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by Mike Cardwell
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Eamonn saw the gun in the glovebox as he tossed the overdue bills in and out of sight. Out of sight, he thought, closing the glovebox shut with a click, best keep it all out of sight.
He glanced above him at the row of pictures rubber-banded to his visor. One of Janice, the boys and him taken at his retirement ceremony. The second of Hillman and Stephens, two of his platoon sergeants, both dead now. Hillman in Kandahar to a sniper’s bullet, Stephens in Baltimore by his own.
The final photo was a long panoramic shot of his company from Afghanistan. Eamonn stared at the picture and felt pangs of homesickness at seeing all the uniforms, all the familiar faces. I’m missing home, missing my village, he thought. His head told him he wasn’t in that community anymore, but his heart disagreed.
He dropped his eyes to scan the parking lot. A group of civilians walked out from between two cars, laughing and joking. He really needed to try harder to get over his prejudice against civilians, maybe he should start by just calling them people, he thought with a snort. But as he stared at them, all they felt was foreign. He’d been to places they couldn’t imagine. The world they lived in wasn’t the world he lived in anymore. He had gone too far and didn’t know how to get back and didn’t really want to try.
His eyes wandered back inside the truck and he caught his reflection in the instrument panel. He stared at himself, seeing an older man who was not yet old. He was middling in height with a high forehead, possessed wide cheekbones, and had a thin, hooked nose. He had a slender, yet muscular build. A swimmers body someone had told him.
A thought flashed through his mind to punch out for the day; go see a movie, grab a beer maybe, or just drive and try to reason it out. But he dismissed the thought out of hand, taking a knee for a day wasn’t going to get him a job.
“Got to at least try,” he said to himself, climbing out of the truck and feeling he was heading outside the wire.
He was going to get a job today. Even a blind squirrel finds an occasional nut, he thought with a grin. He’d be a good hire. He was convinced of it. He was always early, stayed late, and could pass a piss test without studying. He looked the part; tight haircut, trim waist, fresh shave. He was management material incarnate.
Plus, now he wouldn’t have to do all the heavy lifting he’d done in the Army, no regulating an employee’s life. No making sure they cleared medical and dental profiles, no counseling them on payday loans, no making sure they passed the physical training test. Without all that it would be a breeze. Karma had to break his way sometimes, he reasoned, might as well be today. Rubbing his hands together, saying a prayer to St Jude, and licking his lips, he stepped off.
Glancing up, he took in the dark, rain-filled clouds hanging above him. He hoped it was not an omen for the day. He’d been retired from the service six months and nothing had gone to plan. First, his pension hadn’t come close to covering the bills. Second, the economy had fallen in the shitter during COVID. And third, the management job he’d been promised by his brother-in-law had never materialized.
Stooping to pick-up a flattened soda can and empty fast-food wrapper, Eamonn saw an elderly woman in a running car unable to back out of her parking spot. He tracked two teenagers playing grab-ass on the sidewalk, he noticed a mail truck pulling to the curb, he scanned rooflines and alleyways. He chided himself for falling back into convoy routine. Hard to switch off sometimes, he thought, tossing the trash in a barrel.
Walking towards the employment agency, beads of sweat sprouted on his forehead. The coming rain was being preceded by a rise in the humidity and he worried about armpit and beltline stains.
He remembered making the same walk for the first time five months ago. The agency had been highlighted on the VA’s list, touted for being successful at getting vets back in the workforce. Well, that’d been bullshit, thought Eamonn. It was a shabby office with mismatched furniture and twenty employees who worked in a building that appeared to be squatting to take a dump between a Little Princess Dance Studio and a second-hand bookstore.
He took a seat in the waiting area, if you wanted to call a collection of 1970s plastic yellow and chrome chairs and Formica table with coffee maker on it a waiting area. The place radiated with competing odors of perfume and perspiration.
Time tumbled by. He was getting more anxious as the minutes ticked off and his stomach ached as he sipped his third paper cup of acidic, burnt coffee.
Drinking down the last of his cup, he crumpled it in his hand. He’d fought with Janine on the phone this morning. She still wanted the divorce. Still wouldn’t let him see the boys. Still said he needed to get a job. Well, what the hell did she think he’d been trying to do since his retirement from the Army, he thought, tossing the cup in the trash.
The marriage had lasted over twenty years but had fallen apart in less than a year since his retirement. He and Janine had survived six deployments and relocated eleven times over his career. They had looked forward to leaving the grind behind and spending more time together. He was still trying to figure out where it all went wrong.
He closed his eyes, trying to get a grip on things. He needed to be calm, he needed to be in control, he needed a goddam job.
“Mr. Brodie,” said a perky voice, interrupting his concentration. Opening his eyes and glancing up, he saw it was the receptionist Sandy, hovering over him with a clipboard. She was thin, unremarkable to look at, but her wispy blue eyes and toothy smile brightened his day.
“I’m so sorry for the delay, it’s just a madhouse this morning,” she said, with a smile soaked in comfort and honesty.
Unable to help himself, Eamonn smiled back. “Things are hopping and popping today.”
“We had five people call in sick,” she said, the smile still set to high-beams. “Can I get you some fresh coffee or a donut? It’d be no trouble at all.”
“That’s very nice of you, but no thanks,” replied Eamonn, smiling back and finding her mood irresistible. “But I really need to get cracking on the job hunt.”
“Well, Mr. Hawthorne is free and ready to see you,” she said. Then, giving a thumbs up and another high-wattage grin, she added, “Fingers crossed for you.”
Eamonn dropped into the chair beside Hawthorne’s desk and tried to maintain the mood he’d gotten from Sandy. It wasn’t easy, the kid was staring at his monitor and didn’t bother to say anything as he’d sat down. Ignore it, thought Eamonn, positive attitude, today’s the day, home run coming. “So, Spencer, whatcha got for me today?”
Giving Eamonn an annoyed look, the kid shifted some papers. He had colorless skin, thin lips, a sizable nose, and black hair, cropped short. Clearing his throat, the kid said, “Mr. Hawthorne, if you don’t mind.”
Eamonn glared at the kid now. His acne had cleared up, he thought, but he most likely wasn’t twenty-five yet. Eamonn been a sergeant and seen combat twice by that age. But right now, the kid held all the power and Eamonn hated the hell out of him for it.
“Okay, whatever you say,” replied Eamonn in a measured tone, the vein in his jaw dancing.
Still looking at his monitor, Hawthorne ask, “How did the interviews from last week go?”
Eamonn glanced at a Van Gogh calendar behind the kid and tried to remember. “The first two ended up only having part-time entry level jobs and the last one put me on a short list to be reinterviewed when they open up hiring again.”
Turning to look at Eamonn, his fingers still clicking keys, Hawthorne said, “So, got some boppers in the water, hopefully one of them gets a strike.”
“I was hoping to go out today,” said Eamonn. “Things are getting tight, finance-wise.”
“It’s the economy as a whole,” responded Hawthorne. “But these things go in cycles, so better days are coming, I’m sure.”
“I understand that, but platitudes don’t pay the bills,” said Eamonn, his newfound mood evaporating a bit. “I can’t wait for better days; I need to find something now.” Hawthorne shuffled some papers, stapled two together and rotated his chair to face Eamonn. “I’m deeply sorry Mr. Brodie, but I just don’t have anything for you today. Actually, I don’t have anything I can send you out on for the rest of the week.”
“What do you mean you don’t have anything?” asked Eamonn, his anger reappearing. With an effort he held it in check by his fingernails. “It’s been five months. You’re the second agency I’ve been to., What the hell’s the problem? I’ve got a wife, kids, bills. You got a stack of jobs right there,” pointing at Hawthorne’s desk, “There’s got to be something?”
“As I’ve told you several times, Mr. Brodie,” lectured Hawthorne, as he turned away to click on his laptop and spoke in rote. “Your age and lack of work experience in the civilian sector work against you. If you’d agree to an entry level position and reduce your salary requirements maybe we could find something part time, but employers give us a specific criterion to search for and in the end they’re looking for the highest qualified applicants.”
“I’m the highest qualified applicant for every job you send me for,” said Eamonn, his voice rising and his fingernails slipping. “But all they want is a fresh face from college who doesn’t have a family and who’ll work a million hours for nothing.”
“Mr. Brodie, please keep your voice down,” said Hawthorne, startled eyes darting from his computer to Eamon. “Getting angry won’t change the facts.”
Hesitation took over for a moment and Eamonn just stared at the side of Hawthorne’s head. Finally, he lowered his eyes to stare at the yellow, gray, and black square tiles of the floor in seeming defeat. With a deep breath he asked, “What would you suggest?”
Finishing up his typing in a flurry, Hawthorne swiveled back to face Eamonn. “I think you need to act a little less like yourself. You’re not a soldier anymore, you’re a civilian. You need to loosen up, be less rigid, crack a smile at an interviewer’s joke, you know…. play the game.”
Eyes still staring at the tile on the floor, Eamonn answered, “I don’t think I can go back to who I was before, I don’t fit anymore.”
“Mr. Brodie, I just need you to understand…” started Hawthorne, but Eamonn zoned out and only heard the kid’s voice in the background as a mumble as he raised his head and looked about the office. Counselors and job seekers surrounded him, all talking and chattering away, but he didn’t understand any of it. It was as if each person was speaking a foreign language and he was deprived from knowing the first word. His anger and anxiety reappeared and started to climb, his vision became a tunnel, pulling tighter until it held only Hawthorne.
“….so, as I was saying, I thank you for your service and I appreciate your sacrifice, but….”
“You don’t mean it,” broke in Eamonn, cutting Hawthorne off cleanly.
“Excuse me?” the kid asked, his face twisted with genuine surprise, as if he’d bit into a lemon.
Eamonn waivered, wondering for a tick if the kid was really clueless, but then he plunged ahead. “You don’t mean a single word of it. You say it to make yourself feel better. You say it to soften whatever shit you’re going to pile on me next.”
Something gave way. Eamonn leaned close to Hawthorne and in a low voice said, “Do you know what I’ve done for this country? Do you have any idea the shit I’ve seen, while you sat in air-conditioning, shuffling papers, and drinking fruity coffee?”
Hawthorne stopped typing and turned to look at Eamonn. His eyes held a glazed over confused look and his mouth opened in an “O” to start speaking until he locked eyes with the man. If his skin had held any color, it would’ve gone white at the look in Eamonn’s eyes. The kid rolled himself back a few inches.
“I spent a life doing dirty work, keeping you clean and dry,” hissed Eamonn. “Now you want us out of sight, forgotten, tossed away like an ugly watchdog you don’t need anymore.
“Eamonn, let’s just settle down,” said Hawthorne.
“Mr. Brodie, if you don’t mind,” said Eamonn. “I’m done with you, Spencer. I’m done with all you. I gave up my whole fucking life to go out there and now you tell me I’m not worth a job. A simple goddam job.”
“Mr. Brodie, if you don’t calm down I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” started Hawthorne, his hand moving towards his phone.
“First, I’m too old, then its I got the wrong experience, and then you piss all over the fact I got twenty years leading men,” said Eamonn, his voice rising as he stood. “For me civilian life is nothing, you’re making me nothing.”
“Mr. Brodie, please,” stuttered Hawthorne, now scrambling for his phone.
“I’ve led a hundred men into combat, been in charge of millions of dollars’ worth of gear, deployed around the world, but now I’m not even worth anything but an entry level, shit job,” Eamonn screamed, snatching the phone from Hawthorne’s hand, and throwing it to shatter on the floor.
“What do you want, for Christ’s sake?” stuttered Hawthorne, frozen in his chair.
“I want my fucking life back,” shouted Eamonn, fingernails losing their grip, rage breaking free.
Eamonn swept everything off Hawthorne’s desk and stalked out of the office through scattering people. He locked eyes with one person, Sandy, as he left, but her high-wattage smile had evaporated. Ashamed, but his fury running riot, he flung the door open and stepped onto the sidewalk.
He was seething, shattered, every step driven by anger. He crossed the parking lot, heard the far-off wailing of police sirens.
Fucking perfect ending to a shitty day he thought as his vision became a tunnel.
Hope, he had long held hope, but it was slipping from his grip. Bowing his head, chin to chest, he was exhausted from the fight. A tear ran down his nose, pooled, and fell, a single warrior making its suicidal charge, but quickly brothers joined, and Eamonn wept, emptying himself of everything.
He sat in his running truck, rocking back and forth, the dry tears taut on his face. The low fuel light flickered to life. Yeah, he thought, the whole thing running on empty. He was tired, beyond tired. He glanced at the picture of Stephens, knew his pain. Looked at the picture of Janine and the boys. He stopped rocking and looked at the glovebox, knowing it held the answer to everything.
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Mike Cardwell studied creative writing at Indiana University-Purdue University of Indianapolis and has published poetry and prose in Poet’s Choice, Down in the Dirt, and Local Honey | Midwest. He retired after thirty-two years as a professional man at arms, and now lives with his wife Roni quietly on their farm in Middle America with a goat named Gandalf, a cow named Arwen and a flock of dodgy chickens.
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