So I was pretty surprised to hear that Master Sergeant Ruben Wright was dead. I thought the guy was invincible. But then I'd learned the specifics of how he'd died: His parachute harness had malfunctioned and he'd hit the State of Florida at around a hundred and twenty miles per hour. Wright was tough, but not that tough.
Both The 38th Parallel and Summer Love, the vegan joint, were closed till the New Year. I grabbed my mail and edited the pile into things to read and things to send to landfill. I was amazed at how much my box had accumulated in just a few days. Mostly, I'd been bombarded by leaflets from other fast-food joints in the vicinity eager to muscle in on Kim's territory while the guy's back was turned. There were a few love letters from the phone and electricity companies, as well as three Christmas cards. My popularity never ceased to amaze me.
I dropped the cards and bills on a table and went to the fridge. The shelves revealed that I was on an air, mold, and beer diet. I extracted a Bud and went back to the living room. The window on the answering machine was glowing with one call. I stabbed the play button and went into the bedroom to pack.
“Vin. Just calling to wish you Merry Christmas…”
It was Anna. A deep pit opened up inside.
“… But you ‘re not in… well, call you later.”
“Bah, humbug,” I said to the four pairs of socks as I pulled them from the top drawer and dropped them into my bag.
I gave the Bud another tilt and walked out of the bedroom. And then the phone rang. I changed course and answered it. “Hello?”
“Vin?”
Yeah, last time I looked. “Hello,” I said. The call had a hollow, faraway sound and it took a moment to register the voice.
“Hey, you're home. How you doing?” It was Anna again, only this time we were going live. “I called earlier,” she said.
“I know. Just got home ten minutes ago and switched on the machine. I see you've sent me a card — haven't had a chance to open it.” The envelope was pink. I picked it up off the table, turned it over, and tore off a corner.
“It's just a dumb card,” she said.
I wasn't sure what to say. I hadn't sent Anna anything, unless waves of disappointment dispatched through the ether counted for anything. I looked at the card. It was a cartoon of a man and a woman in bed. On the floor was a trail of red clothes, boots, and so on. One of Santa's large-breasted helpers was on top of the man, naked. The guy's wife was lying beside them and she was pissed, saying, “But I've been better than he has…!” Inside, the printed caption read, “Have a Merry Christmas — share it with a friend.” Beneath this was hand-written, “Have a Merry Christmas, Vin. Love, Anna.” There was a photo of Anna wearing red felt reindeer antlers blowing me a kiss.
“Nice,” I said. “You must have sent this almost the day you arrived back in Germany.”
“Yeah. You have no idea how hard it is finding a decent Christmas card in this country,” she said. “Where's mine?”
“Coming,” I said.
“Should I hold my breath?”
“Best not.”
“I thought so.”
One of our pauses followed.
“Hey, thanks for the card,” I said, breaking in on it. “I'll put it on the mantelpiece
“You don't have a mantelpiece.”
“Okay, then beside the toaster.”
“I just spoke to Arlen, Vin. He told me you were out at the Transamerica mess.”
“Yeah.”
“How was it?”
“A mess.”
“Do they know who or what or why?”
“If they do, they're not telling me.”
“Are you seeing anyone?” she said, jumping around like she was walking on hot beach sand. Was this the question she really wanted an answer to?
“Don't let's do this, Anna. I might get the wrong idea.”
“What idea is that?”
“The one you don't want me to get — that you might actually give a shit.”
“That's unfair, Vin.”
“Look, Anna, we're either together or we're not. And it seems to me we're not.”
“Can't we be—”
“I have to go,” I said.
“Vin, I—”
“Unless you're gonna say I'll see you at arrivals at Dulles tomorrow, save it. Thanks again for the card, and the calls.”
“Okay, Vin… I'll see you.” The line went dead.
Gee, that went well, I told myself. I sat on a chair and chugged down the rest of the Bud.
SIXTEEN
The temperature at the bus terminal at Panama City was barely sixty-five degrees — tropical compared with D.C. I changed into my Hawaiian shirt in the terminal's bathroom. I liked the pattern — a woman in a bright green grass skirt with long black hair and a flower lei that covered her ample bosom. She was smiling as she played a ukulele against a backdrop of yellow and orange hibiscuses. If I couldn't have a vacation, at least I could look like I was having one.
There were buses from Panama City to Hurlburt Field, but I'd had enough of buses. I took a cab.
The road from Panama City to Fort Walton Beach, my destination, more or less followed the curve of the Gulf of Mexico. Although they got a lot of sun down here, even in winter, today the clouds moving toward the beach from out over the Gulf were heavily pregnant, and any moment their waters threatened to break. I had the windows down anyway, the windblast ruffling the women on my Hawaiian shirt so that they danced the hula. I kept my eyes on the scenery, though it passed without me really taking it in.
The cab pulled off the highway into Hurlburt Field, which was the home of the Air Force Special Operations Command as well my old squadron, the CCTs — the Combat Air Controllers.
I paid the driver and got out, hoisting my bag off the backseat. A civilian security guy accompanied by a couple of armed airmen approached and motioned to see my credentials. I handed them over and they passed the black leather folder back and forth between them, examining the fine print while one of the airmen scowled at me and massaged the butt of his M16. Maybe it was my shirt that bothered them. The civilian guard eventually handed back my shield and waved me on.
I walked the block to the OSI building, the wheels on my suitcase squealing as I pulled it along.
Like a bedroom kept for a child long since grown to adulthood and departed, nothing had changed since I'd left here eight years ago. Hurlburt Field was no different from any other U.S. military base on the planet in that it was pretty much indistinguishable from all other U.S. bases. The buildings were the same, the uniforms the same, the attitude the same, and even many of the on-base street names were the same. U.S. bases reminded me of McDonald's or Burger King. You could go to just about any one on the globe and feel pretty much like you never left home. The only real difference was the people you shot at when you stepped outside the gates.
Hurlburt Field was part of the sprawling Eglin Air Force Base, the largest military base in the Western world, covering over seven hundred miles of swamp, hill, forest, and sea. It was so big, they live tested missiles here — fired ‘em off at one end and collected ‘em at the other. You could get lost here, and people did. You could also get killed here, like my old pal Ruben Wright.