The Boy Before The Barracks.

The slow death of invested living after dying too many times.

This short piece is the result of a challenge put to me by Barnes.

“Write a short story/prelude featuring a poem centered on a soldier that cannot stop fighting once he is home, unaware that he is still worth love.”

I have not served. Nor do I claim to know the aftermath of such a journey. But I do know people– the undercurrents which whisk away our sense of connection to each other, to home, to our old selves. Though the catalyst is foreign to me, the spectrum of human experience is not so vast that one can’t squint up the line and see the far-off silhouette of another walking, in different shoes, on the same ground.

The form fell into prose. Into a letter written by a drowning man to his only life raft.

---

Babe,

I know. You deserve better. You deserve morning walks. And laundry piles that smell like spring. You deserve unmade beds begging you to lay a little longer. And spit-takes at re-runs of Seinfeld.

You deserve thoughtful breakfasts. Birds in nests with the runny yolks, and clover-shaped pancakes for the girls. You deserve surprise bouquets of your favorite sunflowers from Solomon’s. And an open ear when you have an interesting dream.

You deserve the little things. The ones I gave you before. Back when we wrote out our future on bar napkins at Shady’s. But the ink has bled out too much to decipher. I can’t give you those things anymore. Trained away by superior officers. Snuffed out on deployment. I’ve forgotten how to hear wants over orders. I’m tired, babe. And weak. I can’t break out of my casing. But I promise you I want to.

I want to like coffee shops again. The charm of that college barista writing some wrong name on my cup of burnt coffee. Telling me how she’s waiting for her lunch break to learn lines for an audition that might change her life. I loved that girl. I loved that she knew my order– that she knew I knew her schedule. I loved reading sides with her on her lunch breaks. And how she made me laugh and play pretend. I loved how the playing made its way into our vows. I promise I love that woman still. But I can’t say now if my name is wrong on the cup. I am not here. Not really.

I know all the words for our beautiful things. But I can’t recall the definitions. I don’t know how to find what I can’t identify. I can’t do this on my own.

That’s what it’s done, Babe. My time as a hero has dammed the stream. I’m standing here, ankle deep in a tepid puddle– the residue of the living we swam in.

I’m so sorry I never came back. I meant to survive, and I did. But I never came back. I want to say I hate it. But hate requires care, and I’m deflated.

Our girls. They don’t know their father like you knew him. They don’t know the sound of my snorting laughs or snoring sleep. I don’t laugh like I used to. I don’t sleep deeply now.

I am a dog tag. A uniform. A medal in a box in the closet. I am a father. But I am not a dad. A husband on paper. A spent casing. I’m a curse. A decision. A mistake. To have served a whole country instead of a woman. To have raised a weapon instead of our children.

Thank you’s from strangers and holidays and plaques. All of them empty. I want to go back to the coffee shop. To dance and feel my hips be loose and my shoulders fall forward. I want to climb off of this ironing board I’ve become and feel my body and cry. But the rigamortis is set. The blood is dried. I am black steel and a sand-filled barrel. A standard-issue body and a heart in a helmet.

Once you’re a soldier they call you a man. But never a boy again. They teach you the utility of numbness. The danger of staying in place. How to quiet the buzzings of home and funnel your focus on a mission until the mission is done. And when it is done they send you home. But keep the boy in the barracks.

So now I’m home. Missing that boy who knew how to wrap limbs ‘round his woman and stay in place long after the sun comes up. I miss burnt coffee and pancakes, and pushing the girls on the backyard swings. I miss sunflowers, and snorting, and racing the fuel gauge on unplanned roadtrips. I miss listening to records with a quiet mind and your hand in mine. I miss the buzzings of home. Even while sitting on our couch writing this now.

Wait for me, babe. I’m a soldier. I know how to fight. And I will. If you promise to remind me all the definitions of our beautiful things I’m fighting for.

All my Love,

The Boy Before the Barracks

---

Sweat all up in the sheets.
Making the bed sink in.
Harder to get out of
without waking you.
But I’ve got to.
Gotta shake off the terror
of sleeping before you see me
as a boy who needs protecting.

Sit up.
Feet down.
Thank god for high arches.
Concave on the carpet.
Keeps me from sinkin’ in
before the pot brews.
Then the ding.
My Casio G-Shock.
That old alarm.
Like a tap on the shoulder
whenever I forget
to turn around again and notice
I left myself behind.
Goddamnit!
I can’t turn off the beeping.
I don’t need it to tell me
there’s a mission to accomplish.

Feed the dog.
Do the dishes.
Kiss my wife.
Get the mail.
Wake the girls.
Remember to kiss my wife.
A short list.
I can do this.

I hold my child like a rifle
when she’s crying.
and she’s crying all the time.
I can’t do this.
I need a break.
I sit on our couch.
In old indents of an ass
that thought it was a hero.
I’m the demographic for daytime TV.
The landfill for gameshows
that spew out the screen.
Fills up the head faster than thoughts.
I watch the Rumba.
I’m jealous of a Rumba.
How pathetic.
Running its drills.
Sucking up stains.
Taunting me with its faith
that it’ll always find its dock.
What a stupid thought.

I miss talking to my wife.
I miss talking to my wife.
I miss talking to god.

Get up.
There’s still a mission to accomplish.
Go get the mail.
Finger through the mail.
V.A. checks and bills.
A lawnmower starts
in the neighbor’s yard.
I jump out of my shoes.
My face gets hot.
My breath gets short.
Knees start to buckle.
My head is rubble.
My words are busted.
My hands are lethal.
I don’t know how to pet my dog.

I stumble up the driveway
My eyes are going white.
The beeping of my wrist watch
filling up my ears
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I open the door.
I drop the mail.
I fall to my knees.
She runs from the kitchen.
Puts her hand on my cheek.
I remember the mission.
I kiss her like a target.
The ringing falls back.
The color comes back.
Her breath tastes like silence
as she whispers in my ear
I’m here. You’re here.
That kiss
that I left to protect.
A two man squad.
The only thing I’ve got
still protecting me.

-M.R.