October 7th, 1992.
Shops were already up and running once we made it down to a mud-ridden, wet-road Nyack. The streets were perpetually puddled, and the stench of fish and carcass lingered in the air for long periods of time. I was hoping that it would have been like Orange County where the air was clean and trees dominated the land, but no. It was quite the opposite. Everything was dull and gray, and it must've been that way due to the supply trucks coming in every few hours to unload crates of more fish and more carcass. Let me tell you: I never missed venison so badly, though I guess that smelly, smokey, greasy strip we called "Mercado Lane" was a step in the right direction.
Busy people meant busy streets, and busy streets meant that the dollar was, in one way or another, going around. That, I was grateful for. Finally, Captain Finer didn't have to be counting francs all the time, however we still had our ways to go. The opportunity to provide for myself was at my fingertips, and the cash I had in my pocket was at a fat, staggering ze-ro. There were flyers posted all over town—job enlistments for "HOR-integrated Postal Services".
Apparently, Congress established the postal service in Rockland County to serve as a hotline between the Fort Lee regiment and a congressional hub that the House of Representatives had in Montebello. Pope was appointed as Postmaster, and with the power she had over the postal service and the whole county, she moved dollar markets down south, even markets outside of the county. She was a big shot—I just had to know who she was. I wrote the address of her office in the journal—#48 South Broadway, Nyack. If you were looking for a job, you'd head down there.
Pope's office was located on the second floor of Nyack's postal service center. She was the county executive, so you couldn't just waltz up there and ask her for work. There was a queue that started from the arch of the building up to the head office's big, blocky door. I swear, that postal office might have squeezed every ounce of sweat right out of me for the room filled with the hot breaths of sapped applicants. We were all baking in there, even with the front doors wide open. I bumped into Everett. He was looking for a job, too.
"Good day, Baby." He appeared more kind and cordial than he did back at Big Indian. "Gosh, we haven't even settled down yet, and already, we're caught in a scramble. I take it you're not looking for a job along the streets, am I correct?" Everett was referring to the flyer I had in my hand. "Meh… you're better off here, really. There's a lot of good folks out there. A lot of bad ones too, and they're not even the guys to worry about. Here's a tip for you: when you see drunkards picking a fight with the lieutenant on the street, A: they're probably in the wrong, and B: the lieutenant's just as wasted as them. I suggest you walk away when that happens."
"Oh…" I didn't expect to hear such advice, but I took a mental note anyway. "Thank you," I told him. "What about you? Are you applying for a position in the postal office as well? After what you told me about drunkards and street fights, it sounds like you prefer it here rather than out there."
"Me? Oh, no." The cook showed me the lucky charm he wore around his neck which was a small, silver fork. The one used for fancy desserts and such, but even tinier. He jangled it around. "I'm yet to make my mark as a culinary specialist. Sure, the guys get their fill, but I'm still on a mission to wow them with what I can do. Just because people are hungry like stray dogs and can practically eat anything that moves and breathes doesn't mean that every meal we serve them has to be subpar. Like my mama used to say: 'it's all in the hands', and these hands are still learning."
"All in the hands… Do you have a specialty?"
"Well, I do, though I dare not make it while serving in the regiment. The guys might call me out for it."
"Why? What's the dish?"
"Chicken Basquaise," he answered me. "It's French."
"Oh."
"See? And besides, it requires a special type of chili that's cultivated in the commune of Espelette. It takes after the name of the place. The 'Espelette Chili'." His mouth watered just from talking about it. "I have a hunch that the Hexagon's cultivating the countryside with their local crops and herbs. If not, they're probably importing them beyond Hoboken, but what's the point, right? Do we dare step into French territory all for greens? I don't think so. Either way, I'm still happy to seek work in the market. Above all, I want to feed the hungry free of charge or not."
Again, I like to view myself as a kind individual, but when I got appointed as their ADC, I quickly grew apathetic toward things. I didn't really care about cooking, though Everett made it sound listenable. Kid meant well, and I did long for that small talk. It was fun with the captain. It was fun with the doctor. It was fun with everyone. I guess that's the duality of lacking those social capabilities. You enjoy the company you wouldn't think you'd want or need otherwise.
"Do we have a 'Baby' in the building?! Surname: 'Baby'!"
An armed militiaman screamed my name from the second floor. When I raised my head, I saw a woman much more petite than Dr. Agatha peeking over the balcony's railings, looking down at me with sealed lips and half-closed eyes. She drew her gaze at the head office then slowly back at me, telling me to meet her inside. I said goodbye to Everett, and with my head down, walked up the marble steps, the journal pressed dearly to my gut.
There was a hole in the ceiling, and because of it, moss and vine climbed into the interior, though it looked like they were having it maintained. The guard who called my name had an… Uzi? I don't know—some kind of machine gun. However, the guy next to him, strapped in the same knee pads and plate carriers as the other guards in that office, had a watering can hovering low to his shin, letting water sprinkle all over the wall, forming a small stream that swirled into the drains.
As I entered the office, I was relieved of that vile market stench. All the windows were opened, but for some reason, I couldn't smell the outside. It was all masked by the hanging plants that the woman had spinning from beams, showering dew onto my shoulders. She sat down at her desk, refusing to look me in the face as she stamped job applications rather aggressively, plopping them to the side afterwards. Like an idiot, I stood before her with my arms to my sides, waiting for her to break the silence, but as the minutes passed, nothing was said.
"Mitchell's errand girl," her voice cleared the dead air, "that's you, right?"
I responded with, "Aide-de-camp."
"Yeah. His errand girl." She stopped what she was doing and looked me up and down. She said to me, "Judging by the way you dress, you don't look like the type that's willing to partake in heavy labor. That means you're looking for a job in postal services. What else would you be here for, am I right? Tell me, 'Baby', you think Vergs is just going to allow you to work for me?" The woman raised her voice, "Answer."
"Uh… Yes?"
"Are you asking me or telling me?"
I stuttered a bit, "Telling. Telling you."
"Telling me? Then I don't think you know him enough." She stood from her desk and circled around it like a shark in the waters. "Did my name ever come up in conversation? Have you ever heard Mitchell utter something along the lines of 'Pope's a problem'? Highly likely, yes?" She raised her voice at me again, "Answer."
"Yes, ma'am."
"So, what makes you think it's okay that you come to me asking for work? Don't you think it's offensive to the general or are you just… you know… soupy in the brain?" I didn't like the way she kept her chin high while waiting for an answer to queries I thought were rhetorical. They sounded rhetorical, and it sounded like she was calling me stupid. I was insulted by it, but who was I to let her know that? "And before you ask, Vergs agreed to Everest working in the markets. You, however… I don't think he'll be letting you go anytime soon."
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I need to earn my keep."
"It looks like the regiment's doing you just fine. Didn't they write to you? Didn't they request your presence?"
"Well, you requested mine—"
"So that I can tell you straight to your face not to waste your time sweating in that line. I'm telling you that to help you—not to get on your nerves. If you choose to feel bad about it, then that's on you. Now, are we done here?"
I wanted to say "no", however I wasn't one for confrontation. "Yes, ma'am. Sorry for the inconvenience."
It was when I made my way to the door that she began to tone down a bit. The woman asked me to wait in the corner as she went back to her desk. "Don't be sorry." She then ripped a piece of paper from one of the rejected applications and asked me, "Your name in full?"
"Uh… Elisabeth Margaret P. Baby?"
"Are you asking me or telling me?"
"Oh… Elisabeth Margaret P. Baby."
"And what does the P stand for?"
"'Peletier'. On paper, my surname's hyphenated."
"So, it's 'Baby-Peletier'?" Pope scribbled my name on the paper with the finest nib I had ever seen. The sound it made as it etched letters into the top of the desk tickled my eardrums. "Do people call you 'Marge'?"
"No, but people call me 'Lisa'."
"Okay. Then don't be sorry, Lisa." She stamped the slip and signed it for me, leaving a blank line beside her signature, presumably to be signed by someone else. "A lot of people down here think that fighting for what they want is the right thing to do. It sounds good as an idea, but once people start applying it, they end up looking and sounding like jackasses. You don't look like a jackass. You don't seem soupy in the brain either. Everest was just as kind, and that's why I didn't hesitate with him. That, and Vergs knew he could be of use to the market."
I corrected her, "Everett?"
"I'm sorry?"
"His name is 'Everett', ma'am. The culinary specialist?"
"Oh, is it now? God, I've been calling him 'Everest' or nothing this entire time. He's too sweet a boy for not correcting me." Pope approached me and handed over the signed slip. "The process is a little different for regiment soldiers," she informed me. "I need you to have that signed by the general. If he does, then hoorah. If he doesn't, then there's nothing we can do about it. I've done all I can to get you a job. You gotta ask Big Papa now. Is that clear?"
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you for your time."
"You're welcome, Lisa. Now get out of my office. You're holding up the line."
You could say that it was tough-love with her. Even though she had much more of a bravado than any of the Pali' guys, if you were calm and respectful, she would stop breathing down your neck. I don't know why I was expecting Pope to be sweet and soft-spoken despite hearing, not only General Vergs, but Mr. Pie talking about her like she was some tyrant. Pushy, yes, she was. Tyrannical? Not so much.
* * *
I hitched a ride on a supply truck that drove up to Ackerman which was where General Vergs and Dr. Agatha resided for the meantime. It was a small, two-story home that had a square garden bearing crops such as peas, tomatoes, onions, carrots, you name it. That was the only place in the entire town that shined beautifully under the sun. It looked like a real home with real people.
#36 Ackerman Place.
Dr. Agatha was the one who met me on the doorstep. She took whatever I had on hand and welcomed me inside, asking me to take my shoes off before entering. There, I saw the general stressing at the dinner table, his eyes glued to a printed telegram as a whisky glass thawed in his hand.
"So, how was your stroll down Mercado Lane?" Dr. Agatha asked me. "Did you have fun?"
"Oh, yes."
I made myself feel comfortable and sat at the dinner table across the general, trying to sneak a peek at whatever he was reading. He seemed engrossed in it, though he was cordial enough to smile and wave before focusing his attention once again on the fine print. They only had three chairs at the table. Well, they only ever needed three. I suppose they didn't get a lot of visitors given that the servants quarters was left wide open, housing their clutter of files and boxes. The house itself wasn't fixed up either, and they knew that I was coming. They just weren't aware of the social graces that came with having guests. Or maybe the situation didn't call for any of that at all.
"It's nice to see the streets liven up a little," I said to the doctor. "I can't stand the quiet for too long."
"I know what you mean, Elisabeth. Actually, before you got here, I told Mitchell about how I prefer sleeping to the sounds of hagglers and vendors rather than no sound at all. Loud, busy markets are what constitutes a peaceful night nowadays. To us, it means everything's alright. As long as no one's screaming bloody murder, we should be fine." The doctor took a pan off the stove then scooped all of its contents into a casserole in the center of the table. "Anais," she yelled, "come downstairs. Lunch is ready." She then looked at me and said, "Heavy-sleeper, but she needs to get up soon or else she'll be late for work." She yelled once more, "Anais—"
The pitter-patters of whoever was upstairs shook the floorboards all around. Humorously, Dr. Agatha raised an eyebrow at me then crossed her arms, looking over at the steps as a faint shadow began swelling on the walls. A girl came rushing down the staircase, her hair all a mess. With a varmint rifle poorly strapped over her shoulder, she laced her boots and buttoned her black coat, freezing in place upon seeing me.
"I'm coming. Oh… You guys have a guest?" said the girl.
She looked to be in her early twenties and was yay high. I was running into a lot of short people that time, but that girl might have been the shortest of them all, standing at four-foot seven. My eyes deceived me. I thought I was looking at an armed child. I mean, she was adorable, like you could just put her in your pocket and take her wherever you go. Ever so slowly, she slid one foot after the other, inching her way to the dinner table, refusing to take her eyes off of me. Once she sat down and rested the rifle against the table, General Vergs lowered the telegram.
"Baby," he said. "This is Anais. She used to be a volunteer for Pope's militia, but now, she works for the butchers." He then told the girl, "Anais, this is Mrs. Baby. She's our new aide-de-camp."
"Hello," I cocked my head to the side and waved at her in a mild yet amicable manner.
"What's up?" was what I got as a response. Dr. Agatha nudged her on the shoulder and gave her a look. The girl fixed her posture then greeted me a second time. "Hello." After that, she slouched as low as she could and reached for a serving spoon. "You're Mrs. Baby? I'm sorry about your loss. I heard that Mr. Baby was a good man."
"Thank you. He really was." I asked her, "And what do you do around here? I guess it has something to do with that rifle over there. Do you hunt?"
"Small game," she said. "Critters, really. Rabbit, squirrel, duck, snake. You can find them loitering just beyond Mercado Lane. Before the people of Orange County moved down here, we hunted meat for can fire cookouts. Now that Mrs. Pope's developing a payroll system, anyone who's assigned a job in the market will start getting cuts soon."
"Pope," the general said in a sour tone. "Is that woman bothering you too, Baby? Have you met her yet?" He took a swig from his whisky and slouched like Anais. "Christ, I fear that this 'turf war' is never going to end."
The doctor tried to calm him down. "Mitchell—"
"No, Ely. I mean it."
I asked them, "A turf war?"
Dr. Agatha informed me that, "One of the reasons why our operations slowed down was because Pope and her militia launched attacks on the Hexagon during a ceasefire—"
"When we were still defending Edgewater by the way." The general interrupted her. "They're the reason why we lost that spot."
"Mitchell."
"What? It's true."
"Let me tell the story at least. Please?" She continued talking about General Vergs' feud with the county executive. "Okay. So maybe it is true that we lost Edgewater because of her, but I am onboard with her plan to expand dollar-dominant territory. Who isn't?" Jokingly, she covered the side of her face with one hand and pointed at the general with the other. "Anyway, it was only natural that Mitchell and Reggy—Pope's husband—fought about who should flee from Edgewater and who should defend it. Reggy was an on-the-sidelines kind of guy, and always backed up Pope's beliefs. He was like her ambassador whenever she wasn't around, and boy, was she never around. Mitchell wanted them gone. Sure, they were volunteers, but they were also just civilians."
"And to think that she wanted them to stay, to fight… to die," the general mumbled.
"Mitchell," Dr. Agatha started curling her lips at him in a playful way, but I could tell that she was mildly irritated.
"Sorry. Go on."
The doctor let out a deep sigh, "In short, they never saw eye-to-eye, and I'm afraid not even Reggy's death brought us any closer. We paid our respects, wrote to her. We even brought her gifts. To all that, she said 'thank you' then disappeared for a while. Out of the blue, we hear about her plans of reviving the dollar—"
"And I just want to step in before she causes any more trouble. Before we lose both Nyack and Fort Lee."
"Mhm, the end. I was done, actually," the doctor joked.
"Emily, listen—"
"I'm on your side, Papa. Don't worry so much." She was assisted by Anais in setting down plates on the table. I offered to help, but the three of them collectively insisted that I sit back and relax as if listening to their quarrel was something one could relax to. "I know you two have this… this 'thing' going on, but I don't understand why you get so heated every time someone brings her up."
"Look, I apologize." General Vergs surrendered to the doctor's reasoning. "She has her reasons—I know. It's just Edgewater, alright? That, I can't let go of. Look, maybe I should, but I can't. I'm not ready to."
"I know. I can't let go of that either."
General Vergs offered his seat to the doctor and took on the task of preparing the table. He rinsed his hands under the tap and proceeded to fetch each of us a glass of water. Everything they had in the kitchen only came in threes. There were three plates, three glasses, three tablecloths, and three pairs of spoons and forks. It looked as if the general and the doctor were going to share since I took the other plate.
"What brought you here by the way?" Dr. Agatha asked me.
"Oh, I was just going to ask you if there was anything that needed to be done for today." Her eyes were drawn to my fist as I crumpled the torn slip and stuffed it in my pocket. She grinned like she knew what was in the palm of my hand, and that worried me. "Nothing else, really."
"Really?"
I smiled back and nodded my head. "Mhm. Anyways, I think I should get going." It felt rude that the general and the doctor had to share one plate, so I stood from the table and pushed in my chair. "I was also planning on interviewing some Pali' guys as well as some market-goers to fill in the pages of Tommy's memoir. It seems like something he'd be doing in downtimes such as this."
"Ah, then we shouldn't keep you any longer." The general bid me farewell, "As you were, though you might want to wait for Anais to finish. The butchery is on the other end of Mercado Lane. If you're traveling a bit far, I suggest you wait for her. She can drive you around. Well… if that's alright with her."
Anais nodded in agreement.
"Elisabeth," Dr. Agatha slid her chair back and made her way over to me. "It's freezing outside. Don't you have a coat?"
"Uh, well—"
"Nonsense. Follow me, dear."
Dr. Agatha took my hand and guided me to the servants quarters where she scoured through old boxes of clutter. Her arms dove into one that was relatively fresh, sending dust and fibers into the stale air. She retrieved a leather parka and immediately dressed me in it, patting me down in the process. She was swift like a tomcat for I didn't notice that she swiped the paper from my pocket.
She asked me, "You sought for work, didn't you?"
"I'm sorry?"
"There's nothing wrong with that." The doctor unraveled the paper before me, telling me that, "You shouldn't be scared of him. The only people Mitchell despises in this world are Pope and actual despicable people. I don't think a sweetheart from Thunder Bay's gonna make that list even if she wishes to work with the mad queen. You gotta earn your keep as well." She straightened out the slip and placed it in her pocket. "I'll tell you what… Ride with Anais, interview the townsfolk, have a blast. I'll appeal to the general about this. You and I both know how hot and bothered he is about that woman, but it doesn't take long to persuade him. Is that okay with you?"
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you again. Thank you so much."
"You're always welcome. Now go, go, go."
When we exited the home, Anais and I halted before an old, rundown SUV which was parked on the driveway. Its rims were rusted up, and its windshield had an uneven spread of bird droppings all over. The poor thing had seen better days, and I knew it was beyond reliving them. It looked like it wasn't going to start at all, but the girl told me that it "runs better than it looks" before letting out a nervous titter followed by a long exhale.
Inside their garage was a humvee stripped of its wheels and had a car sheet hanging off the back end of it. While Anais grabbed a broom to chisel the gunk off the SUV's glass, I made my way over to the armored car and inspected it because the numbers on its driver-side fender caught my eye.
HMMWV-020
It was the very unit that Tommy drove on his missions. There was a voice recorder resting in the opened glove compartment. I saw it through the window. Maybe there was something in there that could have shed some light on his untimely demise, but there wasn't any time to focus on that. The SUV's metallic growl signified that it was time to officially start the day. I stepped away from the jeep and entered the crusty 4x4, blowing the blackest smoke onto the home as we rolled down the driveway.
* * *
If you were roaming down the street and happened to see us zip by, most likely, it would have looked like I was manning a right-hand-drive or that the car was driving itself. Anais knew what she was doing, though I bet she couldn't deny the fact that, no matter what it was, she would always feel the effects of her scale. On that steering wheel, her arms were a yard apart. Again, she looked like a kid-kid.
"So," I wanted to write something about her in the journal. She looked like someone who had a lot to say though chose to herself. Just like me. "How did you bump into Big Mama and Big Papa?"
"Hm? Oh, it all started in Edgewater. That's where all the big heads clashed and stuff, but Dr. Agatha was kind enough to approach us without being accompanied by anyone from the regiment." She scrunched her face and wagged her head when she told me, "I don't know what she saw in me that made her stick around so much. She would always come by with warm meals, then after that, she took me in to be their house cat. That's a good thing by the way. To hell with fishy gutters and wet sidewalks, but I just don't know why she was so kind and forgiving. Until now, I believe she was an angel that fell from the sky by accident."
She spoke so admirably about the doctor. I wanted to add my own poetic touch to the memoir as that was a recurring theme in some of Tommy's entries, though it seemed that she was doing the job for me with her vivid insight. "An 'angel' you say?"
"Yeah. I don't think someone like her deserves to be lingering in a place like this. Papa said the same thing."
"I see. It seems that the two of them have developed a bond with you."
"I guess so. They treat me like a baby, really. I wanna push away sometimes. They pamper me a bit too much, though I know I'm going to miss it once they stop acting all sweet and stuff. Not a lot of people have that kind of… I'd say… 'parental' support. Well, I had that before, but nuns don't really make the best mothers."
"Nuns," I muttered. "You're an orphan?"
"Yeah, but I lucked out with the two of them. Not every day do you find such kind people." She then told me, "Actually, I lied when I said I don't know why she's so kind and forgiving. I do. I asked her that question to her face, and do you know what she told me?"
"What did she tell you?"
"We had a heart-to-heart about how they saw me as their own. Mama told me that 'blood doesn't always run thicker than water', and that they can prove that idea if I just gave the word."
"Gave the word?"
She answered, "If I wanted them to stick around. I did."
"But do you know your last name?" I asked her.
"Casablanca," she responded. "Anais Casablanca."
Oct. 7, 1992
That home along Ackerman Place made me wonder if Hexagon soldiers still understand the concept of peace and humanity, or if they fight for even a fraction of it at all. Do they welcome guests and have modest meals on creaking dinner tables as well? Do they also drive battered family cars if not manning battleships and attack choppers? The things that General Vergs and Dr. Agatha showed me were signs of being human. That hesitant guard that froze in O-Peck showed signs of being human, too. We can fight until we fill all the holes in the ground, but at the end of the day, those troops donning enemy badges will touch, feel, and perceive just like us.
The guards aren't machines. They just pretend to be.
Tommy wrote a lot of things in his memoir about the regiment. I was able to get some of their names in full and what Tommy thought of them during his time in Pali'. "Gen. Mitchell Agustus Vergs," as stated in his entry, "is a dying flame of a man who has a heart of gold but a dangerous mentality that feeds his unhealthy selflessness.
Dr. Emily Agatha Betancourt is a poise woman that could make any man of any standing feel welcomed in a bubble which he didn't belong to, though at times, can be rather nosy.
Capt. Baron Noble Finer seems to be the glue holding them together when the little huntress isn't around."
CS Joshua Everett was referred to as a "young man with big yet achievable dreams", and I assumed that Anais was who he referred to as the "little huntress", which in another entry, Tommy stated was "sheltered by Mrs. Pope" and didn't necessarily "lack social graces".
Oddly enough, there was nothing in his journal about Lieutenant Miller, and I was left curious as to why. Out of all the people in the regiment, he seemed like the most interesting one to write about. All I knew about him at the time was that he had a hot head. Well, he also had a ring on his finger and eyes that had the tendency to just gaze west like he left something behind.
* * *
"Mercado Lane" wasn't just Nyack's new nickname. It was also the title given to Depew Avenue. The two strips across—Jackson and Burd—were used to house armored cars, supply trucks, and regiment soldiers while Main Street was used for convoys to form and store salvaged Hexagon artillery.
Pope tightened security and basically "herded" the people of Nyack away from the town's borders and designated civilian quarters beyond High Avenue in the hopes of boosting market activity. "Anything to make that damn dollar go 'round," she'd say.
North Midland Avenue was sealed off as Pope sent three-fourths of her labor forces to restore the Montefiore Hospital. Rest assured we knew where those taxes were going. I asked Anais to drop me off before #160 Burd Street where the Pali' guys shared a two-story home that was probably an inch-and-round bigger than the Vergs residence. Broken windows, dented screen doors, jammed ventilation systems. That eyesore of a home had "Pali' Recon" written all over it.
"Lord, have mercy."
The place was so vile that I had to perform the sign of the cross before placing my toes on the rotten steps. Hot, moist gales blew through the screen and dampened my neck and face. It smelled like dry spit. I pressed my hanky against the door with my pointer finger then slowly pushed it open, walking in on the guys snorting crack on a roundtable that had two call girls grinding on top of it. It appeared that they made the house their own private joint.
I heard the hums of Lieutenant Miller coming from the dark of the room. He sat on a stained sofa, a smoke in hand, scowling at the girls like he was going to lay a finger on them. Needless to say, he wasn't doing alright, and I thought that I knew him well enough to pull him out of that venal place. I felt a bit disappointed. That must've counted for something, right?
"Lieutenant—"
"Babes," he was kind of startled when I engaged him. "What are you doing here? I think it's best you head back to your ivory tower or wherever Pope has you cozied up in. This place ain't for little girls—"
"As brothels aren't for Nyack." The lieutenant saw the anger pouring down my face in the form of sweat. It made him laugh a bit. I asked him, "Does Captain Finer know about this? I'd like to know where he is."
"Don't bother with him. Let that boy snooze."
"With all due respect, sir, I will not 'let him snooze'. If Pope finds out about this, she might kick you out."
The lieutenant begged to differ. "I don't think so, Babes."
"What you think has no effect on what she'll do to you. And it's 'Baby'—not 'Babes'."
"Ease up, Babes." He blew his smoke at me then made his way to the roundtable, dipping his pinky in the crack then smearing it on his canines. "You're just like Big Mama. Very nosy and all that."
"Hey—"
"I'm being brutally honest. Sorry not sorry."
I asked him, "Hypothetically, I write a letter to Pope, ratting you out. What'll you do then?"
All he did was laugh in my face. "Like you have the gall to do that. Nyack needs Pali' more than Pali' needs them. I can spend two whole months in Big Indian and still find better grub there than in Mercado-fucking-Lane."
"So, you think you can manage?"
"Babes, I know I can manage."
"Very well." I readied the journal and flicked my pen, looking for a surface to write on, but every table and chair had some kind of stain on them. I nested the memoir in my hand instead and began writing where I stood. "Dear county executives," I uttered out loud. "I am writing to let you know that—"
"Hey, wait—"
"1Lt. Miller and various members of the Palisades Reconnaissance have been partaking in clandestine acts in their designated quarters, #160 Burd Street." I glanced at the lieutenant and saw the worry in his wide eyes. "The troops have in their possession a—"
"Baby, wait." He wised up a bit and reverted to calling me by my actual surname. "Well, I had no idea it was illegal, you know? Congress usually lets us do what we want in our own time, and believe me, we've been doing these things ever since. You know you can't exile a man for doing what he has been doing his entire life. It's like exiling him because of his culture, you feel me?"
"I'm afraid I don't 'feel you', and this is different, sir. I don't think Pope is that forgiving of a woman. If she knows about this, she won't cut any of you slack."
"You think I don't know that?" The lieutenant sat back down on the couch and asked me, "What brings you here anyway?"
I told him that, "You were never mentioned in Tommy's journal. I'm just doing him the favor. Filling in the blanks if you will."
"Doing him the favor? What, are you going to interview me or some shit?"
"I was hoping to."
He proceeded to mock me, "Hypothetically, what happens if I say 'no'?"
"Then I have everything I need to blackmail you."
He didn't expect me to answer. He thought I was too tame to bite back, but I was starting to get used to it all. I was getting used to him. "Shit," he fretted. "Well, where do you wish to conduct your tea-party conversation?"
"Wherever you please. Just not here."
"Okay, but I'll have you know that I'm…" He showed me his engagement ring.
"And you're here doing…?" I pointed at the girls on the table. They were rubbing themselves on each other like bars of soap.
"It was none of your business in the first place, Baby. I'm surprised you care so damn much about me." He reached into the cushions of the musty couch and retrieved his flask. "Anyways," he sipped from it, "we should probably get going. Pope's militiamen informed us that there's a French supply truck nearby, and it just so happened to stall when taking a detour. The guys radioed in minutes ago. They're still there."
"Still where?"
North Palisades Center Drive, Valley Cottage, N.Y.
They needed someone to do an inventory on the spoils that militiamen salvaged from enemy supply trucks. I volunteered since I wasn't able to conduct the interview with the lieutenant at all. It was like he was trying his best to avoid me. The man had me ride in a separate jeep and even ordered me to wait in my seat for a couple minutes before I could examine the trucks. When he gave the word, he rushed back into his jeep. I checked what they pilfered despite being mildly irritated by him.
The truck was packed. It was carrying two sacks of potatoes, two sacks of carrots, three bags of peas, a bag of peppers, a crate of ginger, four tins of coffee, two tins of chamomile tea, six bars of unbranded chocolate, three cans of meat spreads, a box of hardtacks, a box of plastic utensils, a money clip holding ₣1,250.00, a cigarette box, and a logbook. The other truck had the same things, just without the money clip which me and a few of the militiamen split. I pocketed ₣125.00 that day. Lucky me if we ever had to leave "dollar-dominant" territory.
I spoke to one of the armed guards. "It must've been quite the scuffle plundering their wares, though the longer we stay, the higher the chances we run into patrol forces. It's best we head back as soon as we can, don't you think?"
"Scuffle?" The militiaman told me that, "There was no scuffle. We just found the trucks parked out here for no apparent reason. The street was quiet long enough, and we figured we'd take what we can while the air's still cold and dead."
"Cold and dead? You just found them out here like this?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said. "Here," the man handed me the logbook and said to me, "You can hold onto that. Maybe you'll find something interesting in it."
I opened the logbook but there was nothing in it. It was relatively new, too. No peels, no scratches. When I looked back at the trucks, the Pali' guys tried to extract gas from them, but they looked to be empty. There weren't any keys, guns, or whatever left behind. Just the goods.
Lieutenant Miller decided to approach me, and with a long exhale, he said, "Fine. Let's get along with it," like he felt bad for shunning me aside moments prior, but my eagerness to hear about his story was replaced by a faint sense of dread. "Jesus. What's going on with you? You look like a ghost or however that saying goes."
Something didn't sit right with me. There were eyes piercing through the back of my head, and whispers brushing the lobes of my ears in the form of a west wind. It wasn't safe out there.
"There was no scuffle," I informed him.
"What?"
"Pope's men just found the trucks out here, and they've been lying around for a suspiciously long time."
He asked me, "What, you think it's a…?"
I nodded my head. How could it not have been? Those French guards were very keen about their provisions. Ours, too. They wouldn't just leave a truck in good condition out in the open with perishables up for grabs. They were there for a reason, and that reason was "natural selection".
Fools, we all were.
"Shit… Okay." Lieutenant Miller grabbed me by the arm and brought me to his armored car. While he was strapping me in, he asked me, "Do you have your gun on you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good." He looked at the trucks one more time. "Baby, how sure are you about this?"
"I don't really know, sir, but my gut tells me it's a bit too quiet."
"Damn. Mine tells me the same thing." He too readied his pistol. "I knew finding supply trucks in the middle of the road was too good to be fucking true. I was under the impression that those guys took care of some business, then again, we're talking 'bout Pope's flying monkeys. I'm not sure if you've heard her use the term 'soupy in the brain' before, but she never applies that to her men chiefly because she's too ashamed to point that shit out. In short, fuck us, Baby. Fuck. Us."
"What do we do, sir?"
"Stay here. I'll have a chat with the kindergarten drop-outs."
The second jeep—the one I rode to the spot—was already halfway full of sacks and crates. Pali' guys were really testing that car's poor shocks which looked like they were bound to give at any moment. I heard the lieutenant's faint voice through the glass, telling the Nyack guards to keep their eyes peeled and that we were being watched. Moments later, the clouds stopped rolling, the grass stopped swaying, and that west wind halted into still air. The static sucked on my ears and made my head feel like it was going to burst. I couldn't endure the pressure.
Desperately, I hyperventilated to get that air back into my system. If I didn't, I would have fainted then and there. To make things worse, there was a shimmer that came from the tall trees. It looked like a shooting star falling into the forest or the moon setting during the daytime. As bright and as crystal-clear as it was, it was nothing short of an enemy sniper.
Eye in the sky.
Bang!
It was the creek all over again—me in the car and the Pali' guys out in the open. This time, however, the French weren't aiming for the bait. They were aiming for me. With one shot to the windshield, a shower of glass rained down on me and grazed my skin. I remember it burning like fire. Glass particles fine as dust stuck to me similarly to the way glitter would. It wasn't something I could just rub off.
"Oh, God!" I cried my heart out. "Make it stop! Make it stop!"
There was nothing that my whistle-pitched cries could do for me. Like the yellowbelly I was, I kicked and screamed in my seat, dropping my pistol and forgetting where I was. I was in a manic state that not even the volley fires of militiamen could snap me out of.
Bang!
A second sniper shot had an armed guard's head blown into smithereens. I couldn't believe what I witnessed. Those Hexagon troops sure were ruthless. As a bloody mist filled the air, I unclasped my seatbelt and ducked for cover. I curled up into a ball underneath the dash and decided to just wait it out, but the attack lasted way longer than I had hoped. Again, a barrage of forestbound bullets battered the driver's side door of the humvee. Who was I to them that they wanted me dead so bad?
They had Pali' guys firing at them from the banked road. They should've shot back at them, right? Anyway, the rounds which embedded themselves into the seat cushions were hot enough to ignite the cotton and leather. Flares were spinning in the cockpit, stinging my sliced skin and puncturing my poisoned lungs. I was suffocating in a cloud made from ash and glass. Thankfully, the lieutenant was there to pull me out of that deadly rut. Once the ceasefire took place, he came running across the street to check on me.
He yelled, "Baby?! Baby, respond!"
Every crease in my hands channeled blood. They dripped down my fingertips and stained the leg space where I cowered. The passenger door, as soon as Lieutenant Miller whipped it open, flung off its hinges after absorbing a shotgun blast. Strays ricocheted off of the panel and across the street, grazing our friendlies in the process. The lieutenant dragged my bruised body out of the battered car and rested me against its back tire.
"Shit," he fretted. "You're hurt. Are you hurting bad?"
I felt my wounds seizing up. "Pretty bad."
The heat died down once Pope's militiamen advanced to the edge of the strip where they ratted French guards out of the woods for the Pali' guys to finish off. Lieutenant Miller and I emptied our guns while seeking cover behind the humvee which, sadly, didn't survive the ambush. You should've seen the driver's side of it. It was mangled beyond repair.
We still heard Hexagon soldiers rustling in the bushes, but those sounds quickly faltered, and the flocks of birds which shot up from distant forest patches meant that the French were moving in the opposite direction. That was too close a call, I'll tell you. Way too close, but the west wind came howling once again when things got quiet. This time, it was a peaceful kind of quiet.
"Shit. You called it, Baby. You fucking called it," he sounded irritated. The lieutenant dusted the glass from my shoulders and asked me, "Can you walk?"
"Yes… I can manage—"
"Then get your ass up, why don't ya?" He continued to mumble under his breath while wiping down his pistol, "Stupid diary. Stupid memoir. You wanted to tag along so badly, huh?"
"Hey."
"What?"
"You know I can hear you."
"Yeah? Well, my apologies, lady. I didn't know that we can only either speak to the room or not speak at all. Fucking wow, man." He pointed at Pope's guards and said to me, "Is every motherfucker in this sorry-ass town a man with a brain the size of ant bums?" He then asked the volunteers who were just as stunned as me, "What? Don't you pickle-kissers know what a fucking bait looks like?! I can spot shit like that a mile away. The only reason why I didn't know was because you guys made it look like you had things under con-fucking-trol! I must be a dumbass for thinking that shit in the first place! My God!"
I didn't like hearing him cuss any longer, so I told him straight, "Enough with that."
"With what?"
"The f-word. You don't need to say that all the time."
"I'm sorry. Is this preschool? Are we running some kind of daycare here? The French are baiting the streets, Baby. If we got cavemen for patrol, might as well deem us F-U-C-K'ed. We're ass-deep in a trail of shit these cheese-eaters are intentionally leaving behind, and we've got guys eating it up. That's the short of it." He tried lighting a smoke, though every stick he pulled was drenched at the tip, either from sweat or from blood. "You wanted to tag along so bad? This is what you get."
"I'm sorry. I was here to do an inventory. I wasn't here to fight—"
"But when a fight breaks out, you don't do inventory. You fight. Did you do that? Huh? Did you fight? Did you stand your ground like the rest? Did you raise your gun like you were supposed to? Did you, like me every God-given time, cover your friendlies?" His last back-handed question actually hurt a bit. "Did you do anything of importance just now? Was there a task that you have accomplished, coming up here all sunshine and rainbows?" He had a point, kind of. "Baby, answer me."
He made me feel like there was no point in fulfilling Tommy's memoir. That there was no point in finishing it. To him, there was no time for the little things, and no time must be made for them whatsoever. The man was radical like that.
I answered him, "No, sir."
"At least you know. Next time, when you ride along, do something for once."
"Excuse me, mister, it was you who suggested North Palisades. I was just here to conduct an interview with you. You said it yourself that even you didn't know there was something going on. If anything, I was the reason why we didn't get torn to shreds, skinned alive, or whatever the French do to people like us." It kind of felt nice answering back at the lieutenant. I never did that to anyone before. "I am the reason why your guard was up. I get hunches, and my hunches are always correct, so don't you tell me that I did nothing. For that warning I gave you earlier, you owe me a fraction of your gratitude because none of you saw that coming except for me."
If anything was scarier than his enraged state, it was when he'd straighten his back and rid his face of any emotion. I couldn't decipher if he was going to just tell me off or strike me like he wanted to with those girls back at Burd Street.
"Smug attitudes—I don't let slide, Babes. You're forgetting who's in charge."
"And you're forgetting that I can do things, too."
"You forget to do them. You forget to apply yourself." He stared me down with eyes sharper than the glass on my skin. "Get in the car, Baby. That's an order."
"But it's busted—"
"The other car!"
I didn't need to do a thing to get that man to reach his boiling-point. I was amongst a crowd of, like he said, "men with brains the size of ant bums", and still, he chose to call me out for something I didn't do. He was right. I didn't do anything… because everything that was done on that road was done with a sense of obtuseness.
Initially, I wasn't mad about Pope's guards being lured to the bait. It was only when I took the blame that their foolishness really grinded my gears. I knew it was bait, and I wasn't seasoned like the others. I also wasn't obtuse, but that's all I have to say about that.
A sack of potatoes, a sack of carrots, some ginger, some chocolate, and some meat spreads were all we got from the trip. They threw in a coffee tin as well, but I was quick to swipe it from the plunder. I cradled that can the entire ride home while Lieutenant Miller towed the other humvee. He said he didn't want to leave it out there and that it could still be fixed by "buffing out a few scratches", those scratches being inch-deep bullet holes into the car's chassis and engine.
Because we were towing the other car, our ride home was a lot slower. That meant that the lieutenant had no escape from my eagerness to know more about him. He could sense that I was preparing to interview him just from watching me reach into my pocket.
"Christ, Baby. Not now."
"What? I wasn't even doing anything."
"C'mon." He pointed at my hands and said, "I know what kind of reach that is. That's the let-me-write-something-down reach. Let's be real, what else are you gonna be writing about?"
"The bait? The ambush?" I pressed the journal onto the dash and readied my pen. "People are gonna wanna hear about this. We can't just go back into town with a broken jeep and leave people wondering."
"Word of mouth," he replied. "We tell it to 'em straight."
"And it's better to have a written form of whatever that statement is going to be. No 'um's', no stutters."
"You know what?" He gave me that fake smile again. "You do you. I can spend the rest of my time on this big, green earth arguing with people like you, or I can just be quiet and save my blessed breath. I think I'll save my breath, thank you very much."
"And thank you." I set the nib of my pen under my previous entry and said, "So… Your name in full?"
"Shit," he smiled a bit while saying that. "You are something else, Babes."
"I know everyone else's names. I don't know yours."
"If I give you my name, will you lay off?"
I crossed my heart and responded with, "I promise."
"You promise?"
"Mhm."
He let the shell of our car hum for a few seconds before answering me. "1Lt. Trevor Miller, but you can only ever call me 'lieutenant' or 'sir'. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very good." He then told me that, "If you get close with the CS, you can call him 'Boy', and if you get close with the captain, 'Cap'. There. I gave you two more unneeded answers to your question. Now please, zip it."
"I just have one more."
"Christ… Okay, let's hear it."
"How was life before all this?"
"Pass," he said.
"Well… did you break any hearts serving in the regiment?"
"Pass."
"What about that ring on your finger?"
He squinted his eyes. "My God. Mega-pass."
"And what about O-Peck? Is there a reason as to why you despise that place so much?"
"I don't despise the place. Also, it's 'Overpeck'. Not 'O-Peck'," he corrected me. "O-Peck's the squad that operates inside Overpeck, and those are the guys I fucking hate. You're getting the names all jumbled up. That's the first thing. Secondly, it's none of your business what I despise and do not despise."
"Well, I need to know something about you."
"I love football and I hate vegans. I love beer and I skip church. I like cars and I love women. I've got a thing for Asians and I hate blondes. Is that enough for your upcoming bestseller?"
"It'll suffice, I guess."
Oct. 7, 1992
1Lt. Trevor Miller, although loud and crass, follows orders to a tee when told to do so. Despite his rude, aggressive, sarcastic, and obnoxious demeanor, the man seems like the right company when confronted with a life-or-death situation, and I have been in enough life-or-death situations with him to know that's a fact. He's a soldier who keeps his code on a line fed yards away, reeling it in whenever duty calls like it's some mantle he could wear and strip as he pleases. He's a loyal troop to the regiment, troubled by the temptations of vice and lust.
He is a walking contradiction.