KARTER, Page 3

  Graduating high school and immediately spending more than twenty years in the military left me no time to live a common life or deal with typical emotions. To become effective in combat, a SEAL must be able to turn off emotional attachments. Therefore, I had zero experience in feeling emotion and acting upon it. My entire military career was spent without sentiment. I had been a stone-faced killer for almost two decades. To think a person could change from being a trained killer on Friday to compassionate civilian on Monday would be ludicrous.

  Based on my lack of experience on allowing myself to feel or act upon emotions, I now felt as if I was now a thirty-eight year old high school kid. I couldn’t decide if Karter was filling a void as an individual or by the mere design of simply being a woman. Would I have been attracted to any woman who exposed herself to me, or was Karter truly special? Finding the answer on an absolute level would be impossible. I knew one thing for certain; Karter caused me to feel emotion. As I stood beside the running track at a local high school, I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t the three miles I had run which had me breathless.

  It was Karter’s absence.

  I didn’t want to see her.

  I felt I needed to.

  Not necessarily feeling uneasy, but feeling differently than I was accustomed to, I recalled my discussion with Commander Warrenson on my last day in the Navy.

  “For the last twenty years, you’ve been told what to do - when to eat, what to eat, where to go and where not to go. You’ve lived your respective life against the clock; one split-second separates life from death on a mission. You’re no longer on a mission. Kennedy. My best advice is this; enjoy doing whatever you want whenever you want. Open up emotionally, and allow yourself to feel. You’re going to be free when you leave here, and you’ve paid a high price for it. Enjoy it.”

  Instinctively I glanced at my watch.

  He shook his head and did his best to smile.

  “Here in about two minutes, you’ll no longer be Kennedy. You’ll leave here as Jak,” he looked up at the clock on the wall.

  As the minute hand snapped into position, he smiled, “Lose your watch and enjoy life, Jak.”

  I stretched my legs and began walking to the small maintenance building between the track and the school. As soon as I arrived in town, I looked for a private place to run. The new high school north of the city seemed a logical place, as it was somewhat secluded and school was out for the summer. In my initial survey of the facility, an elderly maintenance man approached me on a golf cart. Although his black skin made it difficult at first, my attentive nature allowed me to notice the outline of a tattoo on his forearm - an eagle, globe, and anchor. He was a former Marine, and in a sense, a military brother. Without reservation, he gave me permission to run on the track for the summer months during the school’s recess from classes. Generations separated us, but we would always have the common bond of war and the recovery associated with attempting to become human again. As I walked around the corner of the building, I noticed the door to the building was open. Before I stepped into the opening, his voice echoed through the small concrete facility.

  “How many miles this morning, Jak?”

  I stepped remaining distance to the doorway and walked inside, “Your old ears work well, Oscar. I ran three. I couldn’t stay focused, so I stopped. How’s your day progressing?”

  He turned from the work bench, revealing a disassembled pump on the table in front of him, “We’re gonna get off to a fucked up start young man, you keep calling me old. And I couldn’t be any better unless I was twins. What’s on your mind?”

  Oscar was somewhere close to seventy years old, bald, and still resembled the Marine he once was. Marines claim once they’re a Marine they’re always a Marine, and Oscar was certainly no exception. He seemed to be in great health, and appeared to be very physically fit. Short of his own admittance of his age and the grey goatee beard he wore, I would have never guessed him to be seventy years old.

  I grinned and responded, “I’ve got one quick question, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

  He walked to the golf cart and sat on the edge of the fender, “I know you ain’t a dumb man Jak, so I’m gonna go on and just guess you’s blind. I ain’t got no hair. What’s ailin’ ya?”

  “When you got back, how long was it before you were in a relationship?”

  He looked up at the ceiling as if recalling past memories and smiled. As he leaned away from the golf cart and slowly walked my direction, he began to chuckle, “Hell Jak, I was married when I left for Viet Nam. I had a young ‘un. I was twenty-eight when I got shot in 1969. And when I got back I went home and tried to act like nothin’ happened. Now what’s really ailin’ ya?”

  “I met a girl,” I sighed.

  “I sure don’t see that as a problem. Sounds like the man upstairs might be lookin’ after ya,” he grinned and pointed his index finger in the air.

  I nodded my head, “Thanks Oscar. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He pressed his hands into his hips and widened his eyes, “Hold up, lightnin’. That’s what’s wrong with your generation. You’re always in a damned hurry. So, you met a girl. What’s troublin’ ya about it?”

  Feeling somewhat embarrassed, I responded truthfully, “I already feel as if I need her. It’s almost like I’ve known her for years, but we just met.”

  He leaned into the fender of the golf cart and grinned, “Ain’t no shame in that, Jak. Now, you scared you’re gonna fuck it up or are you thinkin’ she’s gonna hurt ya? Which one?”

  I thought about what he asked. I really didn’t know the answer. I wasn’t sure it was either I was afraid of. More accurately, I feared what I felt was an unnatural attraction based on the amount of time I had known Karter. I opted to respond with a brief but accurate answer.

  I bent down, touched my toes, and responded as I stood, “I’m afraid it’s too early for me to feel like this.”

  “Too early? Shit, feelin’s ain’t got a time clock, Jak. An’ if you’re worried about you, lemme tell ya somethin’. I was over there a little better’n two years. Two years of hell, fo’ sho’. When I come back, I was like a dried out sponge. I sucked up everything what got close to me. Sights, sounds, food, feelin’s - I just sucked ‘em up,” he leaned forward and stood from the golf cart’s fender as he began to laugh.

  “I was prob’ly back a week at the time. I walked up to this tree and for some reason I just stared at it. I looked up in it and I remember smilin’. She was a biggun, prob’ly a forty footer. An’ I just climbed that sum bitch. Hell, I was damned near thirty years old, an’ I climbed a tree. You wanna know why?”

  I smiled and nodded my head, “Yes sir.”

  “Because I could,” he grinned.

  He pulled a plastic tipped cigar from his pocket and waved it at me as he spoke, “War dries us out Jak. Two years dried me right up. Hell, you been at it for damned near twenty, you’re drier’n a popcorn fart. Go absorb some of what God intended for ya to. And don’t fuss about lettin’ your heart open up. If she’s a good girl for ya, you’ll heart’ll know it.”

  He lifted the cigar to his mouth and chewed on the tip as if satisfied he made had his point. As I considered his comments, he narrowed his eyes and pulled the cigar from his mouth. He pointed the tip in my direction and smiled as he nodded his head sharply, “And if she was bad, we wouldn’t be havin’ this talk now would we?”

  I smiled and shook my head, “No sir.”

  He turned and slowly walked toward the bench. After what appeared to be a short recollection of where he was when I disturbed him, he reached down, picked up the electric motor from the pump and set it aside. For an instant he stood motionless.

  He looked over his right shoulder. The cigar still dangled from his lips, “Go climb that tree, Jak.”

  I nodded my head and smiled, “Thanks Oscar. I’ll be seeing you.”

  “Not if I see you first,” he chuckled.

  I bent down, retied m
y shoes and jogged to the parking lot. The thought of possibly seeing Karter filled my mind as I unlocked the truck and retrieved my phone from my gym bag. Still standing outside the truck, I swiped the screen of my phone. Upon opening the text screen, I smiled. One lone text message was all I had received. It was all I needed. Anxiously, I opened the message.

  Karter Wilson: I can’t paint and I don’t want to ride. All I can think about is you. Dude, what the fuck did you do to me?

  I stared at the screen, knowing what I wanted to say, but feeling as if I shouldn’t send a message which would allow her to perceive me as weak or needy.

  Fuck it, Jak. Be honest with this girl. Be honest with yourself. Tell her what you’re thinking. Then, she’ll know exactly how you feel. If she’s still interested it’ll be for all the right reasons.

  I inhaled, studied at the screen for a second, and typed a brief but heartfelt response.

  I feel the same way.

  I tossed the phone onto the top of my bag and climbed into the seat of the truck. After a shower and change of clothes, I’d be ready for a new day of relaxation. As I pushed the key into the ignition, my phone beeped. I reached for it and immediately swiped my thumb across the screen as I raised it to my chest.

  Karter Wilson: I’m dying a slow miserable death. End the fucking pain. Come over, pick me up, and then leave if you have to. But come pick me up. Mosley Street Apts. #211.

  Uncertain if she meant to pick her up from her apartment and take her somewhere or lift her from her feet again, I reread the message. Still unclear and not wanting to make any assumptions, I typed a universal response.

  I’m in PT gear and need to shower.

  I read my message. Dissatisfied with the military reference, I erased it and retyped another message.

  I just got done running and I’m in shorts and a tee shirt. Give me an hour.

  I pressed send.

  I tossed my phone onto my gym bag. As I gripped the key with my thumb and forefinger, the phone beeped. I shook my head and smiled as I lifted it from the bag and cleared the screen.

  Karter Wilson: An hour? Fuck that. Did you not read my first message? I’m dying. Like DYING. I’m dressed inappropriately as well. Come as you are. Make it quick. *collapses to floor and drops phone*

  I laughed audibly and shook my head. Damn, this girl seemed to be exactly what I needed. If nothing else, she would keep me on my toes. I looked down at my sweaty shorts and pressed my hand against the chest of my tee shirt. Wet.

  If she’s truly dying I suppose it’s my solemn duty to attempt to save her.

  I typed a quick response and pressed send.

  En route. ETA fifteen minutes.

  I tossed my phone onto the bag and started the truck. As I backed away from the parking stall, my phone beeped. I shook my head and rolled my eyes. After I stopped the truck and pushed the gear shifter into park, I picked up the phone and glanced at the screen.

  Karter Wilson: *coughs* Hurry. I’ll be on the floor. *coughs again* If I appear lifeless, it’s your fucking fault. Perform CPR as necessary. *crawls and unlocks door*

  As I drove toward downtown, I found it odd out of everything we had discussed the previous day, we neglected our jobs. Although I purposely didn’t ask her of hers, she offered the fact she painted. At the time I had no idea if it was a full-time job or a hobby. The fact Karter now mentioned she couldn’t paint and was home during the work day led me to believe it may be her job.

  I was reluctant to offer my employment history because I didn’t want her to determine my age - at least not yet. If she was in her latter twenties as I suspected, I was at least ten years her senior. If we continued along the same path, it would stand to reason after six months of further developing attractions toward one another, age would never become an issue. I felt if she provided me an opportunity to show her who I was and how I was capable of caring for her, she’d accept my age as being just what it was - a mere number.

  As I exited the highway into downtown, I chuckled at applying the government’s position on gays in the military to our age difference.

  Don’t ask - don’t tell.

  It had been a little more than twenty years since I spent any time in Wichita, but it didn’t matter much. The downtown area remained unchanged for the most part. I was well aware of where her apartment building was located as I had viewed them when I arrived to town a matter of a few days prior. Whether it would prove to be a blessing or a curse was yet to be determined, but I lived three short blocks from her location.

  I had grown up in a small town thirty miles outside of Wichita, and had gone to school there from kindergarten to my senior year in high school. During my initial training, my mother relocated to Wichita and remained there. This made my selection of a location to retire rather easy. I had no intent of visiting my home town or anyone in it, and as far as I was concerned if I lived in a city of almost half a million people, no one would know or recognize me. In a sense, I was obtaining a fresh start in a new city.

  I parked my truck in the street outside her apartment building. After a precursory glance in the rearview mirror, I decided it really didn’t matter. I couldn’t change anything if I wanted to. I was without any cologne, brush, comb, or clean clothes. I had no idea my morning would have eventually led me to Karter’s apartment. Surprisingly, I felt comfortable seeing her covered in sweat and dressed in my PT gear.

  As I knocked on the door of her apartment the sound from inside resembled a herd of elephants being assembled for a circus. Eventually, the door opened and Karter stood before me dressed in paint covered sweats, canvas sneakers, a Rolling Stones tee shirt, and a beanie. The shirt appeared to be something she had used for years, as it was covered in both wet and dry paint. The beanie rested atop her head more as an adornment than a necessity. As she swung the door open she waved her free arm toward the ridiculously colorful apartment.

  “Mi casa, su casa,” she said softly as she waved her arm.

  I quickly surveyed the very large open area and couldn’t help but grin at the furnishings and her choice of decorative accents. Three unmatched sofas sat in the front room, but they worked very well together. Various paintings littered the walls; most I now assumed were the result of her mind’s creative talent. Each wall was painted a different color, all bright and colorful. In the far corner sat a wooden trunk with an old glass screened television lying on its side. Numerous light fixtures hung from the ceiling, all at different elevations. After a split second inventory, I turned to her and smiled.

  “Su casa es muy colorido. Me gusta su elección de ropa, eres muy linda,” I responded without thinking.

  She raised one eyebrow, “Huh?”

  The look on her face was clear. She didn’t speak Spanish. I asked anyway, “You don’t speak Spanish?”

  “Negative Ghostrider,” she said flatly.

  “What the fuck did you say?” she asked as she released the door.

  “Well, I said your home is very colorful, and you look cute. Well, I actually said I like your choice of clothes and you look cute,” I said as I stepped past her.

  “Me or the clothes?” she asked the instant I finished speaking.

  “Both. Your tee shirt choices are great. I’ve seen two so far, and I like them both. Your sweats are, well,” I paused and looked down at her skin tight sweats which were cut off right below her knees.

  Her calves were tan and smooth. She didn’t appear overly athletic nor did she seem out of shape. I guessed her to have naturally good genes which afforded her a well put together physique of average proportions. As I found myself lost in my admiration of her legs, she snapped her fingers loudly.

  She wagged her hand in the air in front of her face, “Dude, snap out of it. I’ll change the cocksucker’s if you don’t like ‘em. Hold please.”

  She no more than finished speaking and bounced through the apartment like a deer chasing after a mate. Swiftly, she disappeared into an open rear bedroom. After a few seconds of grunting
and what I assumed was rustling through her available clothes, she stepped into the opening of the bedroom door.

  She raised her arms parallel with the floor and motioned toward her torso with her index fingers, “Tadahhh.”

  She stood in the doorway wearing a relatively paint free Bod Dylan tee shirt, shorts with more holes than actual available material, and a curved bill baseball style cap with the phrase Fuck Off stenciled across the front of the crown. Now barefoot, she performed a slow pirouette in the doorway, revealing a fabulously rounded ass, some of which was exposed by the six inch rip in the rear of her jean shorts immediately below her left butt cheek.

  I shook my head in disbelief. The entire event, from my comment to her reappearance didn’t take thirty seconds.

  She frowned, “No likey?”

  “Actually, I loved what you were wearing.”

  As I paused she quickly turned toward the room.

  “Stop!” I said sternly.

  Having realized the military man in me was coming out, I softened my tone, “But I like what you’re wearing now more.”

  “I love this hat. It keeps the creeps away,” she smiled as she turned and sauntered into the living room area.

  “So, you paint?” I asked as I admired the numerous paintings.

  “We’ve been over this already, Jak,” she snapped as she stepped over the back of the largest couch in the room.

  I walked to the couch and lowered myself onto the cushion at the opposite end, “Well, I wasn’t sure if it was a hobby or a profession. I guess I still don’t know, but it appears you’re a very talented woman.”

  She pressed her back into the arm of the couch and widened her eyes, “So is this how we’re going to do it now?”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  She raised her index finger and pulled down on her lower lip, “Me sitting on this end and you on the other. The only way we could be further apart is if you sat in the street. Do you want to sit in the street, Jak?”

  I shrugged my shoulders lightly, “No, I…”

  “Then scoot the fuck down here. Jesus, Jak. Did you forget what I said? I’m dying. D. Y. I. N. G.,” she released her lip and slumped into the lower cushion of the couch.