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.