of showed up.
A toddler came stumbling out from a doorway. Almost like he had been shoved or thrown. The kids age was indeterminate, but it seemed to be at that two- or three-year-old range. It was bawling and screaming. And Roof did what any normal person back home would do, and the worst thing possible in Fallujah. He went to comfort the child.
He hadn’t taken three steps when a shot rang out. The blood splash from his knee was obvious, and he went down, Screaming.
Now we had two screaming people, the baby, and our point man. The child had plopped down in the dust and was screaming its head off. Meanwhile, Mike had quieted down slightly and started crawling for cover.
Another shot and Mikes left elbow disappeared. Now he was immobile and in serious trouble.
I was in a good position. I had both cover and concealment from the sniper. And I could hear the sergeant moving people into position behind me. I also knew that the Lieutenant would be calling it in. So, the smartest thing to do at that point was to sit tight and wait for the quick reaction force to catch up and flush the sniper.
But today wasn’t going to be an easy one. The sniper started potshoting around the kid. It was obvious, to me, that sooner or later, he was going to hit the kid. But I also knew that he was trying to get me or someone else to break cover. That’s when he hit Michael in the hip.
It was at that point that I blanked out.
I didn’t go crazy, I think. My brain just went into neutral. I ran from my cover as fast as I could. And as I passed the baby, I grabbed its nightshirt and dived for the building on the other side of the intersection. I was followed by two shots that missed clean. When I got to cover, there was a burka in the doorway. I threw the kid at it and, without waiting, turned and went back.
I wasn’t as lucky this time. I got hit in the left thigh. About middle, in the meaty part. Later It would hurt like a bitch. At that point, I couldn’t feel a thing.
Just like the kid, As I passed Roof, I grabbed his collar and yanked him back to cover. I was hit a second time in my right calf.
Once we were both under cover, I grabbed my M4. We were hunkered down behind a brick wall about 4 feet high. I popped up from behind that wall and sent three rounds at the sniper. I had seen his muzzle flashes on both of my runs.
I ducked back down. Waited for half a second and then sent him another three rounds. The sniper had placed himself under a donkey cart. He had good concealment, but his cover was terrible. My second three rounds had impacted just in front of him. And ricocheted right into his face.
Now, most people would think that was the end of it, That the battle was over, nope. A second sniper opened up. Opposite of the first. This one had a clear view of the whole patrol. And when he started up, He hit the third man in the squad. Again, I had seen the muzzle flash. I grabbed Roofs M203 and aimed the launcher. And scored a home run. The grenade went right into the window he was shooting from. And ended that snipers career.
What followed was silence. Or at least I didn’t hear anything. I was told that the Apaches had arrived, as well as the reaction force. There was even a patrol of Iraqi police that magically appeared. Strangely, right after the last shot.
Dust off was called, and I was sent off to Bagram for treatment. Roof was sent on to Germany and then home. I was told that he was missing both the leg and arm.
A month later, I was in a new unit, pulling guard duty for the supply convoys.
My wounds had been through and throughs with no bone damage. There were some muscle tissue problems, but the Navy docs told me that PT would solve any issues. Damn Squids wouldn’t even give me a profile.
It was on my third Run through the supply pipeline. We had 9 trucks. 2
trucks per basecamp. It took us a week to run the pipe. We would overnight at each basecamp. We were halfway between camp two and camp three when they hit us. The IED took out the lead Humvee, which was also our commo truck. Then an RPG took out tail-end Charlie, and we were boxed in.
A combination of AK and MG fire started up. Raking all of the vehicles. I don’t know why, but all of the fire was coming from the left side of the road. Being the passenger, I had a barrier between them and me. I bailed out of the truck as soon as we came under fire.
I was lying in a ditch on the right side of the road, with a clear view under the truck. Almost immediately, I spotted the muzzle flashes. I paused a moment and then started targeting those positions. I kept my fire to single shots or 3 round bursts and took out both machine guns in short order.
There was some supporting fire coming from the other trucks, but they received more than their share of the incoming. I had taken out the machine gun on the left flank, and there didn’t seem to be any other fire coming from there. I grabbed my ammo bag and started limping in that direction.
Yes, I was limping. My wounds still hadn’t healed completely, and I had trouble getting around. But doing the best I could, and without being noticed, I flanked them. Then I slowly worked my way down their line and took out the ambush. In the process, I was hit three more times. One was a piece of a grenade. The other 2 were AK rounds towards the end when the insurgents realized where the incoming was coming from.
Once again, I was airlifted to Bagram. But this time, I was sent further, on to the Army hospital in Ramstein. I’ve got to say one thing about those Doggy Medics. They know their stuff.
Shortly after I arrived in Germany, The Doctors decided that I needed more advanced care and shipped me stateside. Three months later, there was a meeting, and it was decided that I was no longer of use to the Marines, and I was given a hearty handshake, a slap on the back, and sent on my merry way.
It wasn’t quite that cold and impersonal. First, they shipped me to Pendleton and put me into the separation pipeline.
Coming back from the middle east hadn’t been what I had expected. The three months spent at Camp Pendleton were OK. When we weren’t picking up cigarette butts or painting rocks that already had a half-inch of paint on them. We were sitting through boring classes about what we could expect in civilian life. In most cases, they were thinly disguised attempts to get us to reenlist. Except for me, of course.
We went through classes on PTSD and reintegrating into civilian life.
They were helpful in a general sense. But they all came down to the same thing. Hook up with the VA and try to get a disability rating. I already had 12% on my record. This was my reward for the bullet holes I had gotten in Fallujah. Nothing serious. I had seen others in worse shape, a lot worse.
There had also been a half-day class on suicide prevention. And the basic message there was, you guessed it. Hook up with the VA and try to get a disability rating.
There was also the thing that was jokingly called a Job Fair. This involved two things, first was the private security companies. They promised outrageous pay to go right back to the sandbox. The other was the colleges.
I was reminded of the recruiters I had talked to before I enlisted. They had the same smell to them, unlike most of the guys in my unit. I still had my bonus money, and I hadn’t spent all my pay. I hadn’t gotten married or even hooked up. So, I had a decent chunk of cash set aside. I could see the lust in their eyes for my GI Bill money and the possible college loans.
Neither option appealed to me. I had no desire to go back to the middle east, no matter what the pay was. And tossing away my GI Bill money on a useless education could wait until I did a bit more research.
Eventually, I was given that handshake and escorted out the gate. Bus ticket in hand, I returned home.
Chapter 3
Coming back from the middle east hadn’t been what I expected. I had my first issue when I got home. I come from a small town in Oregon. Just outside Salem. Most of the businesses in the area were centered around agriculture. It was a small, tight-knit community. Friendly and polite.
Or at least it had been when I left. The issue I mentioned was wearing my uniform when I came home. Riding the Greyhound from San Diego had been a bit of an eyeopener. Some folks had been nice, thanking me for my service. Others had given me the fisheye and stepped out of their way to avoid me. I didn’t think too much about it. But it did bother me. After all, they didn’t know me or what I’d been through.
My brother and Mom met me at the bus station. The homecoming was as you would expect. Screams of joy, tears, hugs, slaps on the back, and shaking hands. It was so much of a celebration that I was oblivious to anything else.
Dad wasn’t there. He had passed from a massive stroke the year before I joined. It had been an agonizing time in my life. Mom got a substantial insurance payoff, which she banked into a trust fund for us kids. She was also able to get a one-time payoff from Dads pension. Mom had always been pretty money savvy.
There was my brother and two sisters. I was the youngest and still in high school when dad passed. The rules of the trust kept me from accessing my share until I was 21.
Getting back to the neighborhood was pleasant. All of the relatives had come in, some from as far as Boston. There were banners and yellow ribbons, and balloons. For the most part, the neighbors that I remembered, the ones still living there, had stopped by and said welcome back. But there weren’t as many of them as I expected. one or two of my old school friends also showed up, which was a bit disappointing. I mean, I wasn’t the most popular person on campus but I was still liked, or at least I thought so.
Eventually, things calmed down, and it seemed that life in my mom’s little Cul-De-Sac had returned to normal. I spent a week getting caught up with family and friends and thinking about what I wanted to do.
One of the things that had been discussed during out-processing was physical fitness and mental hygiene. It was recommended that we set up a daily exercise and fitness routine. That we watch our diets and keep our weight under control. A whole week had been spent on diet and eating right.
I took what they had to say to heart. And so early in the mornings, I started jogging. This wasn’t difficult. I was having some trouble sleeping, and rather than go the pill route. I tried to set up an early morning jog to start the day. I included calisthenics as a warm-up, cool-down routine. The calisthenics were boring. When I was in the Corps, it was a group effort, and if not pleasant, at least it was tolerable. But in civilian life, it turned into a pain in the butt.
I happened to be passing by a park one morning when I noticed a bunch of older Asian folks. They were slowly moving in unison, and it appeared to be some form of martial art. Afterward, I caught up with the instructor, and he explained that they were practicing Tai Chi. He explained that it was, indeed, a martial art form. But that it stressed form and tension rather than speed and strength. He explained that many of his students used it as a form of meditation, a stress reliever. I signed up on the spot and spent as much time as I could learning for the next month. And he was right, I was feeling much calmer, and I even slept through the night a couple of times.
All of this helped, and I felt I was working my way through some of the things that bothered me about the military. One of the other things was that I would sit on Moms porch in the late afternoon and early evening and watch the sun go down. I used this time to calm myself, find my center, and reflect. It helped with my anxieties. Kind of a meditation.
Usually, the neighbors would wave at me when they came home from work.
And sometimes even stop and talk. On the weekends, I enjoyed those moments. Of course, I knew that folks would be friendly if you were nice.
But as with most good things, there were ‘Those' moments.
One of ‘Those' moments was in the early afternoon. It was warm, and the sun was shining. I was sitting on the steps and enjoying the sun when a voice intruded. “Hey, mister, you got any weed?”
I looked up from the book I was reading. A 13 or 14-year-old kid was standing at the foot of the steps. This was about 10 feet onto our property. “No,” I replied, “I don’t smoke.”
“Why not? My dad says all you war fascists smoke weed and meth and all that shit.”
I had to restrain myself. This was a kid after all. “Sorry, Your Dads wrong. I don’t do drugs.”
“How about guns? Lemme see your AK77-15 assault machine gun. All you nutcases got guns.”
“Your dad tell you that too? Sorry to disappoint you. I dont have any guns.”
“Ah shit, man, You bull shitting me, man. Ill bet you got one of them assault bazookas. Come on, let’s see you shoot something. You’re a punk if you don’t.”
I was getting just a bit mad at this brat and didn’t want to deal with him anymore. “Kid, I’ve got no drugs, and I’ve got no guns. Now, you need to go home.”
The kid flipped me off and walking away, muttering “Fugging punk” under his breath.
I didn’t think anything more about it until later that night. Sometime around 8:00, somebody started pounding on the front door. It scared Mom, and she asked me to see who it was. So, I opened the door and outside was a heavyset guy. He was wearing a Pendleton plaid shirt over a stained tshirt and jeans.
“Can I help you?” The screen door was still closed, but I knew it was nonexistent as far as being a barrier. I wasn’t concerned, But I also didn’t open the door all the way either.
“You the punk that called my kid a liar and chased him down the street?”
“No, I’m not. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I suggest you call the police.”
“Yeah? I know who you are. You’re that army punk what just came back.
I’ll bet you think you’re tough stuff, don’t ya?”
“I wasn’t in the Army. I am a Marine, and I’m proud of it. I think you should leave now. I can’t help you.”
He grabbed the screen door handle and yanked it open. The door wasn’t latched. Screen doors were never latched. I slammed the door closed and threw the deadbolt. Then I told Mom to call the cops.
About 45 minutes later, the doorbell rang. I looked through the window and saw a pair of cops standing at the door.
Opening the door, I introduced myself and started telling them what had happened. But, before I could get very far, I was interrupted by the older cop.
“Yeah, Yeah, so what’s this about you slapping some kid?”
I was stunned, where did this come from? “Officer, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t slapped anybody today.”
“Yeah, right. TODAY. I’ve heard about you knuckleheads. Come back from the Army, living off the tax dollars of hard-working, honest folks. Then you think the world owes you something. I oughta run your ass in for stealing government funds.”
At this point his partner stepped in between us. I was standing there with my jaw open. I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. “Alright, partner, I’ll handle this.”
The older cop glared at his partner but backed down. “Why don’t you go call this in. I don’t think we need to take this any further.” As he walked away, he was grumbling under his breath.
“Sorry about that. Officer Strickland sometimes has a temper. Now back to you, we were called here on an assault complaint. A Mr. Stockdale, just down the road, said that you had slapped his son. Then, when He came here and asked you about it, you threatened him and his family. Is there anything to that?”
“Not a word of it. That is except for his kid. The kid came into the yard and started asking some pretty offensive questions. I told him to leave, and he did. I was sitting on the porch at the time, and he was in the yard. I didn’t get closer than 15 or 20 feet.”
He had been taking notes while I was explaining what happened. When I finished, He said, “I looked at the child they claimed you slapped. To be honest, I couldn’t see any signs of an assault. If I had, this would be different. I also agree that the kid is obnoxious, and his father isn’t much different. I suggest that you keep your distance from them. Maybe consider a restraining or no-contact order. As far as today goes, I’ll write this up as a simple neighborhood disturbance and leave it at that.”
He called in on his radio and got a report number that he wrote down and gave to me. As he was walking back to their patrol car, The father and son came up. I could hear him loudly complaining. It almost seemed like he was going to take a poke at the younger cop. But the older cop stepped in and calmed him down. He then walked with them a little way down the street.
When they got about halfway out of the cul-de-sac, they stopped, and it seemed that the father was loud talking at the cop. The cop was bringing it back, and between the two of them, it was obvious they were arguing.
Finally, it got loud enough that the younger cop got out of the patrol car and called over. “Strickland, Is there a problem?”
The older cop looked over, the irritation showing on his face. “NO, just fill out your paperwork, rookie. This’ll only take a minute.” He waited until the younger cop got back into the car. Then he stuck his finger in Stockdale’s face. This was followed by 5 minutes of a one-sided conversation. Strickland then spun around and stomped back to the patrol car.
He saw me watching the situation. Other than glare at me, nothing was said. Finally, he climbed into the drivers seat, and when they left, he
lit up his lights and siren and left about a half-inch of rubber peeling out.
Chapter 4
Being the good Marine that I am, I called the VA and set up an appointment as soon as I got home. They set an evaluation appointment at the VA medical clinic in Salem. I was disappointed that it was three months down the line, but I had it on my calendar, and so far, that was as good as it was going to get.
When the day rolled around, I borrowed Moms car and drove into Salem. I stopped at the counter and told them who I was and that I had an appointment. The clerk handed me a clipboard and a pen. There was a half-inch stack of paperwork on the clipboard. The clerk was rather abrupt with me, “Fill these out, sign where there’s highlighter and bring them back when you’re finished. Then she went back to whatever she was doing on the computer.
It took me 45 minutes to work my way through that stack. It confused me because most of the information was in my Marine medical records. But one thing I knew for sure was to not rock the boat.
Once I had returned the paperwork, she told me to have a seat and wait to be called.
Fifteen minutes later, a younger, harried-looking guy came in. His lab coat was rumpled like his hair. He had the clipboard that I had been filling in earlier. As he was flipping through the pages, he started asking questions. Did I have trouble sleeping? How was my appetite? Was I eating? Did I feel anxious? Suicidal? Was I being abused at home? Did I use street drugs? When he finished, he said that I’d been seen in a minute or two.
For the first time that day, things happened as promised. I was very quickly called back to an exam room. Unfortunately, we repeated the question-and-answer program from before. This time, The Medic? Doctor?
Janitor? He never did identify himself. While asking questions, he also took my blood pressure and listened to my heart and chest.
When he finally ran out of questions, he looked at me for the first time.
“OK, Mr. Kidman, What I’ll be doing is writing you some prescriptions.
Something to help you sleep. Something to help with any anxiousness or PTSD. A couple of other medications to help out. I’ll also set up an appointment with your primary care physician.”
I was stunned, “Wait a minute, You’re not a doctor? You’re not MY
doctor?”
He chuckled, “No, I’m just a physician assistant. Almost a doctor. Your doctor works out of the VA hospital in Portland. Like I was saying, I’ll set up an appointment with your PCP, and from there, He can schedule a review of your disabled percentage.”
He shook my hand and disappeared. In all, He had been there 15 minutes, asked a bunch of questions, and listened to my heart and breathing.
Needless to say, I was not impressed.
When I returned to the clerk out front, she informed me that the soonest I could be seen was six months away, and did I want a morning or afternoon appointment? She then gave me directions to the pharmacy and told me that my prescriptions would be waiting for me.
Unsurprisingly, the directions I had been given were next to useless. I got lost almost immediately. I finally stopped one of the janitors. He was probably the nicest person I met there. He didn’t just give me direction. He walked me over to where I needed to go.
The pharmacy had about 20 people sitting in the waiting room. A large sign at the entrance informed me that I needed to take a number. Next to the sign was a machine dispensing little tabs of paper with numbers. My number was 5270.
I looked at the displays above the clerks. The highest number was 5180. I groaned as I looked at the service counters.
There were three counters at the end of the room. But only one of the stations was staffed. So, I looked around and saw that the people waiting fell into three groups. The first were on their cell phones. The next were asleep. The final group were staring off into space. I wasn’t sure, but I had the feeling they were chemically AWOL.
I sat down and got ready for a long wait. I was almost asleep when a Hispanic fellow plopped down in the seat next to me. I took a chance and supposed that he was also a vet waiting for his meds. The big clue was the missing left arm. He was looking at me when I opened my eyes. He had a big grin on his face. “Yo, Bro. First time here? I don’t recognize you.”
“Yeah, I just had my first appointment. Just waiting on some meds they think I need.”
He leaned forward and looked me up and down. “Well, you can’t be in too bad a shape. Nothing seems missing. Leastways nothing visible. I guess that means you got some scrambled eggs upstairs? You here with the big
“P,” bro? A little combat fatigue as they used to call it?”
“Well, I guess that might be part of it. But this is my first appointment. They haven’t done any testing yet. I haven’t even seen a real doctor yet.”
He started laughing, “A real doc? Good luck with that partner. I’ve been coming here for two years and haven’t seen a real chancre mechanic yet.
But my little problem doesn’t require an expert to tell what the issue is.” As he said this, he waved his stump at me. “Still, things would be nice if they could hurry up with the replacement. But enough about me. Do you know what meds they’ve got you on? I’ll bet it’s the magic 4.”
Confused, I asked, “The Magic 4? What’s that?”
My new friend leaned back and assumed the air of and expert. “That’s what they give everybody at first. Ambien for sleeping, Xanax for anxiety, Zoloft for depression, and finally, the biggy, Oxycontin for pain.”
“Really? Everybody gets them?”
Warming to the subject, his eyes got excited and he leaned forward. “Oh, hell yeah. I was hanging out around back by the loading docks one day.
Just having a smoke when this big ol semi shows up. No logos or signs.
Just a plain, every day, semi. They back that truck up to the loading dock and start unloading. I got close enough to see what they were unloading. Sure enough, it was a semi-load of Xanax. The boxes had labels you could read from 50 meters.”
“I started watching the docks after that. They bring in two trucks a week like that. And this is just a clinic. I wonder what they have at the Portland hospital.”
As we were talking, the numbers had slowly worked their way towards mine.
He continued on, “So, have they got you on the magic 4?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I have some trouble sleeping, but a good workout is all I need. I don’t think I need the other stuff.”
Looking around as if looking for somebody listening in, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Well, that’s the thing. They start you out on the 4, but they watch to see what works as time goes by. In my case, they decided that any pain I was having was phantom pain. Not really there.
So, they stopped my oxy and told me to use regular aspirin. Which is why I came over here.”
“I don’t quite understand. What can I do about your meds?”
Still acting paranoid, he whispered, “Well, I know they’ll be giving you some Oxy. Probably a 30-day supply. The thing is, you probably don’t need that much. If you could, you could pass some of that supply over to me.
I’d even be willing to pay you for what you give me.”
“I don’t know if I can do that. I could get in trouble if they caught us at that.”
His voice started to get louder and a new look of desperation came to his eyes. “Cmon, man. I really need that oxy. How about a quarter of your supply? Just seven pills, please man, Help a buddy out.”
I stood up and stepped back a bit, “Dude, No. If you need it that bad, tell the medics.” I turned and started walking away. It was then that I heard my number being called. As I walked away, He yelled after me.
“You’ll see. You’ll be just like me in a year.”
I noticed two orderlies approaching him. As I was at the counter, they were escorting him out of the room.
The pharmacist was watching the orderlies. “I see you’ve met Hernandez.
He's got a major jones on for the opioids. We’re trying to get him off, but nothing seems to work. When he runs out of cash for street drugs, Hell show up and try to con one of the other vets out of their scripts.”
“Why not send him to rehab?” I asked.
“Love to, but the closest rehab is in Portland. Unfortunately, The VA hospital there has ten beds and a two-year waiting list.”
This wasn’t making a lot of sense to me. “What about here in Salem? I mean, there’s got to be an inpatient clinic somewhere in town.”
“Nope. No can do partner. VA won’t pay for civilian care. That is, if there is a VA option at a reasonable distance. Portland is considered a reasonable distance.”
“Yeah, but you said they don’t have the room.”
“That’s the way it goes. Hernandez is on their list, and unless he wants to pay for it himself, He waits. Now, you want your meds or not?”
I was confused and mad. But I realized that there wasn’t a thing I could do. The system was just too big and too broken for one man to fix. So, I collected my meds and walked out.
Chapter 5
The holiday season was fast approaching. Halloween had been a bit of a trial. Mom had insisted on the trick or treat thing. I wasn’t quite sure if that was a good idea. I knew that the word had been spread around that I might be dangerous or crazy. Part of that was the Stockdale kid and his dad. But Mom wanted to do this, so I finally agreed but refused to participate. Instead, I would spend the evening in my room.
The day after, Mom was quiet and seemed to be moody. When I asked her about it, she wouldn’t talk about it. I later learned that the kids that normally came calling on Halloween had refused to come to our house.
Instead, their parents came to the door for their kids treats. When Mom asked them why they all had the same answer. I was the boogieman, and their kids were scared of me.
While Mom was unhappy about what had happened, she still went about her normal business.
The next big holiday on the list was Thanksgiving. This had always been a big event in our family. My brother would bring his family over, and both sisters would gather their broods and fly in from back east. They would stay at the family home. There was plenty of room for their families.
Problems started soon after Halloween. My sisters suggested that perhaps Mom would like to come east for the holidays. She could split the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas with Ellen and Susan.
Ellen’s husband was a civil engineer for Massachusetts and made very good money. Enough so that Ellen could be a stay-at-home mother for their two kids.
Susan’s husband was a successful psychiatrist in Boston. Susan was a paralegal for a fairly large law firm. They didn’t have any kids but assured Mom that they had plenty of room for her. When I asked if they had enough room for me, they started hemming and hawing. It was obvious that the invitation did not extend to me.
I knew there was an even bigger problem when my brother showed up right after Halloween. Mom was at work, and it was just George and me. “Jimmy, I’m worried about Mom.”
“Why, what’s going on?”
“Well, basically, it’s you. Susan and Ellen are worried about your health, your mental health.”
“George, come on, You KNOW I wouldn’t do anything to hurt Mom or anyone else. Is this coming from Susan’s husband? I know he’s a pretty rabid liberal. He's made his opinions very clear about the war in Iraq. I have the feeling that he isn’t a very big fan of the military in general either.”
George was sitting in Dads old recliner. He leaned forward and clasped his hands. “See, Jimmy, That’s the thing. We all know that you have changed. That the Marines and Iraq did something to you.”
This was beginning to irritate me. I had never been violent towards Mom, George, or anyone else. “Baloney, I’m the same person I was before, just older. Like you and the others, I’ve aged, gotten more mature.”
“See, that’s part of what I’m talking about, Jimmy. Used to be, you wouldn’t fly off the handle like this.”
I stared at George for a minute. Then I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “George, what in the hell are you talking about? I’m not ‘flying off the handle. Granted, what your saying is pissing me off, but it would make anybody mad.”
“Jimmy, if you’re going to be like this, I’ll have to leave.” George stood and started towards the door.
“Wait, George, Hang on a minute.” I stopped and took a deep breath. “What is it you want from me? How can I make things right by you?”
“The girls and I have talked about it. We think that it would be best, best for Mom and you if you moved out. Got a room or something in town.
Or maybe even a different city, Say Seattle or Olympia. Or even better,
Spokane. You could even consider San Francisco or LA. I’ll bet the VA resources are even better in those places.”
“Have you considered what mom feels about this? have you talked to her?
Does she want me to move out?”
“No, I haven’t talked to her about this. She's our mother, of course, she would want you to stay. But we have to remember that this is for her own good. And yours too.”
“C’mon, George, you know, and Mom knows that I’m not dangerous. But, for some reason, everybody else seems to think I’m a time bomb waiting to go off. I don’t know who is spreading these lies. But now you tell me that Ellen and Susan are afraid of me. I’m beginning to have the feeling that you are involved in all this. Is there any truth to that?”
“See, Jimmy, that’s the thing. It’s this paranoia that you have. Thinking that the neighbors, cops, and now, me, are after you. What possible reason would all those people, with no connection to each other, have against you?”
That night I had a hard time sleeping. It seemed that the only thing that would help calm me down was exercise. So early the next morning, around 2:30 AM, I got dressed in my workout gear and running shoes.
Getting through my warmup and stretches went as usual. Even the run was enjoyable. I was still a little tense, so I added an extra 15 minutes to my run. Things went south when I started my Tai Chi routine to cool down and get myself centered.
My mistake had been starting my forms in the front yard. I didn’t think about it that much at the time. I mean, it was just after 3:15 in the morning. The sun wasn’t even up. There couldn’t have been anybody up. I had gone through 3 forms when a spotlight lit me up. I had been in that nothing world that meditation was for. Concentrating on getting the forms exactly right, and was oblivious to the rest of the world.
A police car had come down the cul-de-sac without lights and rolling quiet. When they lit me up, I was startled out of my meditation and jumped. The police report said that I started to run. This gave Officer Strickland the excuse he needed to tackle me, hard.
There had been repeated contacts between Officer Strickland, Mr.
Stockdale, and myself. Hardly a day or two would go by when one or the other would be trying to make my life difficult. I had gotten a restraining order against Stockdale. But could not get the police department to rein in Strickland.
Usually, Strickland would cruise by the house and shine his spotlight on the windows. This would be at around 10:00 when Mom was trying to go to sleep. Or he would show up at the front door early in the morning with complaints that I had been seen window peeping. Fortunately, he couldn’t follow up on those reports because the unnamed reporting party refused to sign a complaint.
When Strickland took me down, it knocked the wind out of me and I was unable to resist. He had no trouble cuffing me. That didn’t stop him from getting a few punches in while he was at it.
The lights and noise must have woken Mom, and the rest of the neighbors, up. She came out onto the porch, demanding to know what was happening.
Strickland swore under his breath, “Nothing you need to concern yourself with, lady. Just some crazy wandering the streets.”
Once Strickland had me in the back of their car, He had cranked up the reds and blues. It seemed like this was a signal for all the neighbors to start coming out of the woodwork. Several of the older neighbor ladies came over and started comforting Mom. She was crying and asking what I had done. Nobody seemed to have an answer.
Strickland was pleased with himself and started questioning me from the front seat of the car. “So, War Hero, Whatcha doing out at this time of the night? We’ve got reports that you’ve been window peeping again?”
“Officer Strickland, we’ve been through this before. I live on a cul-de-sac. I have to pass by the Stockdale house coming and going. I have no interest in them or their property. All I want is to be left alone. You also know that I exercise at night when I can’t sleep.”