Now, a Special Announcment

On Twitter I promised some exciting personal news and here it is! On January 23, I submitted what I hope (fingers crossed) to be the first of three entries into the 9th Annual Short Story Challenge, a battle of creative skill organized by NYC Midnight. The challenge consists of three rounds, where entrants are placed in heats and the top writers from each heat are selected to move on. This first round was amazingly taxing for me from a creativity stand point: Not only are all entrants required to keep their story to under 2,500 words, but they are also assigned the genre they must write in along with a setting and character that must somehow drive the narrative.

I was “hoping” for something that would be *ahem* more aligned with my interests; H.P. Lovecraft, Stephen King, Erich von Däniken, Dr. Seuss (What? Ever read Bartholomew and the Oobleck! That’s the stuff of nightmares!). However, I was assigned to Heat 41 with the genre of drama, the setting of a doctor’s appointment, and the character of a homeless war veteran.

So much for THAT voodoo spell.

I was also, honestly, a little taken aback by the assigned narrative drivers; too easy, Drill Sergeant?!? I realized however that the obvious route (homeless veteran going to the VA for treatments of some kind) was also the most overused route, so I tried my best to flip the cliché narrative on its head, though it may at first glance not look that way. And I did it all on my own! As Pedro Cerrano said in Major League, “Cerrano want to bat.” No wait, he did say that but I meant his other famous line, “Look, I go to you. I stick up for you. You no help me now. I say ‘F@#k you Jobu’, I do it myself.”

So, the piece is off and now I will wait for a response. Yup, just going to wait to hear back, which won’t be until March 10. Just sitting here waiting for days and days. Weeks really; a little more than 6 if you count from the date I submitted it. Yup, six plus agonizingly long, long, long weeks… *Sigh*

Anyway, for your reading pleasure and comments (be nice), here is my piece entitled “26.2.”

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“Gordon? Gordon.” Nothing. Raising his voice, Dr. Gonzalez leaned forward and spoke. “PRIVATE GORDON!”

Gordon Lundy, a Private First Class who had been discharged 8 months ago for medical reasons (or “some quack’s bullshit evaluation” as he put it), finally snapped his head up. He had been staring off into space with a pensive, angry expression on his face and the outside edge of his left hand’s thumbnail between his teeth. Now he was sitting upright, looking more annoyed than usual.

Dr. Gonzalez was used to Gordon’s surliness and resistance to therapy, but this was different. “I asked you a question, Gordon. I know this isn’t your favorite place to be, but normally you’re at least courteous enough to respond.”

“Fuck you, Doc.” Gordon snapped as he drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair with an anxious rhythm. Dr. Gonzalez leaned back and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He wanted to be careful here; this may finally be an opportunity to get Gordon to talk, but he wanted the Private to know his attitude was out of line. Standing, Dr. Gonzalez circled behind his chair and laid his arms across the headrest. “Look, Gordon,” he sighed, “I think I know you well enough to see something’s off.”

“You guys seem to think there’s something always off with me,” Gordon shot back.

“You know that’s not what I am saying,” replied Dr. Gonzalez. “Something’s eating at you, Private. Why else would you say, well, ‘Fuck you’ to your doctor and technically a superior officer.” Gordon suppressed a smirk. “Because you’re a dick,” he thought. But Dr. Gonzalez was partially right. Something was eating at him. Normally he didn’t give a fuck what people said to him, but this time it was different. “I’m sorry, Doc. You’re right, there is something.”

“Finally,” Dr. Gonzalez thought as he indicated to Gordon to continue.

“It’s just… It’s just that fucking ‘Mr.-solve-all-your-problems-with-the-sunshine-coming-out-of-my-ass’ cripple. You know, the black ‘Nam vet in the wheelchair with the perpetual shit-eating grin on his face.”

“Or not,” thought the good doctor. “Do you mean Herb?”

“Yeah! He’s been dogging me since I started. He’s out in the common area with the other vets, giving them all ‘the hard truth’ as he calls it, but it’s just a bug fuck, man.” Dr. Gonzalez pursed his lips together and replied, “What do you mean?”

Gordon shifted in his chair. “Look, a few weeks after I started these sessions I got into it with him.”

“Over what?”

“Just… his attitude; how he gets involved in everyone’s business. How he thinks he understands you and can tell you what to do with your life.”

“I can see where this is going. It pissed you off, right?”

“Fuck yeah it did! It’s bad enough I got to sit here because you, my wife, my commander, and that fucking prick back in Afghanistan think I’m stressed. ‘Got the thousand-yard stare.’ Well that’s bullshit and the last thing I need is a sand bagger who can’t get his own shit together telling me what I should do!”

Gordon was getting more and more visibly upset. “The first day I came in for a session, he introduced himself to me. He asked me about being in the sand box, what civi life was like—stuff like that. I was polite. I obliged. But he acted like that five-minute conversation gave him some fucking magical insight into my soul.”

Gordon briefly went back to chewing his thumbnail. Then he continued, “In my head I was like, ‘OK, Pops, whatever,’ but then he approached me about it again before the next appointment. And again. And again—each time wondering why I wasn’t taking his advice. I mean, seriously? He doesn’t have a pot to piss in, has stubs for legs, but thinks he’s got it so good that I should be following his advice. So, I said something.”

“You said something,” Dr. Gonzalez parroted.

“Yeah, I told him I didn’t want to hear his shit. I don’t have any issues: I’m alive, I’m walking on my own two feet, I have a job and home, and I’m moving forward with life. Someone like you… I told him someone like you has no business talking to someone like me about making my life better.

“That’s when he looked at me and said, ‘I know you; you’re a track star. A marathon man, am I right? Yeah. Yeah, I’m right.’ I was like, ‘Whatever, dumbass,’ but he just sat there staring at me and nodding. That’s when he started talking about me to the others like I wasn’t there, and would wonder aloud what my personal best was. Just talking shit that didn’t make sense. Then about five weeks ago it all came to a head.”

That’s when Gordon began to tell Dr. Gonzalez the story of his last encounter with Herb. That day Gordon had been in more of a mood than usual: his wife’s nagging had gotten to him and he was thinking it might be time to split. He had a good job, worked hard, never hit her, never drank, never got high; he couldn’t understand what the fuck more anyone could want of him? Yet people still had “concerns” and the constant badgering had him thinking a clean break from everyone was exactly what he needed. He had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he hadn’t realized Herb was addressing him directly.

“You hear me, track star?” Herb asked, with that same shit-eating grin on his face, “or are you thinking about how you’re ‘moving forward.’” He wheeled in closer, cocked his head to one side, and nodded. “Tell me marathon man, what mile marker do you get to before you hit the wall?”

Gordon narrowed his eyes at the old vet. “What are you talking about?”

Herb smiled, “I’m thinking 21.5, maybe 22. You’re getting closer to that line; too close. Good thing I’m here to make sure you never make it!” Gordon sidestepped Herb and made for the corridor with the vending machines. He called back over his shoulder, “Listen man, I told you before there ain’t nothing wrong with me, but there sure as hell is something wrong with you! Crazy fucker gets his legs blown off, lives in filth, and talks shit that don’t make sense—you’re the asshole who needs his head checked, not me.”

Muttering epithets under his breath, Gordon entered the hall and dropped change into the soda machine. But he stopped when he realized he wasn’t alone; the old man had wheeled himself in. “Conversation’s over, Herb,” he said flatly.

“No it ain’t boy.”

“Look, I don’t know who the fuck you think you are…” Gordon was cut short as the Vietnam vet reached up with surprising speed and grabbed the Private’s collar, pulling him up to eye level. “I’m the man you could be, got that? The man I want you to be.”

“A homeless cripple? Thanks but no thanks, pal.”

Herb tightened his grip to make sure he had the younger man’s attention. “I know what you think you see, but it’s wrong. But I get you, marathon man, and I’m just going to be still and pray for the day your legs are gone.”

Gordon broke free of Herb’s grasp and barked back, “What the fuck is wrong with you!” Herb just shook his head and started to wheel himself away. “Hey, where the fuck are you going, huh?” Gordon cried out. “Going to threaten me then just roll away?”

At that point, Gordon paused the story and slumped back in his chair. “So, it bothered you that he called you track star?” Dr. Gonzales asked. “No. That’s the fucking dumbest comeback ever.” Gordon sat with a look of exasperation on his face as he rubbed his forehead. “Normally…” he started, “normally I don’t give a shit what any of you think. But this guy… What he said bugs the hell out of me. I just want to know what’s with that threat; what does he fucking mean?”

“Maybe ask him?” Dr. Gonzalez proposed.

“I wanted to, but that bastard hasn’t been in for five weeks now. I even checked out front, but no one has seen him. That chubby guy, Frank, told me where he hangs out, though.”

Dr. Gonzalez nodded. “Are you going to find him?”

“Yeah,” Gordon half laughed, “I already did. I went out there the first chance I got.”

“And?”

Gordon stood up from his own chair and walked to the window. For a third time, he worked the edge of his thumbnail with his teeth. Then he dropped his hands to his sides and explained what he found at Herb’s “place.” He had gone after work to a rough area of the city and found the abandoned lot Frank had mentioned. Gordon checked the area that seemed like a designated living space but didn’t see any sign of Herb. What he did see were a few clothes, scraps of paper, and food supplies that had been either scavenged by other bums or animals. The site had been abandoned.

That’s when a beam from a powerful flashlight caught Gordon full in the face. “Hold it, son. What are you doing here?” Gordon squinted at the light, his mind mulling over who the source of the voice could be and what his escape options were.

“Just looking for someone, man. Didn’t mean to trespass or anything.”

The voice stepped forward, lowering the flashlight. “Are you Private Lundy?” It was a tall black man, maybe a few years older than Gordon’s own father, dressed in a suit and tie. “I sure as hell hope so because I’ve just about had enough coming out here every night.” He smiled a very familiar, shit-eating grin.

“That’s me, and you?”

“Colin Austin. My father is… was Herbert Austin. Or, as you probably know him better, the crazy cripple from the VA.”

Gordon winced with guilt and tried to stammer an apology, but Colin just raised his hand. “Relax, Mr. Lundy, and don’t worry about it. My Dad could be difficult to deal with, as I know the ‘marathon man’ must know.” He smiled broader, “Besides, he really liked your spunk. And since I really liked his spunk, I’ve spent the last few nights out here hoping you’d stop by so I could deliver this to you.”

Colin handed Gordon a slip of paper. It was an apology from Herb about their last encounter. It closed with the phrase, “Ever waiting for your legs to leave you, Herbert.” Gordon reread the note top to bottom a second time and then a third. “He died then?”

“Yeah we just had the service yesterday. Kept it private; just family and very close friends. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

After a pause Gordon asked, “How much… did your father tell you about me?”

Colin replied with a laugh, “Pretty much everything.”

“Then do you know what all this is about? The whole track star bullshit? I mean all his comments? And about the…?” Gordon made a motion like he was chopping at his legs.

Colin sighed, “That’s the other reason I’m here. Dad liked to use metaphors; he figured you’d have questions.

“Dad—Herb—always said he lived the first half of his life as a long distance runner, both literally and figuratively. His father beat him, his mom, and his brother. To escape, he buried his head in stuff that kept him away from home. That included school and sports like track and cross country, and he excelled at all of it.

“So when the chance came to leave his mom and brother alone with an abusive prick for a prep school scholarship, he jumped at it. And when he was accepted to an elite college out East, he left the state without another thought. There he lettered, he achieved a 3.8 GPA, and he got his sweetheart pregnant. So when he had a chance to leave college by serving in the Nam conflict—even though he was exempt—he enlisted.

“And when the VC got the drop on his unit, he put his physical skills to work. Turns out if he had stayed put, he’d have been fine. Instead he ran and found a landmine that took his legs. But as he was laying in that hospital bed in Germany, listening to an officer inform him he was going to be tried for ‘misbehavior before the enemy,’ he came to realize where all his running had led him.”

“Nowhere,” whispered Gordon.

“Exactly. He used to say he got so good at running, he could go ‘a full 26.2 miles without hitting the wall.’ Running from his problems was his MO. To his dying day, he said losing his legs was the best thing that ever happened to him: it was Fate’s way of saying that to move forward, you have to stand still and face what the world throws at you, not leave it in the dust.”

“What did he do then?”

“What he thought was right. He served his time, then went and made things right with my mother. He put his savings and his pension towards my education. Then he came back to his hometown to make right with his brother and mother. His mother he found and made peace with. But his brother…”

“Dead?” Gordon asked.

“No one knows,” replied Colin. “He ran away from home not long after Dad took off for school and ended up living on the streets. That’s why Dad was here; he spent the rest of his life trying to find his brother. And when he realized it probably wasn’t going to happen, he stayed here anyway believing that he was meant to be here, to help others like him.

“He saw something in you, Mr. Lundy, that reminded him of himself; something that said you were running too. I can’t tell you what it was or why, but he just knew. That’s why he gave you such a hard time.”

Gordon stopped his story there and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. Without turning his head, he held it up stating, “This is the apology right here. This was his last stupid ass attempt to convince me that something…” Gordon took a deep breath and continued, “that… his last plea for me to stop… to stop…” Suddenly, Gordon collapsed to the floor, his eyes closed and seemingly wet with tears.

Dr. Gonzalez came around the chair and reached down to Gordon’s shoulder. “You alright?”

Voice quivering, Gordon looked up and replied, “I think my legs just left me.”

Dr. Gonzalez smiled sympathetically. “I’ve got the rest of the afternoon free, let’s start from the beginning.”

#writeforfun #personalwork #whythehellnot