Finding Sgt. Kent by Raymond Hutson

Author:Raymond Hutson
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-63393-622-5
Publisher: Koehler Books
Published: 2015-01-16T16:00:00+00:00

7

I woke up at 0534 hours, morning filtering through my lids and a visceral sense of increased traffic on the highway, the growl of the big rigs and the wake that followed them. Eyes open. Eyes left. Eyes right. Firenze Café, Florence, Montana, sunrise splintering off the sign. I climbed out of the car, stretched my legs, desperately needing to piss. Café was locked. I couldn’t remember turning off the highway or parking the car. I stood by the front fender of my little Corolla, wishing for the moment I’d bought a pickup, and left a wet spot in the sand, brushing gravel over it with the side of my boot. Map flattened on the roof of the car, I had crossed I-90 last night without noticing and was now fifteen or twenty miles south of Missoula.

I drove north, turned west on 90, stopping at a rest area after a few miles. Crushed sacks from McDonald’s emblazoned with tire tracks, used diapers, two tall Bud Ice cans sat by the curb. Four garbage barrels, none of them overloaded. Toilets had piss everywhere, flies patrolling the thick air. Magic-marker drawing, bottom half of a naked girl on the partition next to me, labeled pusie. Had to be sure we understood. Did look a little like a collapsed suspension bridge. A different hand had scratched GARY’S just before pusie. Graffiti in every toilet in the world, but nowhere as apolitical as home. Just the same old anatomy lesson—simple language and one-track minds. No wonder everybody thinks we’re pigs.

I finished and washed my hands in the gritty white soap, trying to splash my face as well, but the faucet wouldn’t stay on long enough. I didn’t lock the car, not sure why not, but I remembered the Tokarev in the glove compartment and hurried out, hands and face still wet. Maybe the next toilet I visit, I’ll scribble DEAtH to grate sAtan Amerika on the wall, some phony Arabic next to it, get the Homeland Security folks on point.

The pistol was still there. I locked the compartment. On patrol you never locked a vehicle— can’t recall if there was a lock at all besides the chain and padlock we put on the steering at night in the pen. In the field one or two guys always stayed behind, ready to drive, one on point with the fifty. Push the big red button when you start it up again. Locking a vehicle when I leave still isn’t a habit.

Backing out, more garbage blew across my windshield.

On returning from Germany I flew into Seattle, starved for grease and salt and fine-shaped asses on girls you could look at and talk to, any music you wanted, any book you wanted to read, or reread, any movie, anytime everything. I rented a car and almost immediately got lost, and did so every day, once making it as far as the Peace Arch at the border. I ran out of gas a couple of times. Got panicked once in a parking garage, took a ramp too quick and scraped a fender.

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