Terminal Leave

Slater’s got the PTSD.

She says it just like that.

Not from combat, though. She’s a pay clerk after all. It’s from this other thing that happened to her. She’s not saying what. At least not to us. And by us I mean the people who muster together in the morning at base admin while the Navy sorts out our situation. You know—the fuck ups, the fat bodies, the fakers.

And speaking of fakers, Rutherford says Slater’s story is just that.

A story.

A hustle.

A get-out-of-uniform-no-questions-asked card.

“Not a judgment, just an observation,” says Rutherford.

Keep in mind that Rutherford doesn’t have much room to talk. She’s fighting an ADSEP charge for popping on a piss test. At a party and got a headache and someone gave her a pill she thought was whatever but turned out to be something else. Ecstasy, the test said.

“Thing is,” Rutherford says. “It did help my headache go away.”

Ha ha.

Rutherford’s got jokes.

She knows it doesn’t look good. She’s just waiting on the official word.

It’s a shame too because Rutherford, ecstasy incident notwithstanding, is a pretty squared away petty officer. Hard-charger, even. Squadron sailor of the year. Sikorsky maintenance man of the quarter. A green shirt on back-to-back deployments. Launched jets from the middle of the Arabian sea and around the horn of Africa and somewhere in the Somali Basin.

More impressive considering she’s so tiny.

Five feet if she’s lucky.

Drowns in the smallest uniform they can issue her.

Sitting shotgun in the duty van next to me, her blue camo sleeves swallow her little hands.

Why we’ve got the duty van is because we’ve got appointments.

Appointments! we tell Chief.

Medical appointments. Legal appointments. No one has more appointments than me and Rutherford.

But really we just use the duty van to fuck off.

If someone thought to check, we’d probably be in some shit. But it’s not like Rutherford can get into more trouble. And me? I simply have stopped caring.

Anyway, I like our little conspiracy. Also I’m kind of in love with her.

Or I am until the ADSEP board comes back with their decision. Slater breaks the news to me. I’m looking for Rutherford but Slater says I just missed her.

Bad conduct discharge. BCD.

Winner, winner, big chicken dinner.

“Damn,” I say.

“Damn is right,” says Slater. She points at the duty van keys in my hand. “Where ya goin?”

#

We are going to Bellingham. Me and Slater. No real reason.

“What’s your story,” Slater asks, sitting shotgun in the duty van.

I say I don’t have one.

“Everyone has a story.”

“Not me, I guess.”

We stop for coffee at this roadside kiosk where the baristas wear thong bikinis.

“Oh so you’re a pig,” Slater says.

She gets a muffin. Eats it in pinches over the next hour.

It’s raining when we get to Bellingham. This constant misty drizzle.

I ask Slater what she wants to do. She asks me what I usually do.

“This is pretty much it,” I say.

We drive until we see a sign for the Canadian border. We turn around.

“Okay then,” Slater says after a long stretch of silence. “Make one up. A story. Like about who you are and stuff.”

“I told you. I don’t really have one.”

“That’s why you gotta make one up.”

Fuck off, I want to say.

“Like you did?” I say instead.

“Like I did what?”

“Whatever you told the doctors to make them think you have the PTSD,” I say. “Now that’s a story I’d like to hear.”

“I do have the PTSD,” Slater says. “I mean, really. I have it. I have paperwork. I have the fucking PTSD!”

“Rutherford didn’t think so,” I say.

Slater does a voice. “Rutherford says, Rutherford says,” even though this is the first I’m bringing her up.

“It’s just that you always seemed fine to me,” I say. “In fact, this is the most worked up I’ve ever seen you.”

“Well, I don’t have to tell you anything,” Slater says. “It’s the law.”

“Medical conditions, right.”

Traffic is backed up crossing the bridge to Whidbey. We slow to a crawl and then stop completely. Slater rolls down the window and cranes her neck out.

“Something happened,” she reports back.

I put the duty van in park. We wait. Three songs and a commercial break go by on the radio.

“Okay fine then,” Slater says. “Okay, I’ll tell you. Do you still wanna know?”

I make a gesture like I’m-all-ears, baby.

“I do have a medical condition. But you’re right. It’s not PTSD.” She covers her face with her hands and takes a deep breath. “I have Down syndrome,” she says.

We inch forward in traffic. Barely.

“Fuck off, please,” I say.

“No really,” Slater says, lifting her face and smiling. “I’m a retard.” She droops her eyelids and sticks her tongue out.

Ha ha.

Slater’s got jokes.

“That’s not funny,” I say.

“Then why are you laughing?” Slater asks, continuing the impression. She adds some noises.

“I’m not,” I say, even though I am a little.

“See?” Slater says. “Aren’t I better than little old Rutherford?”

“No comment,” I say.

She changes the radio station. “What are you getting out for anyway? Huh? What’s so wrong with you?”

Since leaving Bellingham, the day has cleared. A group of cyclists ride past us on the shoulder. “Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m not getting out. I’ve got hard orders to base admin.”

“Really? I thought it was just civilian contract people in the enlisted billets there.”

Fuck it, I think.

“Yeah, they phased out active duty about a year ago.” I glance over at her from behind my sunglasses. “I was on staff when it happened. Everyone was supposed to get new orders, but there was some kind of mix up in Millington. My detailer told me I was going to a flag assignment in Oceana, but when I got my official orders, it said to depart from NAS Whidbey Island to permanently change duty station to… NAS Whidbey Island.”

“Ha,” Slater says. “Classic.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t point it out to the travel clerk or anything,” I say.

“It’s just a typo.”

“No, they’re official orders,” I say. “Got a big stamp on them that says so.”

“Yeah, but…” Slater trails off, thinking. “I mean—”

“Really, I thought someone would catch it. But no one did. Everyone was going on leave. I did too. Took like 30 days. Came back and the rest of my shop had already detached. I mean, my entire chain of command. That’s when I saw the group of the TAD folks mustering. I went over to see if I knew anyone. At the end, the Chief asked if there was anyone whose name he didn’t call. I didn’t really think about it. I just raised my hand.”

“Damn. And you’re still getting paid? This was how long ago?” Slater asks.

“A year. Almost a year.”

She shakes her head. “But like, someone’s gotta figure it out though, right? On some spreadsheet somewhere? Budgets and manning and all that? Someone is gonna be short one asshole.”

“That’s what I’m saying. I thought so too. And yet here I am.”

“What’re you gonna do? Just keep milking it?” she says. “What’s your plan?”

I gesture to the duty van, the traffic jam, the forest of Washington state surrounding us. “You’re looking at it.” I say.

#

The traffic eventually clears and we stop at a gas station after crossing the bridge back to the island. Slater hops out to use the bathroom. At the spot next to ours, a kid sitting in the backseat of a sedan watches me pump gas through an open window.

He points at me. I wave hello.

A man gets out of the sedan and approaches. He gestures to the kid. “He wants to see your uniform up close,” he says. “That okay?”

I say of course it is. I give the kid a high five. Show him all my velcro pockets.

“You can ask him now,” the man says to the kid.

“What’s your job in the Army?”

“To him, not to me,” the man says.

“What’s your job in the Army?”

“The Navy, actually,” I say to the kid.

“See?” the man says. “See how they have different uniforms?”

“Well, I’m gonna be an Army man,” the kid says.

Slater comes out of the convenience store and walks over to us.

“Meet a future soldier,” I say to her.

The man thanks us for our service. We’re almost about to leave when I hear a knock on my window. The man again.

“This is gonna sound—well, I just wanted to ask. No stupid questions, right?” He coughs in his fist. “He can’t do it, can he? Join? None of the branches, right? He wouldn’t be allowed?”

I look over at Slater. She doesn’t know what to say either.

“I know, I know. I’m pretty sure he can’t. But here’s my question, though okay? You know how they have the Special Olympics? Well, have you ever heard of something like that? Like, the military version?”

He stares right at me. I could tell him anything, but he already knows. I say I’m sorry, but I haven’t heard of anything like that before.

I start to say something else but he cuts me off. “Yeah okay. Damn. Stupid, I know.” He claps his hand against the duty van door. “All right then.”

Slater and I don’t talk much the rest of the way back.

It’s getting dark and we’re a couple miles from base when Slater starts giggling quietly to herself.

It takes me a little to realize she’s crying.

Says she doesn’t really have the PTSD. Says she made the whole thing up.

Doesn’t know why. Doesn’t have a plan. Just needs a fresh start. Doesn’t care where.

Says she thought her life would be different. Can’t say exactly how. Says she imagined things would happen in a way that made sense, but they didn’t. Instead nothing made sense. Instead everything felt like an accident, like random, like what was she doing? Like what the hell, you know?

Says she’s sorry for crying, sorry for all the drama.

She’s still going when I get this crazy feeling. Dark lightning, I don’t know. Like a big happy wolf. That’s the best way I can describe it. Like a big happy and hungry cartoon wolf. Like if I could do anything, what would I do?

I think maybe I would keep driving.

Just keep going.

No plans. No uniforms.

A little bit of something after so much nothing.

Stupid, I know.

“Hey that was the gate, I think,” Slater says next to me.

“Was it now,” I say, and press my boot down hard on the accelerator.