The Loners: Chapter 2

When Paul left the University around nine the next evening, he hated the thought of facing his empty house so he stopped at The Triple C Coffeehouse instead. It would only be open for another hour but that was time enough for him to grab a cup of joe and take his time to drink it. He hadn't meant to become a regular. He hated the idea of being recognized by the staff at a public establishment and feeling them observing his loneliness. But he'd become one in spite of himself. It was because of the owner more than the coffee although it was good enough.


He wasn't usually one for small talk but something about Catherine always made him say more than he'd planned. So far he'd told her he was a bus driver and a custodian. He generally never volunteered the fact that he emptied trashcans and cleaned urinals for a living but he'd told Catherine for no discernible reason. He took a seat at his regular place at a booth toward the back and waited for someone to take his order. When Catherine herself appeared, his face broke into an unaccustomed smile.

"Howdy, Mr. Bus Driver," she said. "Hot chocolate as usual with whipped cream?"

"Yep," he said. "How's business?"

"Could be worse. It pays the bills."

"How long have you had this place?"

"Almost two years now. Didn't think I'd make it through the first one but now it's going stronger than ever."

She walked off and returned a moment later with his drink. "It's hot," she said. "Don't burn your tongue."

"Yes, ma'am."

He sipped the drink slowly, in no hurry to be done with it. The place was over half full of patrons, mostly college kids talking amongst themselves and creating a buzz of a hundred conversations. Paul found the chatter pleasant but at the same time it made him lonely. He could hardly remember the last time he'd sat across from another person at a restaurant and spoke about whatever inane topic came to mind. There was a time in his life when he'd taken such things for granted. He drank the hot chocolate so slowly it was almost room temperature by the time he finished and his watch told him it was only fifteen minutes to closing time. He watched Catherine hustle around the restaurant from the corner of his eye. Once, she'd made eye contact with him from across the room. He'd quickly looked away.

She probably thinks I'm stalking her now, he thought.

But when she came to take his empty cup, she was friendly as ever.

"Why don't you have a hot date tonight, Mr. Bus Driver?" she asked.

"I don't make enough money to date," he answered.

"Do women these days date just for money?"

"I wouldn't know."

She started to say something else but studied his face for a moment and changed her tone. "You're an interesting guy, Mr. Bus Driver. I haven't quite figured you out."

"Not much to figure out, I'm afraid. My name is Paul by the way."

She smiled. "Nice to meet you, Paul." She said it like she meant it and he was sure she was far more interesting than he was. She doesn't know I'm a monster, he thought. She went to take care of another customer and he sensed she wanted to speak to him longer.

He took the opportunity to place the money for the bill and a generous tip on the table and leave.

The following week, on the bus route, Paul watched Michael Eldridge step on the bus and boldly sit next to Rajeer. He pressed against the boy closer than he needed to, purposefully squeezing him against the window. Paul didn't like it. He watched him through his rearview. Rajeer looked the picture of discomfort, peering out the window, not daring to turn his head toward Eldridge. When they'd nearly reached the school, Paul saw Rajeer reluctantly reach in his coat pocket and pass the other kid a twenty-dollar bill. Eldridge crumpled it in his fist, stuffed it in his pocket and gave Rajeer a furtive punch in his side.

Rajeer sucked in breath and his eyes watered in pain but he made no sound. Paul didn't think the kid realized how well Paul could see him through the mirror. When they reached the school, the boy tried to be one of the first students to scramble out but Paul grabbed him by the waist of his jeans and pulled him back.

"Let go of me, you son of a bitch!" the boy screamed.

Rajeer watched frozen from his seat.

"Give him back his money," Paul demanded.

"I don't have any damn money. I can get you fired. You don't know who you're messing with, man."

"I saw you take his money and punch him. Give the boy his money back."

Paul was holding his temper with an effort. The boy studied his face for a second and sullenly reached into his coat pocket and retrieved the bill. He tossed it toward Rajeer but it landed in the aisle beside him.

"Pick it up," Paul told him.

"Or what?" the kid said.

"You'll wish you had."

The boy made no motion to do as he was told and for a moment, Paul feared his temper would boil over. But then Rajeer stood and retrieved the bill.

"Thanks," he mumbled to Paul. He left the bus.

"Don't try to ride this bus again," Paul whispered to Eldridge.

He glowered at Paul as if he were afraid the man would attack him. When he was gone, the rest of the students filed off the bus as silent as monks. Paul felt embarrassed as his adrenaline subsided. He knew he would have to speak to the principal.

At least I got the boy's money back.

He met with Mr. Boyett at 8:30. He told him of witnessing the Eldridge kid steal money from Rajeer and eventually returning it after Paul confronted him. He didn't tell him how he'd pictured throttling the boy by the neck until his eyes popped out. The principal seemed like a reasonable man and agreed Paul should have discretion over who was allowed to ride his bus. He said he would meet with the kid later today as well as inform his parents. He signed a couple of papers to make the deed official and it was done. Leaving the man's office, Paul thought he should be relieved the issue had gone so smoothly. But he didn't.

He wondered if he'd really helped Rajeer at all. He certainly couldn't fight all the boy's battles for him. He couldn't quit thinking about how angry he'd been. Before he'd joined the Marines, people often commented on his mild temperament but now the least little thing could turn him to a raging bull.

I should probably go to therapy, he thought. But he knew he wouldn't. His pride wouldn't let him.

Not too proud to empty trashcans for a living though, he thought as he parked at the college. But feeing sorry for himself was something he couldn't abide. Who's feeling sorry for Abid? he asked himself.

Dr. Simpson lectured on Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs as Paul swept and mopped the classroom next door. He found himself listening intently, fascinated by the subject. He wondered if the professor knew about the problems his son was having. Paul decided to tell him.

He dillydallied after Professor Simpson's class was over, waiting for the man to emerge from his office. He finally came out nearly an hour later, carrying his briefcase and striding purposefully toward the door again. Paul stepped in front of him.

"Professor Simpson," he said. "My name is Paul Nichols. I drive your son to school."

"Okay," the professor said. "Can I help you with something?"

"I wanted to let you know your son's having some problems with a certain kid. I caught this boy stealing money from your son today. This was the second time I'd seen it happen."

"I see. Was something done about it?"

"The boy, Michael Eldridge is his name, is suspended from riding my bus now. But I'm still concerned for Rajeer. I'm afraid he might retaliate against him."

"I see. Thanks for the information, sir. I'll speak to him about it."

Before Paul could say another word, the professor was past him, heading for the door. Paul wondered if the man cared more about the theories of dead men than the well being of his son. He decided to give the man the benefit of the doubt...for now at least.

The time was nearly 9:30 by the time he left the University. He almost drove past The Triple C but couldn't resist. He went inside and took his usual seat. The restaurant was only half as crowded as it had been a couple of nights before. A young blonde girl took his order rather than Catherine. He asked for a hot chocolate again and decided to splurge on a loaf of banana bread. He was nearly done with the drink before he spied her in the back, hustling about. He resisted the urge to wish she might speak to him. By the time he was done with his last crumb of banana bread, it was five past ten and he was the only customer left in the restaurant. He put a ten on the table and stood to leave.

"Hey Paul, are you taking off without as much as a good-bye again?"

"Hey," he said.

"How about a coffee on the house if you'll let me take a seat with you?"

"Sure." Paul sat back down

She brought him the coffee along with a cup for herself and took a seat across from him. Paul studied her face as she sipped, thinking she was more attractive than he'd first noticed. Her eyes were a piercing blue and her face was smooth and unblemished. He couldn't tell if she wore any makeup at all. She wasn't wearing her apron and without it, Paul noticed how slender she was. He wondered if she worked out to keep such a figure. He got the feeling she'd lived a full life in a few years but rather than beating her down, her experiences had given her wisdom. He found himself liking her a great deal although he hardly knew her. It was the warmth of her smile that truly won him over.

"How long have you been in town?" she asked him.

"Since July."

"Where were you before that?"

"A little town Northwest of here called Camilla."

"I know where Camilla is. Not much more than a bump in the road is it?"

"No, it's pretty small."

"What did you do there?"

"Helped my dad on his farm. I lived most of my life there actually."

"Why do I get the feeling you've been a few places besides your dad's farm in Camilla?"

Paul chuckled "What gives you that idea. I was in the military a few years. Only got out about a year ago actually."

"You were a Marine weren't you?"

"That's true. What gave it away?"

"I've known a few in my time. I can see it in the way you hold yourself."

"I've been out of the Corps for almost two years now. I guess you never quite get it out of your system though. But honestly, I don't feel like a Marine any more."

"Why not?"

He studied her face, unwilling to answer, realizing he'd said more than he'd intended to her again.

"Do you get this kind of read on all your guests?" he finally said.

"No. Just the ones that pique my interest."

"I might not seem so interesting once you know more about me."

"I'm pretty sure you would."

Paul noticed her support staff looked to be putting the final touches on cleaning the place. They seemed antsy to leave.

"I should be probably get going. I don't want to hold everyone up."

"Suit yourself." She took a pen from her pocket and scribbled something on a napkin. "Don't be a stranger," she said.

She walked away without looking back. He reached for the napkin and saw her phone number written there. A thrill surged through him as he folded it and stuck it in his pocket.

I won't call her, he told himself. That would accomplish nothing.

Loners: Chapter 1

Decided to post the first chapter of the novel I'm working on. It's a work in progress, so anything written here is subject to change at a later time, but I decided to go ahead and put this out there. Also, Loners is my working title, but that's also likely to change.

Paul


The harder he tried not to think about the boy he killed, the more he fixated on it. He could almost feel the trigger's pressure against his finger as he'd put the boy's skull in between the crosshairs of his rifle sites and the recoil of his shoulder when he squeezed the trigger. The boy had dropped from the man's arms like groceries falling through a wet bag. His target, the terrorist, the insurgent, whatever the proper term for him was, dropped to the ground as well, screaming and crouching into a ball with his hands over his head. The man dropped his weapon when the boy fell and someone in the cowering crowd might have kicked it away. Paul took aim again and shot the man between his shoulder blades.

It was a good shot and the last he ever took as a Marine Corps sniper. He couldn't get over the shot before, the one that shattered the skull of the innocent child the terrorist thought would shield him. It might have made a difference, Paul sometimes thought, if a superior officer had ordered the shot. But no one had. He'd simply seen it as the only way to "secure his target" as the aphorism went. If the man hadn't killed Sgt. Rainey just three days before, Paul wondered if would have been so determined and ruthless enough to do what he'd done.

Afterward, as he lay motionless on the rooftop, hidden by the shadows of the adjacent building, he'd watched as a woman ran to the body of the fallen boy and wailed. She'd stood and shook her fist towards the sky, probably cursing him in Arabic. Paul felt nothing at the time. No remorse, no shame. That came later.

Two years had passed since then. He was no longer a Marine. He'd ceased to be after that day although he'd worn the uniform for another year before his enlistment expired and he opted out. People had always referred to him as a loner and now he did everything alone. He lived alone, ate alone, worked alone. He was too proud to say it but it wore on him. If a tree falls in the woods, does it make a sound? If a man lives his whole life and no one notices, did it really happen? That was a thought that went through his head frequently these days.

Now he was a janitor and a bus driver. He'd never guessed he'd work at professions he'd considered so menial all his life and still did, even as he drove seventh and eighth graders to school Monday through Friday mornings and cleaned out the trashcans of the local University. But he didn't hate either job as he'd expected. Driving the bus full of hyperactive kids who saw their bus driver as having no dominion over them had been tough for the first couple of days until Paul decided to carry himself exactly like a drill instructor and get the kids under control. By now, they'd figured out he was at least halfway making a game of it but it hardly mattered. To his relief, the kids had decided to behave halfway like humans on his route. The janitor job also had its perks. No one told him what to do. No one checked after him. Paul noticed that hardly anyone noticed him at all. Being a custodian was as close to invisible as a human could come without a magic cloak. He'd come to crave the silence and the isolation which felt like freedom while he worked rather than the oppressive loneliness that often claimed him as he sat alone in his one room apartment flipping through the stations and telling himself he should at least get a pet for Christ's sake.

He often worked at night in the classroom next to an introductory Psychology course that ran from five p.m. until seven forty-five. The professor lectured almost the entire time except for occasional student questions and a fifteen-minute break halfway through. The man was a good speaker with a seemingly encyclopedic knowledge of the subject but Paul still wondered how the students could possibly remain attentive through his endless word stream. Even so, he sometimes lingered in the empty classroom long after he'd finished cleaning it just to listen a little longer. There were two obvious truths about Professor Simpson: he loved Sigmund Freud and the sound of his own voice. Two weeks passed before he ever saw the man to match a face to the speech.

He came striding through the hall almost as soon as the last of his students had exited his classroom. Paul was vacuuming and the man almost brushed him as he passed without acknowledging his existence. He looked nothing like Paul had thought. He'd pictured a balding, middle-aged man with a paunch and saggy slacks but the man was almost too slim for good health and dressed in a tailored suit with the wisp of a goatee jutting from his chin. His hair was cut short enough to make a drill instructor proud and a professional looking leather briefcase swung from his left arm. Paul wondered where he was going in such a hurry.

As he watched him move down the hallway, he imagined seeing the back of the man's head centered through the crosshairs of his rifle. He saw himself squeezing the trigger and watching the professor's skull shatter like an overripe fruit.

He would drop like a stone, he thought and all his knowledge of Freud and Jung would spill to the floor along with his brains.

Paul shook himself and forced the thought away. He was no longer a Marine Corps sniper. Nothing good would come of still thinking like one.

Paul noticed the sad looking kid the very first day on his bus route. He knew next to nothing about him except his name: Rajeer Simpson. The kid was always silent. He didn't realize the boy was the professor's adopted son until he saw the man's signature on a paper Rajeer accidentally dropped on his seat one morning.

Stephen Simpson, PhD was written across the page in a large, flourishing script. Rajeer had made a hundred, Paul noted. The fact that the man felt the need to add his title after his signature confirmed Paul's suspicion that he was a pompous ass. Poor kid, he thought. He didn't get that kind of air from Rajeer at all. He brought the paper inside the school and took it to the boy's teacher. Rajeer sat in the back of the classroom, attentive and silent, just as he always seemed on the bus. When Paul handed the paper to the teacher, she instructed him to tell Paul thank you for finding it. He'd saved him a 0 in the grade book. Paul felt embarrassed for the kid and wished he'd waited to hand it to him when he got on the bus again.

"Thank you," Rajeer said in a barely audible voice.

"You're welcome," Paul told him, feeling as much discomfort as the kid.

Then he dashed from the classroom. He'd always hated being the center of attention. He supposed it was something he and Rajeer had in common.

A sniper's job was never to be seen at all, he thought. Silent, invisible death. That's what he'd delivered for the Marine Corps at least fifty times before the one he couldn't justify.

On his way to his second job after changing into his custodian gear: a tan shirt with his name on the front and dark green khakis, he couldn't quit thinking about the boy. He couldn't help but speculate about how Professor Simpson might have come to adopt him. Paul was sure he was adopted. There was no way the man could have sired such a dark skinned progeny and he was pretty sure no Americans adopted kids from the Middle East. Their features were nothing alike. Besides, he liked the boy better than his father and the idea the professor wasn't his natural father made him like him all the better.

It was early November before Paul realized Rajeer was being bullied. Michael Eldridge was the bully's name. He was a head taller, a good fifty pounds heavier and sported a head full of long, greasy hair. Tom Brady Gone Bad. That was how Paul thought of him. Paul watched in his rearview mirror as the boy subtly poked Rajeer in the shoulder and mouth something at him as he walked by. Rajeer made no reaction.

When they reached the school and the kids unloaded, Paul tarried a moment to watch. The Eldridge kid approached Rajeer again. He grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yanked him toward his face, clearly demanding something. Rajeer reached in his coat pocket, pulled out a couple of bills and handed them over. Paul had a good view of the other kid's face and read his lips as he cuffed Rajeer on the side of the head and walked past him.

"Thanks, fuckin' Hajji," he said.

Paul had to restrain himself from not bolting from the bus to throttle him but knew that wouldn't do. Rajeer would have to fight his own battles. Still, he wanted to help the kid. The next day, as Eldridge was about to leave his bus, Paul spoke to him.

"Mr. Eldridge, have a seat behind me. I'd like to speak to you in private for a moment."

"What do you want?"

"Have a seat, kid."

He stared the boy down and for a moment, Paul thought he would walk on, but instead the boy finally did as he was told. When the last student was off the bus, Paul addressed him.

"I saw you take money from Rajeer Simpson yesterday."

The boy smirked. "You didn't see anything. We were just fooling around."

"Don't let me see you 'fooling around' like that again. If you do, I'll suspend you from this bus. Do you understand?"

"Whatever." The kid walked away.

Paul watched him go, biting back his anger. He could see the headline: Ex-Marine Mauls School Boy it might say. He wondered if he'd made things even worse for Rajeer. That night as he cleaned, he hardly heard Professor Simpson's droning in the next room. He couldn't get his mind off Rajeer. He wanted to protect the kid. He knew the boy's father would probably tell him it was because he wanted to make up for the other one: the one he'd murdered.

He was exhausted by the time he got home and dozed off on the couch with the eleven o'clock news on the television. He dreamed.

Abid Akbar. That was the boy's name. But in the dream it was Paul's name too.

His mother held his hand as she walked to the market. She held it too tight. The sidewalks were crowded and the street was full of honking cars. He could feel his mother's tension. She walked so fast he could barely keep up and he knew she was wishing she'd waited another day to go shopping. But they'd been out of milk and bread and his baby sister was crying with hunger. His mother left her with his Aunt Miriam telling her she'd be back in only a couple of hours. He'd begged to come because he liked to see the soldiers and the commotion of the city. It excited him and she could never tell him 'no' although he guessed she wished she had on this occasion. He had to admit there was too much excitement in the city even for him today. He felt the tension in the air; the threat of impending violence. His mother kept glancing between a group of black robed men lurking near an alleyway and uniformed Americans patrolling the streets with rifles. She was afraid of the Americans and was always telling him to stay away from them.

Don't speak to them, Abid, she would tell him. They mean you no good.

Okay, Mama, he would answer. But he wasn't sure she was right. He watched them when he was in the city. He liked the easy way they talked and walked even when they patrolled. The Americans were quick to smile and laugh. But he knew why his mother was afraid of them. They'd killed her brother.

"Are you scared, Mama?" he asked.

"No. We just need to get home as fast as we can."

"If you let go of my hand I can keep up with you better."

She didn't answer except to squeeze his hand a little tighter and walk half a step faster. Then he heard the sharp crack of gunfire. People on the crowded sidewalk scattered for shelter. His mother was dragging him toward an open shop as well but then someone wrenched him from her grasp. Abid saw that it was one of the black robed men. The man wrapped his arm around Abid's chest so tightly he had to wheeze for breath. The man's robe smelled of mildew and sweat and his grip was like steel. He lifted Abid off the ground as if he weighed no more than his baby sister. He heard his mother scream but the crowd had already swept her away from his grasp.

"Mama!" he screamed. But his voice was mute to his own ears amidst the cacophony around him.

"God is great!" the man shouted. He fired his automatic weapon towards the American uniforms with his free hand. Abid saw one of them fall as the man's bullet found its mark. Then he understood what was happening. He'd become a human shield. He struggled against his captor's grasp, kicking his legs and trying to lower his head to bite his hand. But his efforts were futile. The man's grip was too strong. He saw something flash from the corner of his eyes and turned his head in the light's direction. On a rooftop, he saw a black figure lying prone with a rife pointing at him.

In the next moment, the world turned red. He felt himself collapse to the ground and heard the crack of a gunshot as if it were coming from another world. Then there was only darkness.

Paul opened his eyes. An infomercial played on the television screen: some workout program that could make you as lean as a Navy SEAL in only six weeks. He fumbled in the semi-darkness for the remote and hit the power button. The pitch-blackness of the room unsettled him once the television was off. It was the same dream. It didn't come every night or even every week but it always came. He'd never told anyone about it. He'd never told anyone about shooting the boy at all and as far as he knew no one else knew he had done it. There were other Marines on the street that day in Baghdad but in the confusion of the firefight, it was possible that none of them had seen exactly what happened. If they had, none had ever mentioned it to him. War was war and any Marine who'd been inside of it knew that shit happens in war and the normal rules don't apply.

But when the war is over and civilization prevails again, you have to live with yourself. Every day since he'd tried to justify what he'd done and couldn't do it. He'd purposely murdered a child because that child's life was an inconvenient obstacle obscuring his true target. What kind of man was he to have been capable of such an evil act? It flew in the face of everything he'd believed about himself and no matter what he tried to do for the rest of his life to make up for it, it wouldn't matter. He was certain a braver man would have killed himself to even the score. But he was not that man.

He stopped his mind from going down that road and forced himself to stand from the sofa to grope through the darkness to his bedroom. He fell on the mattress and closed his eyes. Thankfully, he didn't dream.