DRUG TRIP
CONSCIOUSNESS RETURNS SLOWLY. No nightmares. No lingering memories of Jessica and our good times to wake up to this morning. The last fourteen hours have been a drug-induced nothingness. I peel one crusty eyelid open. The other seems glued shut. My bedroom is just a blur, like an out-of-focus photo shot by a drunk.
My head throbs. As I try to sit up, a wave of nausea overtakes me. I struggle not to puke in my sheets.
Welcome to the aftermath of a Clonopin ride, Jeremiah. It is the morning-after price of the chemical-born peace it delivers.
I force open my other eye. The world’s edges start to return. Focus is overrated. Still, I’ve got to get moving. I risk getting to my feet. Bad move. I sway backward and nearly fall onto the bed. A few staggered steps later, I make it to the shower, where my death grip on the faucet handle is about the only thing keeping me on my feet.
The hot water streams across my face and kick-starts my heart. I start to return to the land of the living.
More like the land of the lost.
Twenty minutes later, I’m shaved and dressed and as ready for the day as I’ll ever be. Ready except for one new ritual. In the kitchen, I find a glass of water. First I take a Saraquil tablet. Next I take the Zoloft. By the time I reach the Tacoma, my legs feel as if they are encased in lead.
Get the door open. Climb inside. Now I’ve got to reach over and close the door, but this leaves me fatigued. Since going on the medication, my life has become a series of mini-mountains to overcome. Things that everyone else takes for granted and does without thought take conscious effort and energy. For me, the game is radically different now.
I pull the door closed as my chin hits my collarbone. I drift, eyes closed, mind floating gently. I don’t care. I feel no emotion. Nothing. I could watch my mother die right now and just shrug it off.
Something startles me awake. I look around, shaking, unsure of where I am. Then cognizance flushes back into my brain. But it is muted and dull, as if my thoughts are swimming through deep water. My mind shouts at me, I have places to be, obligations to fulfill. I couldn’t give a shit. The voice I hear resembles the teacher’s from the old Peanuts cartoon: Dissonant, vaguely disturbing, but not intelligible.
It dawns on me that I’ve got to put the Tacoma in gear. My hand fumbles on the shifter, and I start rolling. Today, I have to return to Parris Island again. My ten-day leave ended three days ago. Now, I must arrive every morning to the glowering looks of my fellow NCO’s. I live in the shadow of my shame every day. If I could feel, it would be unbearable. But thanks to the cocktail the shrink at Beaufort has cooked up for me, all I feel is a distant discomfort.
“Workman? Hey, Workman?”
My eyes fly open and I see Staff Sergeant Edds peering through the driver’s-side window at me. How’d he get to my apartment complex? How’d he even know where I lived?
Then I realize I’m at Parris Island. The Tacoma’s parked across two spots in the lot near the Mainside Barracks.
“What?”
“Hey, you okay?”
God, how I hate that question. I don’t even remember getting here.
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
Edds opens the truck’s door. “Yeah, you were snoozing away when I saw you.”
I unbuckle my seat belt and slide out of the truck. Edds closes the door then grasps my shoulder.
“Come on, we’ll go over to company headquarters together.”
Since returning from leave, Edds and Allen have been just about the only two Marines who have even talked to me. Everyone else avoids me like the Ebola virus. At the chow hall every day, I sit alone, a circle of empty spaces around me to underscore my outcast status. Nobody wants to sit next to the crazy guy.
We check in at company, where I get my assignment for the day. Apparently, last night a recruit broke his hand when a spring-loaded window in the barracks snapped shut on him. My job is to check every window to make sure they’re functioning properly. Each squad bay has sixty windows. Each company has six squad bays. I’ve got to open and close three hundred and sixty windows today.
Eighteen months ago, the Corps entrusted me with a mortar crew. I rained death down on my country’s enemies in Fallujah. Now all I’m fit for is janitorial work.
Whatever. The drug cocktail numbing my mind prevents me from caring about this latest indignity. I shamble off to the barracks and get started.
Halfway through the first bay, Captain Ricardo Hope, our company commander, comes looking for me. “Sergeant Workman, the battalion commander wants to see you.”
Uh-oh.
“Aye, sir.”
“He’s in my office. Let’s go.”
I follow Captain Hope in silence. When we reach his office, the battalion commander rises from a couch.
Now I’m in for it. Whenever an E5 NCO like me gets on a lieutenant colonel’s radar, it is never good. I knew there would be repercussions from the chow hall incident. Here it comes.
I go to parade rest.
“Sergeant Workman,” the battalion commander says with stiff formality.
They’re going to charge me with something. Dereliction of duty? The Zoloft-Saraquil cocktail tramples down the panic I start to feel. I stand expressionless, awaiting my fate.
“Yes, sir?”
His hand reaches out to my shoulder. “Sergeant Workman, we have just learned that you have been awarded the Navy Cross.”
The news leaves me utterly speechless. I blink and stare dumbly at my lieutenant colonel.
“Sergeant Workman?”
“Sir?” My head is swimming. The news has cut across my medicated fog. I’m reeling.
Why me? What about Raleigh and Hillenburg? What about Kraft?
“You should know that your company commander in Iraq put your name in for the Medal of Honor.”
“He did?” The Medal of Honor is the highest award for bravery the United States bestows on its warriors. There has not been a living recipient of it since 1971. The Navy Cross is the second highest valor award. Less than sixteen have been approved since 9/11.
“We will schedule a ceremony within the next few weeks. You’ll want to have your family come out for this.”
When I first joined 3/5, we went down to Twenty-Nine Palms for some pre-deployment training. While there, we stood in formation and watched as Captain Brian Chontosh received his Navy Cross. The moment inspired awe in me. Here was a man—no, a legend—who had killed twenty Iraqi soldiers in close combat fighting inside a trench network outside of Baghdad during the 2003 invasion. To those of us in the formation, he was the ultimate rock star of the Marine Corps, a warrior who showed us all the way with the example he set under fire.
After the ceremony, I joined the reception line to congratulate him. When I shook his hand and locked eyes with him, I felt humble and small, like I’d just met Michael Jordan. His accomplishments made mine look pale.
I am not worthy of this medal. There were others that day who deserved this accolade.
The battalion commander offers a wide, genuine smile. “Sergeant Workman, we could not be more proud of you. Congratulations.”
We shake hands. Captain Ricardo Hope takes his turn. “This is a great honor for our company.”
As I shake his hand, a memory intrudes on the moment. I’m on the back of the truck on that street in Fallujah, staring down at my three unmoving friends. Raleigh’s arm sloughs away from his face and slops against the truck bed. Why isn’t anyone helping my brothers?
“Doc!!”
“Sergeant Workman! He’s fucking dead.” Our corpsman’s words echo from the past.
Three dead Marines. And I’m the one they’ve made a hero.