9

Scott Harrington

Hours remained before I’d see Pete and D.J. at the vacant shed. I had to find out how to get in that blasted place before 10:00 PM. and get Pete talking before he passed out. I headed over to the parking garage and loitered until they came.

The October air battered my lightweight jacket. How did the men under the bridge withstand the assault of winter? How would Pete and D.J. deal with it in the drafty shed? Even so, the writer in me began to formulate words to describe the adversities. How could I capture this reality for viewers? Could I transport them from their comfortable easy chairs to the hopeless hardships of these streets?

Standing across the street from the parking lot felt like a stake out. Technically, it was. A few spots offered a good view of the shed so I could move around while watching for Pete.

Darkness descended on the city, making the streetlights and headlights my only means of seeing Pete. After an hour, my chest tightened and constricted with the cold. Fighting off chills, I wanted to retrieve my blanket from the backpack, but that would only call attention to my loitering.

Finally, Pete’s boisterous tones reached my end of the sidewalk.

“We need to be a’gettin’ you one of them mats a’fore winter is full upon us.” I couldn’t hear D.J.’s quieter response. Coughing spasms stopped Pete’s steps. They were in my sights now, but too far for me to call to them. When the coughing settled, they continued walking and went right up to the parking lot, entered and gave a wave to the attendant, and strolled over. D.J. gave a lift and tug motion to the lock, and the door opened. They had an inside accomplice.

What would I do? I’d waited here for over an hour and I wouldn’t be denied. Dodging traffic, I crossed the street and walked into the parking garage. The attendant paid me no mind. I kept one eye on him as I walked over to the shed. He never turned my way, so I opened the door and slipped on inside—that easy.

D.J. stopped speaking. Both of them circled their heads in my direction.

“Hey, mind if I join you tonight? I didn’t make the cut for a room.” D.J. clicked his flashlight on, illuminating the clutter. I stepped around a few boxes that hadn’t been there before.

“Well, howdie do there, Scotty. Close that old door and come on in. We need to be a’keeping that cold out there.” Pete’s wide grin said he didn’t mind at all. D.J.’s glare indicated the opposite. “

Pete held his brown bottle in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other, the tip glowing bright red. It wouldn’t take much for this old, dehydrated wood to end up in flames. Mental note: don’t fall asleep before old Pete.

Shoving a box to the side, I claimed my spot. “So, what have you been up to in the last two days? Ain’t seen you around.”

“A little o’ this and a little o’ that.” Laughter came easy to Pete. He managed to find happiness despite his circumstances. “Just about the same ol’ thing.”

I had a well-fabricated story in mind, hoping to use it as a springboard for discussion. Eager to satisfy D.J.’s suspicions, I told them I worked for a construction crew and the company went bankrupt. Found myself without a job and couldn’t pay my rent. Never saw my old man and wouldn’t ask him for a dime, not that he would have one anyway. I told my story. Now I wanted Pete’s. But before I could turn that tide, D.J. broke his silence.

“What company?” An accusation hovered in the form of a question.

I hadn’t considered all the details of my fabricated story and fumbled with an answer, landing on a fictitious name. “Belvedere’s,” I said, borrowing my mother’s maiden name. Her family was in construction but not the building kind. They constructed fine jewelry featuring the purest diamonds from South Africa. But they operated in New York and didn’t have exclusive rights to that last name.

“Never heard of it. Where were they located?” He was pushing me, and I needed to close this topic.

“They did most of their work in Beaver County. So, Pete, you said you’ve done some odd jobs and some welding. Did you go to school for that or did someone train you?”

Laughter in his eyes, Pete shook his head and lifted the bottle for a long drink. He pointed a gnarled finger in my direction. “You’s forgettin’ I almost burned down the building. No one was a’teachin’ me welding.”

“Did you go to any school for job training?”

D.J. remained without expression. That was preferable to the evil-eyed glare.

Pete grinned and took another swallow. He held the bottle out, offering me a swig. I put my hand up in a “no, thanks” motion. “Just my old Uncle Sam. They’s the only ones gived me any trainin’.”

“You mean military? Did you serve?” He had my full attention.

“Yessiree, Scotty boy. We all done served back in them days. You young’uns missed out on a whole lot when they cut that draft and stopped making you work for Uncle Sam. Lots o’ buddies and lots o’ learning. Them buddies were like brothers.”

Good details for the bio. We were seeing widespread respect for our men in uniform. “What branch, and what training did you receive?”

“I served my country in the U-nited States Air Force. Fought in Nam. Got me a medal for outstanding service in a war zone.”

“Well, Pete, I’m honored to know you. That’s quite a legacy. What kind of job did you do?”

Pete stared at the bottle, took a long drink, stared again like seeing it for the first time. He lifted it and drank again, then settled in to tell his tale, but D.J.’s glare had returned full force.

“I was what they called a Wild Weasel. We had some technical stuff on them planes. We would fly on into enemy air space in North Vietnam and find us them surface to air missiles, called ‘em SAMs. We wore these big old headsets that told us when we found us something. It would hiss in our ear. When we did, we’d get a’moving to fire on ‘em. Trouble was, we got fired on right back.”

I was sitting upright now, arms on my bent knees, taking in every word. “Wow. That sounds like a dangerous job. You came out unscathed?”

“Un-what?”

“Not hurt. You didn’t get hurt?”

“Yeah. I got me some hurt.” His eyes unfocused, he stared at nothing but a spot on the wall. “Plane got hit, but we glided on down and got her landed. Ended up with some broken bones in one of them POW camps for two years.”

Silence filled the space until D.J. spoke. “He doesn’t like talking about that. Why don’t you leave him be?”

“Sorry, Pete. But, boy, I’m proud to know you. You’re a hero. You paid a high price for our freedom.”

Our little shed filled with tension, and I would have let this topic fizzle out, but Pete continued, still staring at nothing.

“Folks didn’t see it like that when we come back. They booed and spit and called us baby killers. We weren’t no heroes to them.”

I stretched forward to touch his shoulder. “Well, you are to me, Pete.”

Enough for one night. Sooner or later, I’d have to tie this together. No doubt it led to his drinking, which led to his current situation.

Pete curled up on his mat, the bottle cradled close against him, and I glanced at the cigarette butt to make sure he had it fully extinguished. It must have been around 9:30. Not quite ready to sleep, I went through the motions of retrieving my cardboard mattress and my thin blanket from my backpack.

D.J. sat propped against a box, his disapproval stabbing like a knife. I closed my eyes against it but didn’t have adequate defense. I’d opened a deep wound and Pete would have to begin healing again. And yet, I now had something good to build my writing on.

Along with my new facts about Pete, I learned two things about D.J. First, he cared about Pete, negating the image of the hard-hearted evil thug I once took him for. Second, on the rare occasion when he spoke, he articulated well. He was a puzzle. But how to get him on my side? That would take some work.

Although wide awake, I closed my eyes and played Dead Fish, our old camping game. When Edwin and I were nine and ten, we started camping in the backyard, the only place allowed since no adults joined us. We were never a camping family, but Leticia fostered our make-believe by packing a basket of snacks and a cooler of drinks. She somehow managed to package marshmallows hot from the oven for s’mores. They lacked the charred crispness but were soft and gooey.

We’d play Dead Fish—who could last the longest without moving, blinking, coughing, laughing. Sometimes I’d open my eyes to steal a peek, certain Edwin did as well. One of us would laugh and bring an end to the game.

Let D.J. think I slept while I processed new data and made some plans and forced my mind to stay focused. It kept returning to the office of Three Rivers Missions. What else could I learn about the rehab center? I told Caroline I’d stop by to show her some of my previous work. I’d been intentional about not rushing back there too soon. But it had been long enough. Tomorrow might be the day, if I could get everything taken care of with Tyler.

The room filled with the soft snoring of sleep. I stole a glance at my roommates. Pete had relinquished the bottle and it sat empty beside him. Even in the dim light, his ashen complexion glowed. That, along with the insistent cough, worried me.

D.J. aimed a flashlight at a book. I strained to see the title but couldn’t read it without being too obvious.

I dozed, shallow and restless. Deep sleep eluded me, but I had no desire to leave this building in the middle of the night. I sat up to change positions, my muscles screaming to be stretched. Moonlight or streetlights, hard to tell which, sent a shaft of light along the ill-fitted door.

The spine of D.J.’s book faced me. I chanced moving closer, curious to see what he read. My eyes adjusted and the words on the black and worn book came into focus. Interesting. D.J. was reading a frayed and dog-eared Bible. OK, Harrington. Rethink the third bio. The silent man may have an interesting story to tell.