Timothy Tarkelly's work appears in Friends Journal, Cabinet of Heed, Unstamatic, and others. He’s written several books including The You We Know and Love (Spartan Press) and A Horse Called Victory (Kelsay Books). When he's not writing, he teaches in Southeast Kansas.
Nielson
I was a bad soldier, and I got myself kicked out before it mattered. I met a lot of people in the Army who experienced some things I never did, saw things I never saw. I’ve talked with some of them since those days and I’ve heard some real horror stories, but I keep coming back to Nielson, that squirrelly kid from Delta company. He was pint-sized, all glasses and loose-fitting camo. I saw him at Davis’s going away party, one of those parties where thirty soldiers cram into two hotel rooms with a keg and a shitty stereo. He was by the keg at first, being a real red-cup-champion. Then, he started drifting toward the beds, then the floor, and finally the balcony, where (for reasons I still don’t understand) he threw all of his pocket change into the parking lot one coin at a time. When someone suggested he quit, he didn’t curse at them. He didn’t buck up, or challenge their authority over hotel balconies. Instead, he looked them in the eye and cursed at his recruiter: “That motherfucker, that motherfucker. He told me if I joined the Army I’d finally get girls.”
Long Beach
The first time I meet Gina she is wandering down the access road. Gordon Highway is alight with Friday night traffic. All of us soldiers are scouting the motel room party scene. The rooms are all but booked, and here comes Gina with her jeans unzipped and a 40 oz bottle of beer crammed (somehow) into her waistline. I fall in love immediately and paint our futures with unreachable destinations: trains we will one day hop onto, city streets we will one day dance in, jewelry stores we will one day hold up. She is nothing but trouble, and I am her biggest fan.
We bond quickly and spend weekends and evenings drooling over each others’ dreams. One day, we plan our escape. We decide to meet at the Charlie Company smoking area at midnight, take a cab to the Greyhound station, and go AWOL with four middle fingers shining in the moonlight as it radiates through the exhaust fumes. We will busk in Long Beach and grow old by a dirty sea.