I enter the VA Outpatient Clinic at 16:55. Coming through these sliding doors, I get looks from those who fought in Vietnam, Korea, maybe a few from World War II—it’s hard to tell when they fought, all of them looking so old. They have wheelchairs, oxygen tanks, catheters. I’m not so lucky. Scars don’t ravage my body, and I have all my limbs.
Empty seats line walls, and I sit where I can watch doors and hallways. A sign attached to a perched television reads, Please do not change channel or adjust volume. I can’t reach it unless I move my chair, but my seat doesn’t move. Bolts thread through its base, anchoring it.
The newscaster says, “Kim Kardashian isn’t one to let her five-foot-two stature get her down—the reality superstar is constantly reaching new heights in sky-high heels.”
There’s another story occupying real estate on screen. Words scroll along a banner below talking heads. 66 US troops have died so far this month, making August the deadliest month for American forces in the nearly decade-long war. It rolls across the screen and is gone, followed by rising gas prices.
Decade. The word rattles in my head, bouncing around like a broken tab in aluminum can. Kosovo was why I signed; the Global War on Terror was the war I got. War in places so dry it begs for blood in the absence of rain. I rub my black wristbands, feeling every etching in the tins.
The anchor drones on about guests, clothes, and money spent. It’s sickening. The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier should be converted into a catacomb. I don’t want to be in this place. Nothing good comes from it. Lorena wants me to be here, thinks it can save me. Save us. I suppose that’s reason enough. Better her advice than my brother’s. Rob would probably tell me to get laid.
Beneath empty seats, dust wads cling. I strangle armrests, and breathe deep, hold for eight seconds, release and wait, then breathe again. I should have been called by now.
Bulletproof glass encloses the reception area. Metal wires weave between panes, forming diamonds, and I see a hollow reflection of myself bound in webs as I approach. Dim lights flicker within. I press a button. Press it again. Again and hold. Someone must hear it. A door opens.
A large-bellied man with thin arms wipes mayonnaise from his chin with a paper napkin. Even now he takes his time. He sits, adjusts himself, sips on his styrofoam cup’s straw, sets it down, then rubs his hands. He leans his fat face into his microphone.
“Can I help you?” he says.
“I had an appointment at four.”
He checks his screen. “You’re late. Did you get your notice? You need to arrive here fifteen minutes prior to your appointment.”
“Yes.”
“Name and Last four of your social.”
“Michael Ward,” I say. The numbers roll off my tongue like spittle.
“Dr. Casper may not be able to see you. Just a minute, please.” He makes a call. Drums his fingers on his table, then presses a button. An electric buzz grates in a nearby door. “Head on in. Last room on the right.”
I enter, then sit. Water stains on his wall have turned brown. A stench of ammonia lingers. Looks like someone’s been pissing on this wall for years, but it’s water. Just water. He asks me short questions; I give him short answers.
“Your prescriptions are current,” he says.
“Citalopram and Zolpidem—yes.”
“Do you feel like they are doing a good job? Any reactions?”
The sleeping pills are useless. Jack Daniels works better. “No problems. They’re fine.”
His face glows blue. Reflecting in his glasses, black lines of text grow. I can’t read what he is writing, and I can’t see his eyes. He hums like the slow drone of an electric toothbrush, then says, “Any problems with memory?”
“None that I can recall.” He doesn’t laugh. Probably heard it before. “Sometimes I mix up dates and events.”
“Oh?”
I dip my head. “Things that happened.” I remember them now like sprawl. Metal jutting out of metal in no particular order. “I didn’t keep a journal, you know, and sometimes I feel like all of my deployments have fused.”
“And how many deployments is that?”
It should be in his database, I’ve answered that so many fucking times. “Five.”
“But you’ve been sleeping well? At least six to eight hours?”
“Well enough. Could it be caused by the meds, my memory?”
“There are many things that can affect it: sleep, prior injuries, smells and other stimulants. I suppose your medications could be a factor, but it’s not listed as a side effect.”
He keeps talking. I rest my head on my fist. He says symptoms, and I give him numbers. On a scale of one to five, one being no occurrence at all, and five being frequent. I never score below a four.
I scratch at a loose string in my chair, and as I pull it out of its stitching, the cushion expands. When the thread snaps, I ball it between my thumb and index finger, then stow it in my pocket. My wristwatch’s soft ticks vibrate on my skin. I haven’t been counting them. I should’ve been. Dr. Casper asked a question. What was it? Think.
My rifle’s bolt glides out easily and rests in my hand—a grimy hand where solvent and carbon outline every crevice and fold. A torn and stained shirt wipes the bolt dry, but residue remains. A toothbrush and dental pick scrape it free. Pipe cleaners penetrate nooks. Snake the bore. Disassemble, lube, reassemble. Functions check. Attempt to place the selector switch on safe. If the selector switch fails to go on safe, pull the charging handle to the rear and release. Place the selector lever on semi. Pull the trigger to the rear and hold. The hammer should fall. Hold the trigger. Pull the charging handle to the rear and release. Release the trigger, and pull it to the rear again. The hammer should fall. Place the selector lever on burst. Pull the charging handle to the rear and release. Pull the trigger to the rear and hold. The hammer should fall. Hold the trigger. Pull the charging handle to the rear three times and release the trigger. Pull the trigger. The hammer should fall. Release the trigger. Pull the charging handle to the rear. Place on safe.
“I’m sorry. What was the question?”
“These disruptive thoughts. Can you recall the last time they interfered with your life?”
“Makes it hard to drive.”
“Why?”
“I want to hit the brakes if I’m being tailgated.”
“Do you?”
I shrug. “No.”
“What else?”
Was there something to his tone? What else. What not else? Everything. “Passing under bridges, I jump lanes, or ride between them.”
“Do you think about it before you do it?”
“I check my mirrors, look ahead, then gun it.” There’s no planning to it, and he knows I’m lying. Not that he cares.
“Do you feel like you may be a threat to yourself or others?”
Am I a threat? Everyone else is a threat. They try to get to close. They want to thank me for a burden they’ll never know, or to tell me how they would’ve done it even though they’ve never put on a uniform. They want to tell me that what I did was fine, that it’s over, to get a job that pays minimum wage and be thankful for it. They want to inspect wounds without anesthetic. Deep breath.
“No. I’m fine.”
“Good. Just keep up with your medications and call these numbers if you have any problems. ”He rises and opens his door. As I pass, he taps my shoulder with a closed fist like we’re buddies. “Soldier on, eh.”
I nod my head, bite my tongue. Go fuck yourself.
I pass through empty hallways. Heels click on linoleum and echo. Lights flicker, flashing in my face like flares from a carbine’s muzzle.
Parking deck’s ninth floor is empty and enclosed, and I climb the stairs leading to it, pulling on the railing. Withered trees below expose every planning flaw within Los Angeles. Roads sprout as if organic, sprawling and knotting like wild vines. Each highway seems constructed to circumvent past mistakes. Orange cones and warning signs litter the streets. There’s no symmetry to it. No order. My car is cold. I take off my wrist bands and loop them over my stick shift, then turn the ignition and pull out of my space. I look ahead and wonder if this vehicle could accelerate to a velocity great enough to bust this deck’s concrete lip. Force versus mass. It’s a good thought experiment, escape velocity. My car’s engine rattles. Service light comes on. I can’t remember the last time I changed its oil.
I follow painted arrows atop asphalt along a downward spiral. I dial through radio stations, but none of the music appeals to me, so I turn it off and look between my ceiling and rearview mirror. Stars can’t break through this darkening sky. All these high-pressure sodium lights illuminate smog. I stop at a sign and wait for a gap in traffic. I’m sick of waiting, and if there’s no gap for me, then I’ll have to make one.
I cut someone off, and he doesn’t seem pleased. In the mirror, the driver points at me, fingers extended and joined. His head tilts and bobs. I hit my brakes.
On the highway, vehicles lurch. I wish my car were bigger, that it had a cattle-catcher bolted to the front. This herd irritates. They’re too busy with their phones, food, and cosmetics to know what’s going on around them. They don’t look for the signs, and when highways split, they jump lanes too late. Most often they make it, but sometimes they don’t. It’s those moments when congestion begins. Not because of a wreck—that gets pushed to the shoulder quick. It’s when people rubberneck, that’s when things bog down.
The procession bows downhill, then arcs up. I keep my eyes ahead and count brake lights until I lose track. Flares burn off to my right and bathe my cab and face in red as I pass a Mustang smashed against a side rail. Traffic clears as if nothing happened. As if nothing matters. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it never did. Broken hash marks lead to a junction, and I drive under a cloverleaf overpass, unable to switch lanes.