Touching Scars (3 page)

As the quiet stretched on, my dad finally looked over at me and said, “I’m glad you’re safe, and I’m sorry about your friends.” He shrugged. “One of your nurses at that German hospital told me about them.”

I bowed my head then eventually looked back up at him. “Thanks, me too.” I was desperate to keep the shaking from my voice.

We sat together for a bit longer before he got up and walked to the sliding glass door. Before he went inside he said, “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. Happy to have you home, son.” Then he went in and headed to bed. I stared at the door and realized that I appreciated our quiet times. Sometimes it’s not about the words that are said, but simply knowing that he was there when I
did
need someone to talk to. His presence meant more to me than any amount of words. I knew my dad had been disappointed in me for not going to college like I’d planned, but when I had graduated, I felt like my life had a greater calling. It wasn’t that I wasn’t going to go to school again, but that it was on hiatus after I’d served my four years. I had been granted a scholarship to a pretty good school my senior year, however it was only for two years. I had planned on going to a four year school, and I couldn’t guarantee that I would have the funds for the remaining two years. My mom was the understanding one. She knew that it was my decision. I wanted to insure I could complete a full bachelor’s degree. The Army seemed to be the right choice.

I sighed and got up to move over to the rocking chair. Leaning back, I took a long swig of my beer. The chilled bubbly sensation burned the back of my throat. I remembered doing this exact same thing after my first tour. I’d come back home to the house I’d grown up in, and sat on the back porch with my dad drinking a beer. This time it felt so different. It wasn’t just the house that had changed. I knew I had changed. My last year I’d spent my nights on post with my boys, shooting the shit and doing security checks. Then two weeks before we were coming home, I’d lost them.

 All of them.

Shaking my head and refusing to think about it, I got up and found my dad’s stash of the good stuff. He had a bottle of Black Label Whiskey that he had gotten for his sixtieth birthday stored in the cabinet above the fridge. I would have preferred the richer flavor of bourbon, but this would do in a pinch. It would get me drunker a lot faster than I would if I stuck with the beer. Feeling slightly inconsiderate and not really giving a shit, I put my mouth on the lip of the bottle and leaned my head back. This liquid couldn’t even be described as smooth. It felt like a hot branding iron hit my mouth. It was rough, and the taste had a bite that made the first swallow hard to get down. I set the bottle on the counter and felt the liquid heat my insides. The minutes ticked by and I found myself staring at the digital clock on the microwave. Before I knew it, I’d drunk four more large gulps and I couldn’t tell if the numbers read ten fifty-three or ten fifty-eight. That was faster than I thought it would take. I knew it was only a matter of minutes before I laid down right here on the kitchen floor and passed out, so I dragged my ass down the hallway, swaying and running into the walls. When I made it to the guest bedroom, I flopped face first into the pillow.

I was numb. Mission accomplished. My facial hair made a scratching sound against the fabric of the pillow case. I turned my head to the side since I couldn’t breathe with my face mashed into the pillow. My eyes were shut tight and I tried like hell to let the booze take me away. Behind closed lids, I saw bombs exploding and shrapnel hitting me in different places on my body. I could feel my muscles twitching involuntarily. My inebriation was taking me deeper into my dream, but it wasn’t enough to make me forget. I should have drank some more. Before I was completely asleep, my last thought was,
I forgot to take my fucking boots off.

…2 months later

P
UNCHING
IN
, I
KNEW
THAT
Slim was going to chew my ass out for coming in two minutes late, but I didn’t really care. I was his hardest worker and I knew he’d never fire me. Besides, who gets canned for being two minutes late? Except I have been two minutes late pretty much every day since I started working here.

Three weeks after coming home, I decided I needed to get out of the house. I went looking for a job, and came up empty every fucking day. The news wasn’t kidding when they said we were in an economic slump, and jobs were hard to find. While I was overseas I had saved up every penny of my paychecks, but I knew that if I continued to drink away my savings, I’d need to find a job to support my newfound habit. One night, while out at a podunk bar, I overheard some suits talking about an oil and gas field that was looking to hire new guys. It was a few hours south of Houston. I figured I might as well give it a shot since I wasn’t finding jack shit up here. Plus, I’d still be close enough to my dad that if he needed me I’d be able to make the quick drive back. I left the next morning around noon and drove the three hours to Port O’Connor, Texas, aka No Man’s Land. The company primarily dug for oil, but did some gas production on the side. It was called A&S Emissions. I’d gone to speak to the person that was referred to as the Toolpusher, who was essentially the head honcho of the field, and see about setting up an interview. When I found him, he was sitting with a very large man that was sporting a beer gut and was balding on top. Turned out the overweight, sweaty man was Slim. Go figure. The man in charge was Roger. They both took one look at me, said a few words to each other, then Roger said, “You’re a big son of a bitch. You’re hired. You start on Monday, and you will report to Slim here.” That was that. I was never asked about my previous work experience, or even what my name was. I’d learned a week later that Roger hired me because of the Army tattoo I had on my right arm. It had been peeking out from underneath the sleeve of my shirt. He had served twenty years, and he figured any man that could serve his country was good enough to work on his field.

Now here I was over a month later, and I’d moved my way up from being the Worm, which was the lowest man on the field, to the Motorman. I dealt with all the mechanical and maintenance problems. They knew I was good with my hands when one day, an awful grinding sound was coming from one of the rigs. A few gaskets blew, and I raced in and repaired it all before we’d lost a monumental amount of black gold and money. We were all standing there, covered in the thick greasy sludge, and Slim looked at me and said, “Looks like you’re our new Motorman.” I’d learned that Slim and most of the other guys out there were men of very few words. I could appreciate that since I really didn’t want to talk much anyway. I just wanted to go to work, clock in then clock out, and hit the bottle hard enough to pass out.

On this particular day, just before I headed out to my very small six hundred square foot, one bedroom apartment, Slim and Roger approached me.

“Hey, Nelson!” Slim yelled from the work trailer. “Have you been to The Hole? It’s a bar in town.”

I hadn’t been anywhere in town since moving there. I went to the field, the grocery store, City Hall to pay my bills, and my apartment. “No,” I answered simply.

“Well, you’re going tonight. Roger wants to stop in and say hi to his niece. It’s her birthday, and she works there. Be ready in thirty minutes. We’ll pick you up.”

I nodded. Great. The last thing I wanted to do was spend my evening with some little girl that was probably a prissy brat, but you don’t say no to the bosses. I made my way home and walked in the front door. I still had boxes scattered around. I didn’t think this would be a permanent place so I hadn’t bothered unpacking. I just dug around for whatever when the need arose. There was a pizza box on the counter from last night, and a bottle of Crown that was about three-quarters empty. I walked over to it and took a swig. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I made my way into the bathroom for a quick shower. I could at least make myself look presentable for the birthday girl.

Not even thirty minutes had passed when Roger came knocking on my door. When I opened it, he poked his head in and said, “Jesus Christ, this place smells like gym socks.”

I shrugged and said sarcastically, “So buy me some goddamn Glade plug-ins.”

He chuckled and slapped me on the back. I walked out of the apartment and locked up. When I got in the backseat of the truck, Slim took off down the road. Turned out The Hole was only two blocks away from where I lived. This could prove to be beneficial since I could come hang out at the bar, get hammered, and walk home. When we pulled up, Slim parked in a handicapped slot, clearly not giving a shit that he didn’t have the appropriate stickers on his truck.

The three of us piled out. I stepped up on the sidewalk and looked down both ends of the street. Port O’Connor consisted of a grocery store, post office, police station, and this one road that looked like it came from a 1950s movie. Anytime now someone named Wally would come running up to me saying the words ‘gee golly’ or ‘shucks’. I hadn’t been in this particular part of town. I snickered to myself. I wasn’t missing much.

Turning around, I met the guys at the entrance to The Hole. It was really bright outside and the heat was sweltering. When we stepped in through the double doors, the stale air hit my nostrils. It was cooler inside but not cold from an air conditioner. It was a swamp cooler, and the place wasn’t properly ventilated. Cigarette smoke assaulted my senses. My eyes traveled the length of the four walls. Off to the right were two pool tables. One of them was currently being used by a guy and two girls. One of the girls was hanging off the guy, whispering something in his ear while he bent over the table and took his shot. I’ve always loved the sound of pool balls hitting each other. I was good at pool, or at least I used to be. Next to the tables was a dance floor, and a small DJ booth in the corner. Nobody was manning the equipment, but an old George Strait song was playing over the speakers, reminding us that all his exes live in Texas. Typical. Off to the left was the bar. It was U-shaped and bar stools lined the length of it. A cooler that held assorted beers and wine coolers was against the wall behind the counter. My brain was taking a mental inventory of the layout, how to get out if I needed to, and the people inside. That would be the residual effects of the Army and my training. I noticed a very large man sitting on a stool next to the door. Slim and Roger were talking to him, so I stepped up to join them.

Slim chuckled. “So where is the birthday girl?”

The gargantuan man that seemed taller than me, even while sitting on the stool, said, “She’s in the back unloading a shipment. I’ll have Melanie go back and get her.” He paused and looked around. “Hey, sweetcheeks!” he hollered when he spotted who he was looking for.

A small blonde came bounding up with short hair that was styled to stick out in different directions. She had to be the smallest adult I’d ever seen. Her facial features were cute and she just
looked
sweet. “Whatcha need, Beav?”

“Run into the back and let Kat know that her uncle is here, would ya?” the burly man said.

Melanie looked slightly bashful, but nodded her head and practically skipped away, disappearing into a long dark hallway. I turned my face back to Slim, raising my eyebrow at him in question. He must have caught on to my non-verbal question.

“Oh right. Nelson, this is Beaver.” He gestured from me to the other man.

I held my hand out. “It’s Timber, actually. Timber Nelson.”

His hand came out and his whole palm practically wrapped around my entire fist. He gave new meaning to large. I was already tall at six foot three. This mother fucker had to be at least six foot seven. He had a firm handshake. I got the impression he could easily break my hand with a slight squeeze.

“Beaver, huh. Should I even ask?”

Slim and Roger laughed, while Beaver smiled. Apparently I was in for a good story.

“When I was a kid, my grandpa worked with some dude’s that divvied nicknames. The one they gave him was Wolf. I have no idea how he got to be named it and he died before I got to ask him.” He paused and rubbed his hands together. “Anyway, I wanted to have a nickname just like he did. At the time I thought it would be cool to stick with the animal theme. I had just gone beaver hunting with my gramps when I figured I was cool enough to have a nickname so I went with Beaver. Turns out,” he gave a sly grin, “it’s a pretty fitting name if you know what I mean. Who would’ve known I’d be so good at eating it. Women come from several counties over to see what my skills are all about.”

Roger jumped in. “Man, I never got the full story behind the name. I had only assumed, you dirty bastard.” He clapped him on the back.

The sound of a towel slapping skin whipped through the air. Roger made a hissing sound which caused me to suddenly turn to see where it had come from.

“Don’t let Beaver fool you. That’s just a bunch of tall tales from a sad and lonely man.”