Default by Anjo Bordell

Author:Anjo Bordell [Bordell, Anjo]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Anjo Bordell
Published: 2014-06-04T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

I tried to sound tough, not to be messed with. “Wrong room, buddy.” The floor creaked as I edged along the wall to the open window on which he’d just banged. Peeking out from the darkness, I watched him descend the metal steps and cross the parking lot, casing empty cars while he kept an eye on the street like a man with one too many outstanding warrants, until he faded from view and rejoined the night.

The big sign out front softly buzzed within a humid halo. Neon red, white, and green—Sea Breeze Motel—each letter fully lit. A nice touch, almost classy. Expect nothing less in this fair city of Oceanside, California. Just outside the southern gate, a military town if there ever was one. It had all the bare essentials—surplus, barber, liquor shops. Burrito digs and dry cleaners. Strip clubs, dealers, hookers, and bums. Enchanting from a distance, warm and inviting with its elegant palm trees, moonlit beach, and romantic fishing pier stretching halfway to China. But boots on the ground, it was slit eyes and chalk lines, sleaze and grit.

I thought of Herschel and that bridge of his. Rats and maggots. Must be commonplace around here. I slid the window shut and bolted the lock. And my visitor? Uninvited, no idea. I drew the curtains. I made a face and smelled the fabric, brown and rancid like recycled cigarette butts. I blew my nose and washed my hands, then went back to bed.

AWOL is an Army term. The Marines prefer “unauthorized absence.” The chances of being caught were purportedly quite high should one attempt to flee. Especially for those short-sighted enough to hang around Oceanside, where the police were in cahoots with the base MPs. But I wasn’t running or hiding or going UA. I was on convalescent leave. Basket leave, we called it. Short for basket case. Or maybe to hell in a handbasket, if you were up for a midnight stroll around this neighborhood.

Marines fought tooth and nail for basket leave, usually unsuccessfully. Training injuries, a death in the family, suicidal fantasies, disease—wiseguy monkeyshines the commanders could spot from a mile away.

But since basket leave was one of a thousand military terms I had yet to be acquainted with, it had never occurred to me to request it. It was a gift from Lieutenant Bradford and the battalion commander, Lt. Colonel Templeton. They had agreed—empathized—that it was only fitting to give the poor, suffering PFC some time off to recover.

“Recover from what?” I asked the lieutenant.

“From the unfortunate death of PFC . . . damn it . . . O’Mally.”

“His name was Flanagan, sir.”

“Flanagan, right. But see? You’re taking this rather personally, and that’s why the battalion commander and I have decided that you need some quiet time. A timeout to, hmm, reflect.”

“Sir, if I needed quiet time, it would be because I nearly drowned.”

“Well, if that were the case, we’d all be due a round of basket leave.”

“But why only me and not the others?”

“Because the accident wasn’t their fault, Bordell.

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