Better Than Starbucks!

I Know I am Restless and Make Others So

          Eleven thousand miles from Baghdad, I sat on a wood bench at an I-70 rest stop facing a furious fiancée. I measured out my life in Iraqi terms even though my body had left it three years ago. The war stays with the warrior.

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          Summer sun beat on my bald spot. Within eyeshot, my LA Galaxy cap remained wedged under the windshield. Heedless of my health, Ally hadn’t let me grab it before my ejection from the Equinox for the red card violation of exercising my second amendment rights.

          —You promised, Sean. No guns in the front seat. You promised.

          —Use another word, Ally. ‘Gun’ is an offensively imprecise term for a firearm.

          —The word fits anything that explosively hurls a bullet, per the OED.

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          Ally referred to an I-70 incident a few minutes prior. Near the airport, a Honda Civic had come too near our six. So I’d warned it off by sighting on the driver. A standard defense posture not needing comment. Certainly, it didn’t justify a debate over the terms in a verbal pledge.

           —I pointed a pocket pistol. A silly Beretta 3032 Tomcat, for God’s sake. Hardly counts.

          —Does it go boom? Do they spew bullets?

          —Barely. If my friends knew I’d lowered myself to subcompacts, I’d never live it down.

            As if my reply left a sour taste, Ally quirked her lips. A semi huffed by. Near intersecting interstates, the rest stop supplied interim anchorage to many. Tourists ambled to the cinderblock stronghold that housed the latrines and an info desk. Kids in shorts stretched coin-laden fingers to vending machines. On blankets spread in maple shade, families ate fried chicken. Our loud dispute, though, served to mark off a zone that other humans avoided. She crossed her arms.

            I stood up. Located 236 miles southwest of the Toledo Victorian that sheltered Allison’s parents, the distance to this rest stop represented less than a tenth of our journey. I leaned toward Ally. A hip squeeze followed by a half-hug quelled most of her tantrums. Before reaching Dad’s California condo, we had thirty hours of highway to put behind us.

            The heels of her two hands bounced on my sternum. Momentum stalled by an immovable object, I staggered back. My skull snapped back when my ass smacked the bench. Sun and snow weathered, it delivered a hoard of splinters that pierced my khaki pants.

           —Let’s save the rough play for the bedroom, okay sweetie? Lots of map grid to cover.

           —Almost killed them.

           —Had the safety on. No harm, no foul.

           —Horrified them. Traumatized them. What else do you call it besides doing harm?

          —An incentive for better driving.

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          Tilting down, Allison concentrated her gaze. Her accusing blue stare recreated the ocular oppression of the Sacred Heart Elementary nuns. Admit you drank the wine. Confess you saw her naked. The unblinking scrutiny drew more sweat than the hot sun, more pain than needle-pointed splinters. If Ally took on the task of Abu Ghraib interrogator, her stare would terrify terrorists.

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          Only a fool took Allison head on. Besides the stare, she deployed an assured posture and five inches beyond the 5’4” female norm in her intimidation toolbox. Battle savvy, she kept me benched to leverage her stature. I avoided the violence of her eyes by looking away.

          The clock hands over the visitor center doors moved. Cokes thumped into dispenser take-out ports. Sacks of bird bones swished into trashcans. Our spat threatened to deprive us of a side quest to the Denver Museum of Nature and Science, a detour worth taking since the institution housed a collection of blue azurite, a semi-precious stone whose color matched the intensity of Ally’s orbs. So, despite the danger, I verbally engaged. 

          —Ally, c’mon. Let’s get back on the road. Don’t let one snafu wreck our trip.

          —Is that the new name for a road-rage related fatality? A snafu?

          —Don’t blow this out of proportion. I aimed. I didn’t fire.

          —Wow. Restraint. No brains blown out. Let me do a happy dance because only attempted murder happened instead of actual homicide.

          —Technically, I committed, at worst, assault. Attempted murder requires intent to kill.

            Allison growled. In bed, I found this expression of her animal soul sexy. But this daylight snarl raised goosebumps. Pleasure didn’t trigger this deep-throated response. Bloodlust drove it.

            Lacking other weapons to quash the threat her primal fury signaled, I again attempted the cuddle gambit. Sliding down the bench, fresh splinters added their jabs. I came within ten inches of her jeggings-clad haunches. I surged forward, but to no avail. I popped up. She shoved back.

          —Stay down. You’re in time out.

          —Sweetie, you’re out of control.

          —I went over every inch of the car. Every inch.

          —Well, that wounds me, hon. shouldn’t you have more faith? After all, we’re engaged.

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           Allison voiced another growl. Sweeping back Sangria hair, she cleared her view. Peeling back her lips, she exposed her canines.

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           While Ally reeved her anger, a late-model SUV sighed into the slot next to our crossover. From its tinted interior, a family—a dad in a guayabera, a mom in a peasant blouse, daughters in white dresses—emerged. The dad stood within five feet of my Galaxy cap wedged on top of the Equinox console. I sent desperate telepathic beams at him. Open the door. Toss the hat. Save my scalp.

           What was their little boy wearing? A blue-and-white-striped jersey adorned with a FIFA-fabulous emblem? These days, soccer always derailed my attention.  

            My situation compared to a striker seeking a game-winning goal before the second period ended. Netted in the cinderblock of the visitor center, the clock face glowered. Each advance of its minute hand cut back on the colossal amounts of sex and THC absorption I’d included on our itinerary once we passed into Colorado’s marijuana-legal domain. Ally and I had spent the year pulling 2-2-1 quarter-term grad assistant loads. And, after grading seventy-four comma-splice-rife first-year comp portfolios, I required a massive dose of fucking and cannabis. By one means or another, I had to get my balls back in play. So I threw down the red card of pure devotion.

          —At least believe this, Ally. I arm up for your sake. Crazies run rampant. It takes the push back of a loaded weapon to keep them at bay.

          —The Honda lady in the tortoiseshell specs? The little girl in the Mickey tee? Are they samples of the psychos your boom toys protect me from? Where’d you hide it?

          —Eyewear or attire choice does not reveal who’ll don a suicide vest.

          —Did you wedge it in your butt cheeks? Tuck it under your balls? I won’t get back in that car unless that pistol’s in my possession. Pass it over.

          —I can’t. As a military vet, firearms constitute an essential part of my identity.

          With a yet another growl, Ally pounced. Aware of the reaction my refusal would likely yield, I reclined on the bench with my legs angled up.  She collided with my sage green Bellville 770 boots, the remnant of my Airman Battle Uniform. Shock waves rippled through voluptuous flesh. Circulation surged, turning apricot skin to plum. Prepared by years of leg press reps, I catapulted her backward with a thrust of my quadriceps.

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          With a crash, she caromed off a trashcan staked to a pole. Grass stains marred the white skulls patterned on her jeggings when she rose. She moved with her usual assurance, so I’d failed to deliver enough bruising to force a truce negotiation. The pizza feeds I’d indulged her with had packed on a lot of padding.

          The din of her attack, strident as the screech of a vuvuzela in this green haven, dissolved the zone of disregard that other travelers had accorded us. Along the walkway bordering the rear entrance, truckers gawked, tobacco inhalations halted. Picnickers, potato salad poised midway to mouths, gaped.

          —You know, Ally, you should see someone about your trust issues.

          —Advice from my boyfriend who ducks every psych appointment the VA makes.

          —Not boyfriend. Fiancée. We’re engaged now, silly girl.

          —Where’s the goddamn gun?

            Worried about more attacks, I eyed the way Ally held herself. No tensed muscles. Face clenched by frustration, but not yet pulled into a mask of rage. Center-of-weight balanced over her heels. At her sides, her hands hung loose. No imminent threat noted. But I admit I’m fond of ogling certain bits—the spread of her hips, the breadth of her thighs—and that this tendency may have led to tragic distraction.

          —The last I saw Doc Felman he gave me a mantra. Do I seem like a mantra-chanting type to you, Ally?

           —I don’t know, Sean. Looks deceive. For example, some boys mistake me for a women who’ll endlessly endure their bullshit. Where did you hide your fucking pistol?

          —I didn’t hide it. I concealed it. As my concealed carry permit authorizes me to do.

            Turning to elude Ally’s laser gaze, I caught the exit of the SUV family from the visitor center. Daddy Guayabera held a paper cup with Indiana’s sock-shaped silhouette printed on it, no doubt filled with coffee from the info desk urn. Waving glossy trifolds grabbed from the Indiana attractions pamphlet racks, the daughters pressed for a detour to an Abercrombie & Fitch outlet. Mom paged through a magazine that pledged 70% Hotel/Motel Discounts. In his hand, the young son clasped a crimson balloon with the slogan, “restart your engines,” under an elliptical sketch of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. I still could not identify the soccer club badge on his jersey, but the memory of it would surface sooner or later.

            My attention directed elsewhere, Allison struck. Her hand whipped out. She grabbed the ropes of tendon that fastened my neck to my shoulder. Two tours spend lugging fifty plus pounds of gear while cased in twenty plus pounds of Kevlar had wrecked the linkage. And, blame pillow talk, my bride-to-be knew. Savvy to the chink in my armor, she worked it like Mr. Spock doing a Vulcan nerve pinch. For a brief instant, consciousness fled…

            …Let me take an aside, as past-tense Sean blanks out from the white-hot pain inflicted by his fiancée, to point out that I’m aware the California Concealed Carry Permit issued by the Kern County Sheriff didn’t let me travel US roads packing holstered heat. California Penal Code section 12025 requires owners to transport firearms in locked boxes. Under the Equinox’s cargo net, the other lethal devices I’d taken sat properly ensconced in GunVault brand safes equipped with biometric locks. But 100% compliance remains a goal few humans achieve. In the interest of full disclosure, I also jaywalk and neglect to report my Lucky Loot scratcher winnings to the IRS. The details above having been addressed, I return the narrative flow to the groggy control of past-tense Sean’s resurfacing awareness…

            …I shook my lolling head, jaw rolling across the disloyal thumb and forefinger that held me in a death squeeze. I suspected I had screamed since my throat felt raw. With mouths agape, the SUV family watched Ally punish my body. Call the cops. End my pain. Again, my telepathic beams lacked the amplitude to reach their minds. Circling behind them, Daddy Guayabera waved his arms, urging his flock to flee. Doors banged. Tires squealed. Distance shrank a Texas plate.

            Finally, I rammed two fingers into the gap between her pinchers. Skin tore. Speechless, I deployed alphabetic force, digits spread in a V, versus her brute fury. Stress faded. Relief surged. But military service had eroded this sword. Sixteen-hour days of manic keyboarding had riddled my hands with CTS, carpal tunnel syndrome. Could I keep it up?

           —Fuck, Ally. Don’t double my disability rating. Valve the pressure. Go from ten to four.

           —Really? This feels like a ten? Only using like a third of my grip strength. Is that what’s up with the little wiggle tickle? Hoping I’ll let up if I catch the giggles?

           —I’d settle for a reset to pre-blackout intensity. Cerebral trauma threatens my wellbeing.

          —Want me to stop, Sean? Say where it is. Spill the details. Then we can move on.

            Relaxing her firm stance, she brushed my cheek with her breast. Our overlap of personal space sent opposed cues. Nearness had coaxed lewd arousal despite the cargo of hurt her touch brought. The press of a taut nipple, which prompted thoughts of how her flesh now spilled out of all bikinis and bras, worsened my erotic confusion.

            Agony arcing shoulder to temple, I broke contact with Allison’s F-cup bait. Picnickers sought safer shade, repositioning blankets. An orange-vested groundskeeper kept his distance, edging the same border over and over. Stalled in the pet walk, a woman in a floppy hat linked by a pink leash to a three-legged poodle raised her binoculars. Did Allison and I count as bird not yet marked off in her Audubon guide? 

            Without a warning, the pressure held off by my interposed fingers ramped up. Perception blurred. Neuropathic fire blazed in my hand and wrist. Through gritted teeth, I wailed.

           —Does the lack of letup annoy, Sean? Bet it’s like having a gun-crazed bae. The fear he’ll shoot someone always stays. The hope he’ll change always betrays.

          —I’m an American. Son to minutemen and cowboys, bred to the musket, bred to the six-shooter. No change needed. Like that poem says, love accepts the traits a beloved brings.

          —What are you talking about?  Gunslinger genes don’t exist. What damn poem?

          —The poem you want for our vows. That Shakespeare sonnet. What’s the line? ‘Love is not love which…bends with the remover to remove.’

          —How dare you! Throw the bard in my face. In the face of a lit major? Fuck you. Time to up pinch pressure.

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            The knuckles of the two fingers crammed in the tightening vise of Allison’s grip creaked. Did the noise signal disaster? Would they crumple like weather-blasted rock? Snap like sticks of chalk. For the moment, they held.

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            My tongue, though, unfastened. Out spewed a howled litany of anatomical impossibilities starring Jesus and Saint Mary, a pain-driven spasm of parochial school blasphemy.

            The boosted torment sent anguish further into my sad meat. My gluts convulsed, flailing khaki-covered thighs over the bench’s warped planks, collecting new splinters. A sudden tremor, a hint of the fits fresh nerve damage promised, drove the heel of my free hand into Ally’s hip. My neck twitched left.

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           Out on the pet walk, the floppy hat lady dropped her jaw and flung her liver-spotted paws to her cheeks. But she didn’t make another move. Stop the abuse. Call the Indiana state troopers. Call 911. The tripod poodle strained its leash.

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           Grabbing my chin, Allison returned her Sangria-maned visage to my view. She grinned, the afternoon light making her incisors gleam, while her satanic massage netted new groans.