CJ (Chapters 1,2)

** Author's note: I've been pecking away at this piece for years now. It's up to 33 chapters, and I've almost got the ending down. I at least have it in my head where I want it to go. Please feel free to critique, criticize, and comment. All feedback is encouraged and welcome. I'll use said feedback to decide if I post the other chapters or not. Thanks for your time. Enjoy!**


CH 1

I believe that God has a sense of humor. Not to say that I think he’s a mean kid who tortures puppies or pulls wings off of bugs. Or not to say that he’s just a prankster who goes around throwing rain clouds over Birthday parties just to see the cake melt either. But he has a mysterious way of doing things; a subtle method of affecting what he wants with a surprising twist mixed in with his own brand of clever humor. I really do believe that. Let me tell you why.

I had never been this nervous in my life. I can’t believe this was happening to me. I was having difficulty holding the pencil for the sweat in my hands, pausing every few moments to wipe my hands on my jeans. I had to cross my legs and adjust my sketchpad to hide just exactly how nervous, and excited I was. Sitting across from me is the most beautiful person in the world, Sara Blake, sprawled out for me to trace. And she’s nervous too, which actually helps. If she were calm and comfortable with this it would only make me more nervous. She won’t quite look me in the eye, and she’s biting her lip & giggling; something she always does when she’s nervous. Even as nervous as I am, I can still read her. This was her idea anyways. Today, her parents are off somewhere and they’ve left two hormone-driven 15 year olds alone and Sara wants me to sketch her. She’s not quite brazen enough to go completely nude, she keeps her underwear on. And I still can hardly hide my excitement. Actually, if she had gone completely nude I might not be able to draw her at all. Last night Showtime had aired Titanic on their late night weekend movie slot and she wanted to sit up and watch it. I tried not to doze off. Now she thinks it would be romantic to have our own sketch scene. I love this woman. She’s laying across the love seat with her arm out over her head in a sexy, but almost awkward pose, not quite like the movie. And I’m not trying to brag, but I’m a hell of a lot more talented at sketching than DeCrap-io.

To be honest, I can hardly think of a time before Sara. She’d always been there. I don’t even remember exactly when we met. I do know what the catalyst was to her being so significant in my life: Dad. But that’s for another time. Most couples you ask, they’ll give you every detail of the exact day, time, and place they had met. But we were, what…8, 9? All I know is she was just there. We grew up two blocks down from one another. I was on East 31st Street, and she on Lincoln Street, in Savannah, the low country’s pride & joy. Our birthdays, like our houses, were right next to one another. She had me by almost a month with hers in August and mine in September. We were just kids, playing in the street and one day there she was. We talked at the school bus stop. We sat next to each other in classes. We played in the park together. We had practically everything in common. Well, except sports. Being a Georgian she favored the Braves, and I suppose I should too, but my roots claim to Boston. Sox all the way! No one’s perfect, but I loved her anyways. In the spring our parents would cook out at each other’s houses. In fact our parents met through us and became good friends. It was actually a good thing we’d met so early. If I’d met her after I’d crossed the line of adolescence, I wouldn’t have had the courage to talk to someone so lovely.

Her eyes were blue with specks of green, and very expressive. She could speak whole sentences without saying a word. There were a handful of freckles scattered on her tiny, cute little nose. I’d tease her about it sometimes because it was a soft spot for her, but in truth I loved her nose. Her chin was small, and rounded, not quite pointed. Smooth, dimpled cheeks with high cheekbones accented her expressions. Her entire face was just so captivating that I couldn’t help but stare at it. Her hair was a soft light blonde, almost gold. She wore it cut to just at her shoulders, and pulled back most of the time. Sara just had this way of making me feel like I was the only person alive, and nothing else mattered but her and I.

Sara wasn’t exactly spoiled. She didn’t act like the usual snotty, come-from-old-money teenage girl you’d usually find in Savannah. But she did come from old money. The Blakes weren’t rich, but they were well enough off. Sara was born a twin, and her sister, Kelly, had died after living only two days. She wasn’t sad about it because she’d never met her. But that loss took its toll on her parents and they lavished Sara, especially her mother. Sara was the center of their lives. Susan Blake, her mother, was your typical old society true blue-blood type complete with the southern accent of distinction and propriety. She was stunning, just like Sara. Randall Blake was a bit more down to earth. He was a consultant for an investment firm (Sara was good with numbers. I was dumb.) But he liked me, and I respected him. Randall didn’t like it when I called him “Sir.” He called me “Son”, but in a very casual fashion. Thankfully Sara got her mother’s good looks and her father’s personality. She was perfect.

It was almost an understatement to say that she was my first love. She was the love of my life. She was my life. With exception of summer vacations, there was not a day that went by where we weren’t in each other’s company since we were 10. By now, of course we’d had it all mapped out: We were going to go to UGA after graduating high school. I was going to major in Graphic Arts, while she was going to get her bachelors in accounting (Accounting! Are you serious?) Then we were going to get married and get a place in the Historic District. Then, of course, get memberships at the Yacht club in Thunderbolt, after we undoubtedly got a Yacht. Everyone knew that. That was just the way it was going to be.


I’m trying to be mature about this, but how mature can you be when someone this lovely is laying out for you in her underwear, and you’re a virgin. I’d have been ready if she wanted but she wasn’t ready to take that step yet. Or at least I like to think I would have been. She and I were kicking around possible names for our Yacht when we got one: More conversation spawned by “Titanic”. That, of course led to what exactly does the “S.S.” stand for on side of ships and should we incorporate that into the naming of our yet nonexistent boat. The conversation was helping with my nervousness, but not my excitement. That would take an hour-long cold shower at best, but it did keep me focused on the sketch. Despite my offer to, she did not want me to use my imagination and draw her nude. I included the underwear in my sketch. I was trying to recreate every curve as precisely as possible, making small talk, and just thanking God I was here, at this moment to enjoy this. The sun was coming through the window, illuminating her delicate skin and lighting her hair into an almost fire-like glow, when an oily shop rag hits me in the face…


CH 2

…”Hey Spence’ Wake up. They found it.” He said, hanging up the phone that had brought him this startling revelation.
I sat up with a start, pulled the rag off my face and looked up at Sergeant Tanner, my Squad Leader whom had interrupted my dream with an old rag that he was using to clean his rifle while I’d dozed off (Dick).
“Where?” I asked.
“Delta Company had it. Remember when Warren got taken out?”
I thought for a moment… ”Yeah? Oh yeah. I don’t suppose his Squad leader could have kept up with that and saved us this headache, could he?”
“Yeah, no shit. Dumbass.” he chuckled, “They’re even going to be nice enough to bring it over.”
“Great,” I stretched and yawned, “I’ll call Top and let him know. His blood pressure medication is probably out by now.”

I’m 21 now, Corporal Spencer. A Medic stationed at Savannah’s Hunter Army Airfield. I’d joined the Army to get away and start over again. But God, with his infinite wisdom and witty sense of humor saw fit to get me stationed right back at home. (Ha Ha. Waiting for THIS punch line). I was born Christian James Spencer to Dave & Leslie Spencer. My family and friends call me CJ. The Army calls me Spencer, but the guys are too lazy to pronounce the second syllable, so Spence’ it is. Mom is full-blooded Irish, with the same blonde hair and freckles I have. My older sister, Cassie has them too. Dad however was all kinds of Western European mutt: Dark hair, medium skin, athletic build, and always the quiet one. Mom’s the Senior Resident at Joseph Candler’s Orthopedics department. My parents met at Boston Medical Center where she used to live. He was a vendor for a major medical appliance company marketing there from Savannah. I guess one of the many ethnicities that make up Dad was something with charm & charisma. He convinced her to leave her job, parents, and home in West Boston to marry & move in with him in Savannah in only 6 months (Way to go Dad).

I’m in training now to take over the company’s arm’s room. SGT Tanner is supposed to be showing me the ropes. Our unit had just come back from training in the field, checked in the rifles, and one was missing – a major problem. Since Warren wasn’t here to say “Hey, mine’s the one missing” and since his squad leader had forgotten about him being taken out of the field early, no one noticed. When that happens, no one goes anywhere until it’s found. Lock-Down. The whole company was sitting around waiting or going through the vehicles for a couple hours, and a detail was being organized to go back to our little plot of land we left back at Ft. Stewart and look for it. Meanwhile Tanner and I sat in the arm’s room, counted, recounted, and recounted again.

It was now 10:00 PM, which wasn’t too late considering the Army. I called and told the Company First Sergeant, also known as “Top”, so he could stop bitching at us and get everyone out of here. He bitched at me some more for not keeping track of the missing rifle. We should have known that it was that rifle in particular that had gone astray. Then he called the Company into formation to give them the usual weekend safety gripes & bitches. I sat and waited in the arm’s room for Delta Company to bring the Prodigal Rifle home.

I glanced through bars and saw the last of the moonlight fading behind dark clouds and lost what little bit of enthusiasm I had left. It had been a long day, and it wasn’t over yet. The arm’s room was at the end of the hall. There was no window in the arm’s room itself. But with the door open I could see through the window at the end of the hall. The rest of the room, much like the rest of the inside of the building was bland, sterile white paint over cinder block walls. Florescent lighting mixed with the grey tile floor, I swear, was making me go blind. The 2-story brick structure was a fairly new and modern building, but by no means the pride of the Army. It was just plain and boring. The arm’s room was especially desolate in that it smelled of cleaning oil, (and tonight it also smelled of mud). The walls were lined with all manner of rifle, machine gun, pistol, grenade launcher, and whatever else Uncle Sam thought we needed to defend Democracy. No decorum at all. The doors were thick armor and barred. It just depressed me, but that was usually me anyways. At night it was especially demoralizing. I thought I heard a rumble in the clouds too. I kicked the chair I was just sleeping in and cussed.

While we were training in the field with one of the infantry units, one of our guys had gotten sick: Private First Class Warren. He was attached to Delta Company for the training, and they were kind enough to return him to Garrison for us. They were also kind enough to take his rifle into their custody. And since no one thought to ask for it back, they were once again, kind enough to turn it in at the end of their training. Well, while our weapon’s count came up light by one, theirs came up heavy by one. Thankfully they were, yet again, kind enough to do the backtracking and find out to whom, it belonged. They were, even still, kind enough to call us before they went home and not just simply “Worry about it Monday” like would normally have happened. Now, they were being ever so kind enough to bring it to us. But they weren’t in a hurry, and for that I was cussing them. Slow Bastards. The rest of the company had booked out to go home and get trashed on a long weekend, and here I sat over 45 minutes after everyone else left. It was just myself in the building when some half-dead tired Private showed up with the weapon. I logged it in, locked up, said good night. I stumbled out to my Jeep.

This thing was probably the ugliest thing on 4 wheels, a 1986 Jeep Cherokee. I had to endure a few jokes about it. I got it, though, because it was easy to work on, and it was cheap. My grandfather had showed me all about working on engines so I could do most of the up-keep myself. It was originally black, but right now you could pick out at least 4 different colors, not including the rust.

The parking lot was empty, and it looked like it was about to start raining. Thunder rumbled to the south. I hated the rain. It only added to the funk I was in. I needed a drink. I was going to hit the gas station on the way home and grab a 6-pack of Bass, finishing the evening off in front of the TV. Thankfully the on-post gas station stayed open 24 hours on weekends and sold beer. I hadn’t even started the Jeep when my phone went off. (Dammit). I looked at the display. “Coop”. My Platoon Sergeant: Staff Sergeant Cooper. Like mine, no one would pronounce his whole name. I guess I’ve got kind of a double standard there because I don’t call him Cooper, either.
I flipped it open and answered “Spencer.”
“Spence’, hey Man are you still on post?”
“Yeah, I just got outside. What’s up?”
“Hey Man, I need a favor”. He never called us “Man” unless he needed a favor, something you normally wouldn’t have to do. I heard noises in the background that sounded like a party or something. He would sometimes have the guys over for poker & beer on the weekends. I’m not all that social or out going, and had politely declined his first couple of invitations so he quit asking.
“What’s up?” I asked, again a little more exasperated this time.
“I just got a call from Top, the MP’s called.” (This should be fun). “They said there’s a ‘disturbance’ at Copeland’s place”. He stressed “Disturbance”.
“Okay…?” I knew what he wanted but I was hoping he wasn’t going to ask.
“Well… I’ve already left post, I was wondering if you’d go check it out for me since you’re still on post.” (Shit)

Copeland lived in on-post-housing so it was less than 10 minutes away from me, but about 20 minutes from Coop’s place. But I know it wasn’t the time issue he was concerned with. He didn’t want to leave his poker hand to answer his responsibilities. He was actually a good guy. I liked him. He looked after me. But there were times, like now that he’d shuck something off to be lazy.
I sighed, “Yeah, I know where he lives, I’ll go check it out.”
“Hey. Thanks, Man. I owe you.”
“No problem. I’ll let ya know what’s up when I get there.”
“Cool Man. Thanks.” He hung up.
I paused for a second, sighed again, and then cranked up the beast.

Copeland was the quiet one. The one you’d least expect to ever be the cause of a domestic “disturbance”. He was soft spoken, sheepish, but hard working. It was almost laughable, but I was in no laughing mood. I hated his wife, though. She was a bitch. I made my way out onto the road watching drops start to splatter on my windshield and dot the blacktop. Damn.

I wasn’t exactly pissed, but I wasn’t happy. Coop’ should be doing this himself. I had to take the ass chewing for someone else not keeping up with his subordinate’s rifle. I had to stay late and wait for it to show up. I had to lock up after everyone else was already 3 or 4 beers deep. Now I had to see why Copeland’s place needed attention. And now it was raining. Damn. I still had a lot of respect for Coop’, though, but Dammit just the same.

Last year, when we were deployed to Iraq, he was just my squad leader when I was a Private. There were times when her memory would hit me hard. Most of the time I could keep it to myself, but one night it just got too much for me. It was about dark and we were gearing up to go out with one of the infantry squads on another night-patrol. I had just broken down and started sobbing. My head was down on the hood of the Humvee buried in my arms when I heard someone walking up. I straightened up and tried to compose myself, but there was no hiding it – I was crying. At first I didn’t recognize who it was, just a stocky build silhouette.
“Hey Spence’ what’s going on?” Coop asked.
“Oh, uh, Nothing. I uhh, I just got some bad news from home in an email.” I was trying to wipe my face and nose, and trying to straighten out my voice.
“Yeah, uh-huh,” He said, “Listen. Shut it down and get your gear out of it.” He said pointing at the humvee.
“What?”
“You heard me. Shut the truck down and get your gear out. You’re not going out like that.”
I still looked at him in confusion, his words not setting in. I never was a sharp one.
“Look.” He said jabbing a finger at me, “I need you focused out there: Focused on the guys, focused on the mission, focused on what Haji’s up to. Right now you’re not focused. So shut up, shut it down and get your shit out.”
“Don’t you need another medic on this mission?” I asked as I reached in and killed the truck.
“I’ll take Taylor tonight. It’s supposed to be his night off, you can owe him one. Now take tonight and go rest, call home, or do whatever you need to do to sort out whatever it is that has you so distracted.” The way he enunciated “Whatever” told me two things: First, he knew I was lying to him about why I was soaking my sleeve in snot. And second, he didn’t mind that I was lying. He was going to respect my privacy, and he was still going to give me a night to deal with this by myself. After that, I respected him more than almost any man I’d known. Only my Grandfather held more esteem in my life.

I found and woke Taylor for the mission. He was cool about it, surprisingly. I’d even offered to give him 2 for one but he didn’t hold me to it. I just told him I was having a difficult time with something and asked if he’d do me this one solid favor. That night I just laid there in my bed and drifted off to sleep thinking about her, and also begging God to keep Coop & Taylor safe on the road. If something had happened while I was supposed to be there and Taylor got hurt instead of me… well, I wouldn’t deal with it very well. I didn’t have a good history with that. After that, I managed to deal with my own personal baggage in a much more professional manner.

I rounded the right turn to pull into Copeland’s neighborhood. The on-post housing for Hunter wasn’t too bad, for Army housing. They were mansions by no means, but decent modern brick duplexes with covered driveways, sidewalks, and at least half of a front lawn to mow. I pulled up to his place, and since his driveway had a car I was forced to park my heap on the street and get out in the rain.
Walking up the sidewalk to his door I saw a woman standing under the neighboring carport not 10 feet away. She was staring intently at Copeland’s unit, until I took her attention. She headed in my direction but stopped at the end of the cover and called out to me in the most horrendous country accent.
“They’ve been at that for over an hour now.” She said to me as though I should be concerned and do something about it – Or Else. She was wearing an Army PT shirt and faded cut-offs, but judging by her physique she was not in the Army. I’m guessing she borrowed her husband’s shirt to come out and be nosy. Meanwhile he stayed in where it was dry and drank a beer or watched the game or something that made more sense than staring at a house in the rain and bitching about it. To top it all off in one arm, there was a toddler resting on her hip, holding a bottle and staring at me in apathetic interest. In the other hand she held a lit Marlboro. Resting on the hood of her car was a pack of cigarettes and a cordless house phone. (Thanks). “This ain’t the first time, neither.” She kept nagging. “Keeps wakin’ Trevor, all the damned time.” I assume Trevor was the bored child who was also losing sleep to Mommy holding him outside in the rain and smoking in front of him. (Sorry buddy, but it only gets worse from here). I raised a hand to her to try and calm her down, but otherwise ignored her. I reached Copeland’s cover and walked around his Honda to knock on his door.

Mother of the Year was telling the truth, there was screaming inside and some knocking and pounding. But it sounded rather one-sided. I didn’t hear Copeland, just his wife Theresa. I wasn’t really worried about him; if he were dead I don’t imagine she’d still be yelling at him. I couldn’t quite make out what she was saying but it wasn’t sweet nothing’s to Copeland. She was pissed. I’d met her once before at a unit cookout and she struck me as kind of a spoiled snot. She was short, tiny, and plain looking, and had an attitude that was really showing tonight. I knocked on the door and interrupted her yelling, briefly. It was then that I heard Copeland’s voice, but it was faint. Almost muffled. Again, I couldn’t make it out.
“What!” She yelled at the door.
“Theresa, it’s me. Spence’. We met at the barbecue a couple months ago.” I said.
“What the Hell do you want?”
“I heard there was something going on, I was just checking on Copeland. Is he alright in there?” I asked, trying to be as polite as this night would let me – I don’t think I was succeeding.
“Did that Bitch next door call the MP’s again?” She yelled. I could also tell she was trashed.
“I’m not with the MP’s, I just wanna talk to Copeland.” I could still hear him yelling, and pounding on something, but I couldn’t make it out. Theresa said something, but I missed it. I was distracted by the ill-timed arrival of the MP’s (About damned time. Dunkin Donuts having a sale or something?) One of them was getting out of his car in a ridiculous yellow rain top and calling out to me. “Sir, I need you to step way from the door.” I was only too happy to do that. Let him deal with the devil. Army Mom, with snot-nosed in tow, approached the MP and again voiced her concerns, saying verbatim same thing she told me through a puff of blue smoke.
“I’m not the problem. Problem’s in there.” I interrupted her, throwing a thumb over at the door.
“Sir, Could you come over her and stand away from the house, please?” He said again in an even more condescending and annoying tone. I don’t know if I could stomach this much politeness.
“I’m with his chain of command, I got a call. Shouldn’t you guys have been here already?” I asked loudly, talking over the rain. But I was ignored. His partner got out of his side of the cruiser and was approaching me, dressed in the same goofy yellow slicker. He reached the dry cover of the carport and materialized a clipboard from beneath his top.
“What’s your name, sir?” He asked me slightly less polite. I looked at him stupidly. I was still in uniform and it was written on my shirt. I pointed at it.
“Sir, I need your full name.” He said defensively. I guess he couldn’t see the rank on my chest either. I saved him and myself time by giving him my I.D Card and turned my attention towards the door again. Theresa had emerged, pissed and drunk as expected. But now, with the front door open I could finally tell what was wrong with Copeland: She’d locked him in the hall closet. He was kicking the door and yelling “Let me out, Damn you! Let me out!” I could actually see, through the front door, that as he kicked the closet door, the corner bowed out at the bottom. As soon as Theresa had cleared the doorway, the MP let himself in and made a line for the offending closet, telling her to stay put. My MP put his clipboard down on the trunk of the Honda and went to keep and eye on Theresa (Smart move. I’d draw that Beretta if I were you.) I saw this as my opportunity to take my leave. I picked up my I.D Card, waved sarcastically to the Mom, snot-nosed, Theresa, and the other MP. His attention divided, he chose his battle quickly and said to me “I’m going to need to take your statement, Sir.”
“No problem, I’ll just go by the station tomorrow (My ass). I can’t stay. I have children waiting.” I lied. I was done with everything and everyone this night had for me.
“Okay, but go by the station tonight and complete the statement after you pick them up.”
“Yeah, sure thing.” I assured him. Whatever.

As I was making my way back to the Jeep I could hear the now liberated Copeland and Theresa bitching over the MP’s. Apparently she thought he was cheating. I knew for a fact he was, and I didn’t blame him. Anyways, my mission was complete. No one was hurt or bleeding and aside from the trauma of being locked in his closet, Copeland was going to be alright. I doubt the locking of one’s husband in the closet is a class-one felony, so I think she was going to be alright too. Once inside and out of the rain, I dialed Coop’s number.
“Hello?” He said, through the background noise. Definitely a Poker Party.
“Hey, it’s Spence’. I’m at Copeland’s place.”
“And?”
“He’s fine. No one is beating anyone.”
“Yeah? What’s going on over there?” He asked, but disinterestedly.
“She locked him in a damned closet.” I muttered, still wiping the rain from my face.
“She what?"
"Yeah. A closet."
"No Shit!” he laughed. “Why’d she do that?”
“I don’t know. She’s a bitch. Look, the MP’s are here. They’ve got everything under control, so I’m gonna head on home.”
“Hey, thanks again, Man. Hey, have Copeland call me.”
“He’s busy with the MP’s. Just call him later.” I said with a touch of sarcasm (Why the Hell couldn’t you have done that a couple hours ago?) I let it pass before I mouthed off.
“Alright. Hey, have a good weekend, Man. See ya Tuesday.” I said nothing and hung up, then tossed the phone in the passenger seat and pointed at it.
“You go off again and I’m tossing you out the window.” I said. I know, talking to inanimate objects isn’t healthy, but I was pissed. Like I said, I don’t deal with things well. Maybe I should try locking it in a closet. I started the Jeep and headed towards the on-post gas station. It was still raining like mad when I got there, but there was a cover to spare me. 6 Bass later, I was on my way home to finish off this miserable night.

I drove down a completely deserted Abercorn street, then onto Montgomery Crossroads. My apartment was only 20 minutes outside the gate, and priced decent enough for a bachelor in the Army to live comfortably. Magnolia Villa is actually pretty nice. It isn’t top-notch but it’s all about location. The units were in comfortable 2 story brick buildings with white trim. I had a patio, pool, laundry, and most of all, isolation. If Mom had her way about it, I’d have stayed at home. But there were so many reasons why that was not going to happen. I had to get away one way or the other. The neighbors were just the way I’d want them to be: respectful of privacy. A lot of them were also Army, stationed at the Airfield. But even with that bonding ground I was left alone. There was the occasional block party but it was never obscene or intrusive. No one’s radio or TV was too loud. No one’s dog marked my doorstep. I just came home, locked the door, and locked out the rest of the world. Once, Coop’ had come by to inform me of an upcoming field rotation. I was ignoring my phone, but in the military you have no secrets. He had my address so he came by. Otherwise I was left to myself, just the way I wanted.

Tonight, as I pulled into the space in front of my apartment there was no block party. Rain, I presumed, had kept them inside. However, typical of the low country the rain was already subsiding as I pulled in and got out. Figures. More of God’s jokes maybe? I went inside, kicked off the wet Wellco’s & uniform. I put the beer in the fridge while I showered. I put on a pair of boxers and a black UGA T-shirt my mother had given me – back when she thought I was still going there. Turner Network was showing a couple old Audrey Hepburn movies – It was a Marathon. So that and the beer was more than enough entertainment for the evening. Roman Holiday followed by Breakfast at Tiffany’s was as far as I made it. After I’d finished the last Bass and made my way to the bed. I noticed the blinking light on the answering machine. Only one.

“Hey CJ, it’s Mom. I remember you saying you were supposed to be out of the field today. I know that can change. Anyway if you are back I was hoping you would be free to come by for lunch tomorrow. Cassie’s going to bring Patrick, and she wanted you two to hang out and get to know one another. I thought it would be nice for all of us to spend the afternoon together. Just let me know, okay? I hope you’re not drinking too much. I love you.”

Mom always wanted me to come and spend time at the house, which I didn’t mind - in small doses. But it was always informal. This was different. I’m guessing Mom wanted me to spend time with Patrick too. I’d met him a couple of times; he was Cassie’s fiancé. He was a nice enough guy. He worked at the TV station where Cassie was interning. That’s where they met. She wanted to go into Journalism. My family has a diverse occupational background. Dad was in sales, Mom was a Doctor, I was (or would have been) a Graphic Designer, and Cassie wanted to make the news.

Anyways, I’m not sure what Patrick did, but I didn’t care. I didn’t dislike the guy but I had no strong like of him either. He was just dry as dirt and seemed snobbish. I just didn’t see why she liked him. Maybe it was the Irish name. Patrick Murray. He didn’t look Irish though. He was tall with dark hair, brown eyes, and a lean build. He did have money; maybe that was it. He drove a new Audi TT Coup. I thought it was gaudy.

Cassie was older than me by 2 years, and she’d always been the one to look after me. I wasn’t overly protective of her; she’d always been able to care for herself. But along the way she managed to take care of her little brother too. Growing up; aside from Sara I didn’t have a lot of friends. Before Sarah I can’t really think of any. Cassie kept me from getting picked on in school. She tried to help keep me out of trouble in school too, but I brought most of that on myself. Once Sara was in my life, they were good friends too. That was a big plus. But Cassie had always been the one person I could never say “No” to or disappoint. We’d bicker every now and then, but if she wanted anything from me she didn’t even have to ask. She’d just mention it and I did it.

Lately the favors have been revolving around her wedding planning. They wanted something on the beach, but had yet to decide which one. Of course, by “they” I mean “she”. But you knew that already, didn’t you? All the invitations, dinnerware colors, napkin textures, and every other detail that went into a wedding was way too involved as far as I was concerned. But again, I couldn’t disappoint her. And she seemed to value my opinion a lot, which I took as a sincere compliment. So there I was, looking through wedding magazines, catalogs, and websites until I wanted to vomit. To be fair, I was enjoying the time with her. I didn’t get as many opportunities to spend with her when she was going out with Patrick. But now that they were getting married, I got at least some time to spend with her before she got married.

As for the “Not drinking too much”, well Mom was a bit over protective. And after Sara, I got into some bad habits. I was a bit out of control in my late teens. I’m not proud of what all I did, but at the time I didn’t care. I did a little pot, and drank all the time. We Mick’s don’t have the healthiest ways of dealing with things, I guess. Oh Hell, I know I don’t. Mom had also insisted I do some time in therapy, but I found that insulting. What magic, special words is this stranger going to say to me while I sit on his couch that will make it all better? Three sessions and I gave him the finger and quit. Anyways, it was always Cassie that kept me grounded. If not for her, I don’t know where I would be.

Okay, to be honest I didn’t have much of a choice in the therapy, or my joining the Army. Mom had told me from the beginning that I was going to get into trouble. I’d go out, sometimes with the guys, sometimes not. But I’d come home and no matter how straight I walked and how little I talked – or not at all, she could tell I’d been drinking. I couldn’t hide it. Well, I won’t go into too many details, but I got pulled over in Mom’s BMW so I didn’t get many options: Under aged possession, under aged consumption, DUI: Yeah the family was thrilled. The judge gave me 2 choices: Jail or Army. Army green looked better than prison blues. It was just dumb luck that I wound up right back in Savannah, though: Or that sense of humor thing I mentioned earlier. Either way, here I was.

So I digress: If Cassie wanted me to have Corned Beef Hash with Patty, then that I would do. But I would bring along some liquid courage for the adventure. As for now, I had a good buzz and a bad headache. And it was bedtime. I’d call tomorrow. I hit the button to erase the message, which actually took three attempts. I was lit and tired enough that I couldn’t hit the damned button. During my fight with the elusive button I accidentally knocked over the small, framed picture of my grandfather and a younger me. I paused to pick and stand it back up, taking care not to destroy the rest of my desk in the process. I stumbled into the bedroom and plopped onto the bed without even pulling back the covers. I didn’t remember anything else.