|
This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Lonely Visitor” Down in the Dirt v209 (7/23)  Order the paperback book: 
|
|
| |
A suitable place
John Farquhar Young
“Another place,” Gary murmurs as he nudges his aged truck into the small rural town. Ginger haired, in his early 40s, newly discharged from the army having attained the rank of a non-commissioned officer, and now almost back to full physical fitness after a bad injury sustained while on active duty, he is still looking for a property in a suitable location where he can adjust to civilian life.
Suitable location? A question which has consumed his thinking as his mind flits around a number of possibilities. The options seem to fall between somewhere busy where he can lose himself in the noise and movement of city life; or, at the other extreme, somewhere rural, even quite isolated where he can be alone when he wants to be, where he can work on a piece of land, doing manual things, working without any pressure at his own pace. Am I permanently dislocated from the world - in it but not belonging to any part of it? It’s a nagging worry that accompanies him as he navigates his way from place to place.
Brain injury? The scans showed no abiding reason for concern. “Your brain was shaken quite badly by the blast,” the specialist said in a matter-of-fact way. “It could have been much worse. Even so you need to be patient. It may take some time for everything to get back to normal. So...my suggestion is that you should just get on with your life.” His smile signalled the end of the consultation and a friendly goodbye. Getting back to normal? Brain damaged or not, Gary knows that for the moment, although he is physically fit, he is no longer the same sharply put-together person who edged his troop carefully but confidently along the dark dusty road in that faraway country.
A suitable place? The military psychologist, a youngish sympathetic woman assigned to help him find a way out of the tangled mental jungle where he found himself, counselled him against an isolated location. “Too much time alone with yourself can be tricky,” she said, somehow combining a slight frown with a smile. A pleasant person, but her words didn’t really help. Anxiety remains a problem - not fear - more a formless free-floating unease that shrouds his life and in strange way reminds him of the sea mist which settled around the cottages of the coastal village where he passed his childhood years, formless and lingering, oozing with vague imaginings. The mist is the enemy but how do you fight a mist? He misses the solidity of army life, the training, the missions, the enemy, the things achieved, the sport, the comradeship.
The career people weren’t much help. “How about the police?” they asked. Possible, he finds himself thinking. But the idea of cruising around in a patrol car doesn’t seem to fit what he wants out of life.
First find a place to stay. Job later. So check out different locations.
Seems like a pleasant town - his first impression as he parks his truck. He books himself into a nearby hotel. Quiet, nothing much going on. Good! But, he fiercely reminds himself, nothing is ever the way it seems. Nothing!
He strolls into the town centre. A pub with a cheery exterior attracts him. He orders a beer from a large friendly lady behind the bar, takes a seat and smiles a hello at a couple of elderly men at a nearby table who nod in response. Small, warm and friendly, he thinks as he casts an appreciative glance around the interior. For a few moments he tunes into the murmured, good humorous chat between the old men. Normal folk, he thinks, ordinary people with normal lives, normal problems. He lets his mind wander. They know they belong here. Will I ever belong anywhere?
The peace of the pub is suddenly shattered by the invasion of a noisy group of four men an hour later. Farming types or forestry men. Halfway drunk already, Gary judges. He picks up the anxiety of the woman behind the bar who is now frowning as she vigorously polishes a beer glass. The two elderly men at the next table quickly finish their beer and head for the door. Bad signals!
As he warily observes the group out of the corner of his eye he becomes aware that one of the men, the largest of the group, is scrutinising him. There is a moment’s focussed stillness about the man. After a moment he turns and says something to his companions who briefly glance in his direction and chuckle.
Time to go! Gary decides.
Now alert to the probability of trouble he casually drains the remnants of his glass and makes for the pub door carefully hedging his way around the group now partially blocking his path. As he passes, the big guy steps back into his path. Gary senses the line of movement, and slips to one side, a fraction only, but enough to allow the man to slide past him and stumble into a nearby table. After a moment he regains his balance and glares at Gary.
“You made me spill my beer,” he growls.
“I didn’t touch you,” Gary replies quietly, attempting a small smile.
Years of experience and training ready his reflexes.
“You tripped me up.”
“I avoided you and you fell. I’m pleased you didn’t hurt yourself.” Gary keeps his voice low and even.
“You’ll need to get me another beer,” the man retorts. “And my friends.”
“I didn’t touch you. You lost your balance.”
As he exits the pub he hears a woman’s voice. “Leave it alone Geordie.”
A few seconds later he picks up the sound of the bar door opening and slamming shut.
“Hey you. I’m not finished with you.”
A nice town? Gary sighs inwardly as he turns to face the man. He says nothing, and simply takes in the scene - the big man, his large bald head reflecting the light of a nearby streetlamp, and beside him, another man, grinning. The witness, he thinks wearily. Someone to say I started the fight.
The punch when it comes is a furious, lumbering haymaker, the huge fist following a wide arc towards his head. Gary easily blocks the punch and in the same fluid moment jabs the straightened fingers of his right hand into the man’s throat.
“He’ll be ok in a minute,” he says quietly as he watches the big man now on his hands and knees violently coughing and retching.
He turns and inclines his head close to the companion’s ear. “Do you have anything you want to add to this discussion?” The companion shakes his head.
As he heads out of the town the following morning Gary reflects on the incident. Suitable place, no such place, he reflects sadly, as he passes along the country road. At a junction he decides to turn left. Left or right, what difference does it make? After a few miles, the road bends and his progress is temporarily blocked by a manoeuvring mechanical digger. As he brings his truck to a halt he groans inwardly as he recognises one of the gang of workmen - the big man from the pub. A broad grin is gradually extending across the man’s large square face.
Here we go again, Gary thinks, as he watches the man lumber towards him. He rolls down his window alert to the need to control the anger mounting within him. I risked my life for him, for the likes of people like him, for thugs.
The big man nods his head seemingly pleased by this turn of events. “We met last night,” he says. “Seems that you won the argument.”
For a moment, Gary considers his response. “Not an argument I wanted.”
The big man nods again. “I got scolded by Maisie...the woman that owns the pub. Called me an oaf. Been barred from the pub for a while.” He shrugs and the grin reimposes itself on his face but there is also a friendly twinkle in his eyes. “Anyway I guess that I might owe you a pint...if you’re still going to be around that is.”
Gary nods. “Think I’ll be heading on,” he murmurs, trying to put a friendly expression on his face.
The man is silent for a moment. “You’re military aren’t you ... or were? Must be - the way you dealt with me.” He pauses. “My grandfather was in the military and got killed in a peace-time exercise. My father was in the army also. He drank a lot. I hated him. But I guess he had problems. He found it difficult to settle down.” Another pause. He shrugs as he steps away from the truck. “Well anyway ... take care, good luck and sorry about last night.”
In the rear-view mirror Gary sees the man re-applying himself to the road problem.
The brief exchange is still on his Gary’s mind as he crosses the boundary of the next town. He parks the truck then after a moment, reverses it back onto the road. Time to stop this nomadic nonsense, he thinks. Choose somewhere and adapt.
Three years later, Gary is a member of a police SWAT team. He enjoys the structure of the service, the challenges - and even the danger of his work. The free-floating anxiety which for a time shrouded his life has long since dissipated. He has a steady girlfriend but is wary of entering a long-term commitment.
His city apartment is convenient for his job, but he does enjoy city life during his off-duty hours. He is still unsure where he would like to live, what a suitable place might look like and where it might be easy for him to feel that he truly belongs.
