Eileen Slovak

Chapter Five: A Tough Guy Named Kelly

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and locales are products of the author’s imagination. They are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is coincidental. Copyright © 2024 by Eileen Slovak.

Scott

The last time I was in Norfolk, a few months back, I donated all my old uniforms at the base thrift store. I also collected my DD214 for an honorable discharge from the Naval Station. It’s weird to be back here, not going to the base, but that’s not my life anymore. I drive on to Chic’s beach and turn onto Sandy Bay Drive. Then, I pull into the driveway of my best friend and former housemate, Master Chief, Kelly Finnerty.

      Kelly’s the smart one, the future planner, the investor. When he bought this place years ago it was falling down. As soon as he had it pulled together, he bought the house next door. That one’s strictly a rental. When he finishes out his last tour here, his retirement plan is set. Me? I’m like a feather in the wind, aimless. I’ve got no place to call home, no wife, no kids, no idea where I even care to land. From the looks of it, Kelly’s been outside touching up paint on the rental and clearing debris from the shrub beds. By March, he’ll have early vacation renters and golfers wanting to take advantage of the off-season rates.

      “What’s it like it to be free, man?” He asks, shaking my hand, pulling me into a friendly headlock. Our bond comes from a history of nearly having our asses shot off by the enemy. We’ve both attended too many funerals. Sometimes, we followed orders that netted favorable results. Occasionally they led to grisly outcomes. He’s the closest I have to a brother, and I’m grateful for his friendship.

      “Hey, brother. Freedom comes at a price, you know that.”

      “Come on,” he says, “I’ve got a case of Heineken I need your help with.”

      Kelly is well-liked and respected; he looks out for his men in both their personal and professional lives. Outside of work though, he’s rarely serious. As a boy growing up in the deep South with a name like Kelly, he says you either developed a great sense of humor or you learned how to fight. He did both.

      “Man. We had some damn good weekend bashes here, that’s for sure,” Kelly says taking a long pull of his beer. It’s a warm day for January. His olive green T-shirt is streaked with dirt, white paint, and sweat stains.

      “Yup, glory days,” I say, taking a drink. The ice-cold beer is exactly what I need right now. 

      “You know, in another three years you could have qualified for early retirement under TERA. With only twelve years in, all you get is a kick in the ass on your way out the door,” he says, swigging his beer. “You could always come back. Paperwork’s probably not even finalized.”

      I considered looking into TERA, the Temporary Early Retirement Authority, but there’s no guarantee. Twenty years is the standard number you need to serve in order to retire with pay plus benefits. 

      “I know. But you know why I left. I can’t do another eight.”

      “You probably qualify for medical.”

      I shake my head no, chugging my beer. We sit in silence on Kelly’s upper deck looking down on the beach. I ran there so many times, up before the sun. I miss the feel of the cool sand between my toes, the ripping sound it made when I sprinted barefoot. Running always clears my head at least for a little while. There are no runners out on the beach today, only a few dog walkers.

      “You’d make great money as a contractor, if you get tired of traveling around working for Ludwig,” Kelly says. 

      “Yeah, I’m about to see. Working cases in Florida was fun, except for spying on some dude’s cheating wife. No complaints about the weather. Jeff’s a good guy. It’s what I want for now, something totally different. I’m already working on another case, some guy who was in a car accident in Arkansas. Should be a quick one. His parents are the clients. They live in Rhode Island, so that’ll be my base for now. You ever been there?”

      “Nope. Too fricking cold. This is as far north as I’ll ever go. Thin blood.” Kelly finishes his beer. Opening two more, he hands one to me.

      I take a long drink. “The only problem is, every contractor I know ended up back in the sandbox. After the Afghanistan debacle, who knows where you’d end up.”

      “Yeah, I hear you. I never got the guys who kept wanting to go back. I did my tours. Had no interest in repeating. I mean, we needed those men there, but that sacrifice was brutal. Once you come home, it’s never the same. Sorry, preaching to the choir.”

      “Maybe that’s it. They went back because it was easier than trying to feel normal here.”

      “Fleet and Family services can’t handle the overload. And it’s not only the guys with PTSD. Some of the wives lose it too, can’t take it. You hear about Dillon’s wife?”

      “No, I’ve kind of been off the grid. What happened? Is she alright?”

      “Yeah, she’s fine, but he’s not so good. While he was in Syria, his wife had power of attorney. Kelly takes a large gulp of beer and continues, “She sold the house. She moved to Florida with the kids. He comes home and his whole life is gone. It’s not all made for TV homecomings. You know what I’m saying?”

      “Holy crap! What’s he gonna’ do now?”

      “Who the hell knows? I’m in no position to give him any advice. I already got two ex-wives myself, working on finding my third.” Kelly runs his hand through what’s left of his thinning hair. “I can’t imagine my mom ever doing that to my old man when he served. But it’s a different world today.”

      “Women!”

      “I know, right? Can’t get enough of ‘em, but sure as hell can’t afford to marry and divorce any more either.”

      “Amen to that!” I raise my bottle to Kelly’s. “To the last surviving bachelors!”

      “Slainte!”

      We spend the rest of the afternoon working our way through the beer. I’m thankful for the company. In the morning I’ll drive to Rhode Island with a hangover.