We’d been close friends once, he and I. But I’d gone off to have the Marines make a man out of me, and he’d stayed home to finish school. When I returned on leave, things were different between us. We told the same jokes, but the laughter seemed forced, and fell from us in different rhythms. We opened illicit beers and saluted each other, but followed the toasts up with declarations and opinions launched across the well-worn green that felt like the opening salvos of a naval blockade.
A thin cloud of smoke settled low over the pool table, as he and I faced off for a night of billiards more serious than it used to be. The wins and losses had grittier edges that grew more pronounced each time we racked the eight ball. We persisted in drinking the beers that the law said we weren’t old enough for, and tension grew along with the pile of empties.
I was the one who had gone away, spent time in a foreign land, and added a swagger to my walk. That night, though, it seemed like he was the older one. I had lived through a couple of years. His face insinuated he had grafted on decades. My world had expanded. His words held hints of condescension, suggesting I was a bumbling calf, too small to avoid the predators of the badlands.
A mask of sorrow flickered across his expression. Gone so fast it might have been a trick of my eyes or the smoke. Words boiled up out of him as he crumpled another empty can. “I’m afraid that when the time comes… you’re going to be on the other side. And I’m going to see you up against the wall.”
The night ended quickly after that. I never pried an explanation out of him. Nearly thirty years have swept by. I still had a silent affiliation with the government, and security clearances made it convenient to lose certain flavors of friends. Our paths have crossed a few times, nothing beyond casual greetings in public.
From time to time, I’ve wondered what he meant; I never made enough of an effort to find out. Confident enough in a worldview, where I knew all the secrets which mattered. I always figured we would catch up later.
I waited too long. Whoever ‘they’ are, they took me in the night. He is one of them. I sit in a metal chair. My hands are twisted and cuffed behind me. Tight enough that I’d lost feeling within seconds.
I’m likely to beg for the mercy of numbness soon.
He let me see his face before he blinded me with a halogen spotlight. No questions yet. Yet. The questions are as inevitable as the threats that will ride shotgun. And God help me when I won’t give him answers.
Spots cloud my vision, and in the jagged shadows, I see a low cement wall. God help me, I should have listened.
Guest Author: John Petelle
John Petelle (he/him/his) is a Desert Storm veteran (disabled) of the Marine Corps. His career includes time as an editor, elementary school instructor, technology startup member and veteran’s service officer. A full-time writer, John bakes and distributes fresh bread to bookstores and coffee shop baristas in Lincoln, Nebraska.
If you want to know more about Warrior Writers, if you are a vet, know a vet or are related to a vet, please visit https://humanitiesnebraska.org/programs/nebraska-warrior-writers/
