Former Private
Willy Jessup sat on the edge of his bed, naked save his dog tags, his heart racing
and his eyes darting around his mother’s living room. He’d always been
paranoid, that was nothing new. But, this. He grabbed his pants from the floor,
slid them on, and buttoned up while looking for his shoes. He’d never understand
where shoes walked off to when he deliberately sat them down out of the way. He
retrieved his shirt via his left shoe and his socks via his right. Then fell
into his grandpa’s recliner, where he groggily shoved one foot after another
into his socks and shoes. Half-awake and half-dressed, he stumbled over to the
coffee table where he’d fallen out with a mostly full beer and a half-smoked
joint. He shoved the joint tip into his mouth as he clumsily patted around on
the coffee table until he found the lighter. Once he was smoking, he picked up
the beer and raised it in salute to a mantel filled with pictures featuring his
uniformed forefathers. After swallowing warm, flat beer, Jessup took another
hit, and then stood up in a fog. Somehow keeping his balance, he waited for the
fog to pass, and then crossed the living room to the mantel where generations
of uniformed Jessups stared at him. He frowned, the proud, brave Jessups never had a military fuck up before me. What’s
my legacy? With the joint between his lips and his beer in one hand, he
managed to get his dog tags off and hung them from his own military picture. He stared at his reflection, ran a hand
through his slightly grown out hair, pulled deeply on the joint, and then
laughed, “aw, fuck it. An oath’s an oath. Ain’t it, Commander?”