by Adam Johnston

23 Feb 2005

From Dr. Logan's DE ENGL 294 class: (Note: contains strong language and adult situations)

The light bulb dimmed, flickered, and then went out. J.R. looked up into the darkness. The bulb flashed back on. Must be loose, J.R. told himself.

Again, the bulb went dark.

“Come on!” yelled J.R. as he looked up again for a reply. The bulb refused. Now what’ll I do?, he wondered as he stood with head covered in shaving cream. “Fuck!” screamed J.R. into the darkness of the shower tent. “Now what?”

As he held a razor in his right hand, J.R. reached up into the blackness with his left and waved it in a wide circle and found the dusty cord. I’m gonna be late today. As he pulled the cord closer, the bulb singed his wrist. He tossed the razor into the darkness and heard it land in the sink with a blurp. "I’m never late," he informed the darkness as he slowly licked the fingers of his right hand to twist the bulb. The 60-watt bulb hissed from the touch. Fingers licked again, he rose up and put a firmer grip on the bulb. But the twist reaped no light. He tapped the bulb, it replied with a tinny sound. “Power’s out,” J.R. exclaimed. “Has to be," he told the bulb. "I just replaced you yesterday.”

The bulb remained mum.

As he hooked a finger underneath a maroon string around his neck, J.R. lifted the string over his head to use his newly acquired turquoise-blue, mini-Maglite. He twisted its head and a yellow-white beam cut through the darkness like a scalpel. Knew this would come in handy, thought J.R. as he recalled the yesterday memory of stealing the light. Balancing the light on the metal sink, a beam is cast onto the tan tent ceiling like a scene from a low-budget movie opening in Burbank. J.R. looked into the mirror edged with months of soap scum, fished the razor out of the scummy sink water and finished shaving his head in meticulous slow motion.

You're gonna be late, said his hazy reflection.

“If you’re late does it really matter?” J.R. asked.

Not really, replied his image, They're all just flesh in bags, anyway.

“Flesh that’s going nowhere fast,” he responded with a snort. As he buffed his bald crown with wax, he looked into the mirror one last time. For the first time he noticed a face like Lon Chaney as the Maglite’s beam cast a harsh shadow on his face.

“You’re late for your date with America’s heroes, Mr. Chaney,” he said with a chuckle.

So what, his reflection quickly quipped, they’re all just a bunch of dead beats.

* * *

What I’ve gotta do now is put this envelope in the mailbox, Lizzie Fitzsimmons thought as she stepped out of the strip mall legal office next to the tattoo/pawn shop in Fayetteville’s USA Plaza Shopping Centre and headed toward her car.

“Next stop, the base!” she said as she unlocked her tan Ford Taurus wagon.

But is it really this simple? She asked herself as she backed the car up.

Yes, it is this simple. She reassured herself.

As she shifted into drive and headed out of the parking lot, she slowed only for the bright yellow, double speed bumps at the mall's exit/entrance.

For the last nine months you’ve been dealing with being alone and now it’s time to move forward, Girl!, she told herself as she turned up the radio.

“Whenever I’m weary…” whined ballad man Richard Marx on KROQ 93.5, “…from the battles that rage in my head…”

Click. Off went the radio.

Was she deserting John?

It was a question she’d asked herself for nearly three months. When he told her he didn’t know when he was coming home for sure, she had made her decision. No. She thought. You told him not to volunteer for Iraq. He didn't listen. Then, he wouldn’t come home.

* * *

Although he’s the tops in his field, the Reaper isn’t surgeon neat. Mostly he leaves a mess. Typically, a very bloody one. Sometimes he rips their legs and genitals off with land mines. When they use hillbilly armor on their convoys, he comes up with a work around and scorches half the face off of the driver and leaves the other half pristine in the boom-click aftermath of improvised explosive devices. Prognosis? Dead On Arrival. Although he’s pretty creative, he needs no extra help. He mockingly asks, “Are you stupid?” when he takes those without proper equipment—like old flak jackets—that could have saved themselves. He doesn't care who issued what. Just close your eyes. Die honorably. Show some friggin’ dignity for Christ's sake. To show he appreciates a good chuckle, he occasionally removes one from the “zone” in work unrelated to combat. Last week, he carted off a 28-year-old sergeant from the gym tent. Cause of death? Heart attack. But regardless of his style, one thing remains. There's plenty o' work to go around. In fact, he's been so busy lately that he's subcontracting work overseas. Nothing slows the Reaper's zeal in taking care of America's sons and daughters. He's pretty gung-ho. No time for vacation, now. It's been what? Almost 30 years?

* * *

“Hey honey, I’m home,” said J.R. with a chuckle as he closed the plywood door on an air-conditioned tent. “Sorry I’m late.” Stupid bastards, J.R. thought as he fired up his laptop computer. Dontcha know you’re supposed to make the other guy die for his country? Luckily for J.R. the power never dies in his office – the Camp W. M Duther morgue in Iraq. Nobody wants to think about the dead in a war zone, he thought as he double-checked the thermostat in the rear of the tent. “And they damn sure don’t wanna smell ‘em,” he said with a snort.

Neither do I, he thought as he dropped the temperature down on the thermostat another five degrees. The lights flickered.

“Hey! You can’t do that in here,” he yelled impatiently.

The lights hold.

* * *

Man, I need a light bulb over my head right now or I’m going to die, Senior Airman John Fitzsimmons told himself.

Come on, think!

Locked down and surrounded by Iraqi insurgents, John looked up and watched the rescue helicopter turn away from the heavy fire as a cloud of yellow smoke encircled him. As he leaned against a tree, John crouched and fired off his last rounds trying to take out anyone he could. There are just too many.

Outgunned and overpowered, John is cut down with a blip of AK-47 rounds. As blood seeped out of the bullet holes in his chest, John stuck his right index finger in the gaping wound in his stomach and scrawled

U.S.A.

with his own blood into the hill's powdery surface. As he coiled into a fetal position, he tasted dirt. He rolled over, closed his eyes and died.

* * *

On a coffee break, the Reaper watches television. Bored, he flips through the channels and lands on C-Span.

"Now I'll take any of your questions," says the Secretary of Defense as he stands behind the Pentagon pressroom podium.

"Would you characterize the situation in Iraq as a quagmire like Vietnam?" asks the Beltway reporter.

"No. Not at all," says Mr. Secretary. "Look…75,000 people died in Vietnam. In Iraq, only a mere thousand have died. The way I see it, we won't even get to quagmire levels until about death number 74,999."

The Reaper clicks off the television and says, "Guess I better get back to work."

* * *

“For Christ's sake, FINALLY,” yelled J.R. as his laptop finished booting up and so he could review a list of the days dead on an Excel spreadsheet.

Branch	Rank	First Name	Last Name	Cause of Death	Home of Record
Army	Pvt.	Dan	Smith	Wound to the head	Farmington, Mo.
Marine	Lt.	Bill	Barnes	Internal bleeding	Nantuckett, N.H.
Air Force	SrA.	John	Fitzsimmons	Multiple gun shot wounds	Fayetteville, N.C.
Contractor	CIV	Bill	Smithers	Beheaded	Marlette, Mich.

Only a few today, mused J.R. as he started body-bag inventory. Although he’s supposed to check to ensure the remains are intact, he typically used the time to liberate the bodies of his fallen comrades – like his turquoise Maglite – for any remaining contraband. As he unzipped the body bag of Pvt. Dan Smith, J.R. immediately started to yell at the cadaver in his best drill sergeant tone.

“Pur-ri-vit Smith,” J.R. said to the corpse, “who authorized you to show up for duty here in my morgue with haf yo face blown off?”

Showing stellar military bearing, the corpse remained motionless.

“Well?”

J.R. stared into what was left of Smith’s face as he rifled through Smith's blood soaked uniform. He found a commander’s coin for valor in Smith’s pocket. “Wellllll. What’d we have here Pur-ri-vit Smith? You mind if I ‘borrow’ this?”

Smith’s corpse refused comment.

“Oh, I can have it? Wow, thanks,” said J.R. then he whispered into what remains of an ear on Smith. “Shoulda’ kept yer head down, asshole. By the way, your hair is outta regulation. When you get back to the world, make sure you get a trim before they play taps. OK, HE-RO?”

Then J.R. re-zipped the body bag, fireman carried the body close to an open transfer case and plopped Smith in like a sack of concrete mix. As he sealed the case shut he shouted, "Next stop: Dover!"

J.R. repeated the routine for all. Smithers—the beheaded—provided him with the most entertainment he’d had in a week. That was almost as fun as the time I had sex with that female corpse, recalled, J.R. with a fond-memory smile. Man, did she ever make me stiff.

The lights flickered again.

"Not again," said J.R. All the lights in the room started to glow brighter as the power to the morgue surged. They're gonna pop, he thought as he looked up.

The lights started to dim and then switched to dead.

"Goddamn it!" shouted J.R. as he heard the hum of the circuit breaker alarm. He set his laptop atop one of the transfer cases and creeped toward the breaker. The laptop's screen lighted the darkened room as he stumbled once and then reached up and flipped the switch.

Nothing happened.

He flipped it again.

Nothing.

One more time.

He flipped it and blue sparks shot from the switch.

* * *

The Reaper heard the laptop across the room bleep, looked down at his watch then at an unconscious J.R. and said flatly; "Guess I'm a tad bit early."

As he surveyed the room, he smiled at the silver transfer cases and wondered why this year's hand-made Christmas gifts had yet to get postmarks. Someone been peeking into Santa's presents? He gazed down and saw the chest of J.R.'s unconscious body slowly rise and fall.

Trying to hang on. Son-of-A-Bitch! The bad ones always seem to want just a little more than they deserve.

"Working here, you should know better than that," whispered the Reaper into J.R.'s ear. "Thought you were never late, asshole?"

"Take this one for instance," he said pointing at the transfer case holding the remains of John Fitzsimmons. "He went with some friggin' style"

J.R. groaned.

"He didn't fight me like you're trying to do," the Reaper said, "But what the hell, since I'm a little early for our date here's what I'm gonna do, I'll give John here the five minutes you're trying to cheat from me," he said.

Instantly the screen of the laptop revealed four words: [Login complete, begin chatting].

* * *

SWEETSIXTEEN:…he's in a war zone? YIKES!

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: yeah, hold on gotta go pee…

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: brb

[Login complete, begin chatting] GIJOHN: …

SWEETSIXTEEN: Hello, GI how r u?

GIJOHN: …

SWEETSIXTEEN: Me love you looooooooooonggg time. lol

GIJOHN: lizzie here?

SWEETSIXTEEN: Me so horny…I w8ting for boom boom…lol…

SWEETSIXTEEN: …so's lizzie

GIJOHN: Is she here in this chatroom?

SWEETSIXTEEN: Yeah, think so…watchout…she's pissed at you

GIJOHN: …she still on…

SWEETSIXTEEN: Yeah, she's on…had to go pee said she'd brb…

GIJOHN: brb?

SWEETSIXTEEN: Be Right Back…

GIJOHN: Anyone else here…

SWEETSIXTEEN: No, it's late…just us…

GIJOHN: CaN I ask you to leave?

SWEETSIXTEEN: ;^(

GIJOHN: Plz

SWEETSIXTEEN: Should I stay or should I go?

GIJOHN: PLZ

SWEETSIXTEEN: This indecisions bugging me.

SWEETSIXTEEN: Should I cool it or should I blow…

GIJOHN: PLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

SWEETSIXTEEN: So you gotta let me know….should I stay or should I go….

GIJOHN: GO GO GO GO.

SWEETSIXTEEN: Gone…

GIJOHN: thnx

SWEETSIXTEEN: yw

SWEETSIXTEEN: [User has left chatroom]

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: u still there?

GIJOHN: LIZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZIEEEEEE!

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: John?

GIJOHN: yep…

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: How long u been on?!?!?!

GIJOHN: Just logged in….

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: …

GIJOHN: we need to talk…

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE:…

GIJOHN: Liz?

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: About the paperwork, right?

GIJOHN: huh?.

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: You got the paperwork, right?

GIJOHN: Dunno what ur talking about. What paperwork?

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: oic

GIJOHN: huh?

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: oh, I see.

GIJOHN: listen…I need to tell you something.

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: ..?..

GIJOHN: I love you…

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: It's not that simple…

GIJOHN: I will always love you…

* * *

It truly was love at first sight: even if it happened at a gas station.

"Do you know how to get to Amarillo?" the man in sunglasses asked Lizzie.

"Huh?" she replied

"Amarillo?" said Ray-ban man.

"Just keep going up the road," Lizzie Yarborough said as she pointed North. "It's about another three miles. Take exit 58a," she said as she gazed at the man. Wow! Brad Pitt you're not, but a cheap Tom Cruise? Yes. Gotta see his ass, though. Wait til he goes around the car.

"Thanks," said Senor Cruise. "Oh yeah, I need two more things."

"What's that?" she asked through the small window hole in the gas station attendant booth. Lose the moustache and he'd even look like Tom.

"Need a fill up. Can you set the pump?" said Mr. Moustache.

"Just need your credit card," she said. Damn! Will ya look at the size of his arms? Huge!

John Fitzsimmons turned and headed toward pump #7 and squinted as he passed from sunlight into shade. Walking to the pump, John's rattlesnake-skin cowboy boots clapped against the concrete surface. Decked out in a plain white T-shirt with sleeves rolled up to his shoulders and a pair of tight 501s, John bent over to pump the gas into his red Toyota pickup truck.

"Ohhwee, Lookee here mama, he's got an ass too!," Lizzie said under her breath. He must be new in town. One of them GIs, momma’s always saying I should marry.

Topping off the tank, John returned to the booth and cut directly to the chase. "What's your number?

"Debit or credit?"

“No, your telephone number,” said John.

* * *

"LOOK UP, LIZZIE!" flashed the electric letters on the big screen in left field of Wrigley Field. Holding a hot dog and a beer, Lizzie looked up.

A plane with a "Will you marry me Lizzie?" streamer trailed behind. She turned to John in disbelief. "Yes. Yes. Yes." She said as she hugged and kissed him repeatedly. Beer spilt on his jeans. The giant screen filled with the image of John and Lizzie kissing in full frame. Then the screen flashed, "HOME RUN, JOHN!"

The stadium went wild with applause.

A bald man in right field stood and yelled, "Strike Three, you're out!" as he thrust his arm like a home-plate umpire. Then he snorted, "That all you got HE-RO!"

* * *

GIJOHN: Remember the Cub game.

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: yes..

GIJOHN: You loved me then….

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: That world's gone…

GIJOHN: What changed?

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: You're never here. You're always gone. I'm tired of this…

GIJOHN: What if I told you a secret.

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: What.

GIJOHN: I'll be home soon.

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: That's BS, you always say that. I'm tired of hearing that…I'm done.

GIJOHN: Really, Liz, I'm coming home for good, this time.

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: When?!?!?!?!?!?

GIJOHN: Sooner than you think.

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: You said that before…

* * *

In a black leather mini-skirt, red patent leather "fuck-me" pumps and a matching silky low-cut blouse, Lizzie stood on the tarmac like the other wives in heat, holding up a sign:

"WELCOME HOME, MY HERO!"

John never saw the sign.

As sergeant after sergeant spilled from the plane, John never appeared. A major in desert fatigues walked up to Lizzie and said, "Mizus Fitzsimmons?"

Fighting back tears Lizzie said, "Yes?"

"Sorry we didn't get the word to you, but Airman Fitzsimmons couldn't make the plane," he said in a forced monotone.

"Why the hell not?" she yelled in a wavering tone.

"He volunteered to stay for another tour of duty," he said. "Said he couldn't leave his men behind. He wanted you to have this." The major handed Lizzie a carefully folded note.

Dear Lizzie,

I'm sorry I'm not there today. Really really sorry. I still love you. Please wait for me. Please?

John

XO

* * *

Three months later, Lizzie walked out of the USA Plaza Shopping Centre in Fayetteville with divorce papers. As she dropped them in a post office box on base, she said, "You did this, John. You, did this."

***

Why he did it was obvious for John. They need my help. Too much work and too few people. It was part of his training. John took the pararescueman motto "So Others May Live" seriously. But, he knew it might kill his marriage.

Duty called.

John answered.

He told her why he did what he did as he got on the plane for Iraq.

"Don't cry for me," he whispered in her ear. "This isn't bravery, chivalry or any other recruiting rhetoric, it's just a job. My job."

***

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: So, when are you coming home?

GIJOHN: In the next few days….

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: You said that before…

GIJOHN: This time its for real and forever…

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: What makes you think we'll still be forever?

GIJOHN: I'm not sure we will…

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: You don't care…

GIJOHN: It's not that. It's, well, I'm different now.

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: How so?

GIJOHN: Something happened to me yesterday on a hill while rescuing someone.

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: What happened?

GIJOHN: Well, I realized that life – my life – is worth saving too.

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: ….

GIJOHN: I just hope you can forgive me.

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: Well, if you're coming home fer sure. Maybe we can talk about that more when you get here.

GIJOHN: I'm not sure it's that simple…

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: Well, I've changed, too. I can't keep waiting on you.

GIJOHN: I know. I don't blame u for wanting to go…

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: Hold on. Someone's at the door…brb…

GIJOHN: I'm not sure how long this connection will last…

NOTSOTHINLIZZIE: brb…

* * *

The major hated making these calls. Decked out in full service dress, he took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

* * *

GIJOHN: Liz?

GIJOHN: Liz, I'll always love you

GIJOHN: Even if I never…

* * *

"Yeah?" said Lizzie as she opened the door.

"Ma'am," said the major in dress uniform.

"Hey, aren't you the guy…" Lizzie stopped. It was that asshole from the base.

"Ma'am, a grateful nation regrets to inform you that your husband has been killed in Iraq," said the stone-faced major.

"No. No. No," said Lizzie. "I was just talking to him online," said Lizzie.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry but that's impossible," he replied. "We're sure SrA. John Fitzsimmons died on a hill yesterday. We have several programs available to assist you in your bereavement. But, Airman Fitzsimmons is unfortunately no longer with us."

"Bullshit," said Lizzie. "I'm talking to him now. Come see for yourself."

The major hated these calls. They never believe you. Who'd make this stuff up?

Lizzie pulled the major by the arm into her home, forced him to look at the screen.

"See," said Lizzie.

"Ma'am, as I said, we have many programs to help you."

Lizzie didn't understand, until she saw the screen.

* * *

GIJOHN: … see you again.

GIJOHN: Please, look for me in the next life.

GIJOHN: I'll be the one waiting for you there…

GIJOHN: [User disconnected].

* * *

"Time's up!" said the Reaper.

J.R. shook his head, looked at the stranger and instantly yelled, "Hey asshole, you're not supposed to be in here. This place is sacred, ya know. If you don't leave right now, I'm going wipe the floor with your ass."

"Don't think so," said the Reaper as he grabbed J.R. by the throat. "You're never late, right? Why start now? It's time to go asshole. NOW!"

J.R.'s eyelids flickered, closed and then reopened.

"That all you got HE-RO?" asked the Reaper as he looks into J.R's now frozen stare. One touch is all it ever takes, thought the Reaper.

"Don't worry," said the Reaper. "You'll be home in plenty of time for Christmas."

* * *

The doorbell rang.

Lizzie answered.

The postman held a heavily mutilated manila envelope with the purple “Return to Sender” stamp. It had taken six months for the divorce paperwork to find its way back home from Iraq. After Lizzie opened the unopened letter she started reading and crying.

"Dear John," the letter started.

* * *

As teardrops fall into her third Margarita, Lizzie says, "Guess I don't need anymore salt." She stumbles slightly as she sits down at her computer and attempts to send one last e-mail message to John.

I know it's stupid, Lizzie told herself.

But it's just so strange, we did talk. I know it was John.

TO: john.fitzsimmons@airforce.com

SUBJECT: I'm sorry.

After typing her roller-coaster feelings into a three-page letter to John – diluted with two more Margaritas -- to explain the emptiness and feelings of regret she now feels, she hits send.

Immediately, a response comes back from John's "Out of Office" assistant:

"Sorry, but I'm currently out of my office. If you have an emergency, please call command post at DSN 315-634-1800."

John's typical message.

But, below that was a new line.

"Lizzie, I'm sorry too."