months rent. And if I lost, I’d had one hell of a time doing it. The main difference between Bob the bookie and a Vegas pit boss was, Bob would let me lose more than I had, in Vegas when I was broke, I was broke. I might have to hock my watch for gas money, but that was the worst it could get.
Pushing the accelerator down an SUV full of college kids pulled over to let me fly by. One of the added benefits to driving an ex-cop car is when the other motorists see that familiar silhouette in their rear view, they get instant guilt and slow down to let you pass. Cruising along at a safe eighty miles an hour I had plenty of time to think. I had lived my life to this point without direction, letting the currents take me where they would. I was a ship without a rudder, and a questionable moral compass to guide me. My childhood was something I didn’t like to dwell on. A violent father who had skipped when I was six, and a mother who mixed equal parts gin and televangelism, she could quote all the parts in the Bible that made you feel shitty and small. Most afternoons she would fly into rages and tear the house up, by night she would pass out in front of the TV set while some preacher droned on about the cash he needed. My older brother Luke and I mostly raised ourselves. It wasn’t all bad, we had nothing to judge it against so it seemed like our lives, nothing more nothing less. We didn’t know that other kid’s moms tucked them in at night, or that their moms didn’t wake up every day with bloodshot eyes and sick headaches. We lived in a small two bedroom bungalow in a court of other paint chipped bungalows up on the sad side of Altadena. The court was populated by the retired, the recently rehabilitated and those like our mom, who lived on permanent disability. Luke and I were the only people under thirty so we kept to ourselves. In school we had a reputation as wild boys, probably well earned but it kept most of the parents from letting their progeny hang with us. That was fine by me, screw the squares if they don’t want to be with us. Luke and me were a tribe of two, or we were until he grew hair on his nut sack and discovered that being a bad boy got more girls to lift their skirts than driving a BMW or living in a mansion up on the hill. So he deserted me for gash and I waited alone for the mystery to take hold of me. At fourteen I lost my cherry to a thirty five year old pro who had gentlemen callers as she called them into her bungalow across the brown patch of grass from our front door. Right after I came I had two contradictory ideas, what was all the talk about? Getting laid wasn’t all that big a deal, in fact it was kinda nasty. At the same moment I heard a much deeper voice saying when do we get to do this again? I spent the whole summer doing odd jobs around her place, working on the barter system.
My brother left when I was sixteen. He just packed up his ’56 Ford and moved to Texas. He said it was where our roots were, our old man had been a Texan, and I guess that was all the excuse Luke needed to put three thousand miles between himself and our childhood. Whatever his reasons were, he left me alone with the care and feeding of the monster. I still haven’t forgiven him for that. She was getting crazier by the day, bouncing between DT’s and liver meltdown. Her skin had taken on a greenish yellow color and a dull shine like wax. Her hearing was shot so she always had the Bible Boosters on full blast overdrive.
I stood it for two long months, believing Luke would roll up with a beer in one hand and a Texas cheerleader in the other, and our life would go back to the dull crazy I had always known. But he didn’t, so I lifted his birth certificate and an old driver’s license and enlisted in the Marines.
Six weeks later, I graduated boot and was shipped out to Lebanon. President Ronny that actor fuck sent us a televised message. He was proud of us upholding the Marine tradition of protecting the innocent. Our mission as he outlined it was to show the world our support of the legit Lebanese government. How that translated into a battle plan was a bit sketchy. They posted some bullshit called the ROE, rules of engagement, we were never to carry a round chambered in our guns, we were only to fire if in direct and imminent danger. Under no circumstances were we to give chase or fire upon the enemy unless they were firing on us. It was pure political bullshit and we knew it.
WELCOME TO THE ROOT, was chalked in tall uneven letters on the landing strip where our transport chopper landed. The Root, Beirut, or what was left of it stretched out before us, the night sky lit up with green tracers and the city rocked from mortar fire.
Me and a twelve-man squad were assigned to checkpoint 79. It was down in an East Beirut ghetto we called Hooterville. The first time a sniper fired on us I about shit myself. Rounds burst open our sandbags and we dove for cover. Most of the time they were bad enough shots so that it became more of an irritant than any big danger.
I had only been in country about a week when the Shiite militia drove a truckload of explosive into the American embassy killing 17 Americans. The press blamed the marine guard, but what the hell were they supposed to have done? By the time they saw what was happening and chambered a round it was too late.
That’s when we decided to change the rules of engagement. The Gunny had us rake a 50 caliber machine- gun across an apartment building where ten or so snipers had been harassing us. The big bullets ripped glass, curtains, plaster, wall studs, whatever came into their line of fire. Me and two other sharpshooters lay on a rooftop across from the building. When the Muslim fighters came running out into the street, Gunny blew a whistle. We rose up and tore the surprised sons of bitches to shreds. Blood and bone chips and pieces of cloth flew in all directions. One of the militia spun trying to aim up at us, through my scope I could see the stupid shock on his face as my bullets ripped him apart.
There was movement at the front door, more were coming out, I sprayed them down before I noticed it was a young mother chasing her panicked child out of the building. Miraculously the child was not hit, but his mother hadn’t been so lucky. A line of my bullets had stitched across her chest. She fell face first down the stone steps, her arm outstretched, reaching for her son.
Afterwards the Gunny said it couldn’t have been helped, it was the cunt’s fault for running into a fire zone. That night I discovered peace in a glass. Six boilermakers and I couldn’t even remember what I was crying about.
Our misguided adventure in that red shit pile came to an end after a suicide bomber drove his truck into a barracks killing 270 sleeping marines. One flash of light followed by a pillar of fire and every friend I had in the corps was dead. 270 KIA in one day, the only thing even close was Iwo Jima. It was a few too many body bags for Prez Ronny and his cronies to stomach so we got our orders to ship home. It would be a lie to say we left that place any worse than we found it, but we sure didn’t do it any good.
Back stateside, my head was filled with the smell of burnt Marines and the face of a dead woman. My C.O. got word that my mother was in the hospital, he offered me hardship leave to go to her. I told him it must have been a mistake, I was an orphan.
I spent my off hours in the base club drowning my head in beer and whiskey. To their credit the officers understood that what we had been through over there had taken its toll, but even they had their limits. My almost constant drinking and general insanity led to a medical discharge. I didn’t fight it, I was sick and tired of their rules eating into my drinking time.
I was waiting for the paperwork to clear when I got word that my mother had died. I should have felt guilty for not going to her, but I didn’t. I only felt free.
The drive was giving me way too much time to think. Sometimes I wish I could contract Alzheimer’s so I could start every day with a fresh slate. Once, in the joint this lifer, who had discovered AA six dead bodies too late, had told me that my mind was a dangerous neighborhood and I shouldn’t go in alone. I could see the wisdom in that but the truth was if I invited anyone into my head they’d lock me down and toss away the key.
At Baker I pulled into Bun Boys for a burger and a cup of coffee served by a waitress named Dolly. I think she had the last beehive in captivity. Back on the road I headed for the Nevada State line. Out on an empty section of highway I decided to keep my mind occupied by seeing what the Crown Vic could do. Mashing down the gas pedal it leapt from eighty to one-twenty like a racehorse. Slamming on the brakes it skidded to a stop in a relatively straight line. It proved to be a good solid piece of Detroit iron. I knew that if they took this battle to the roads I could trust its moves.
About five feet across the state line Buffalo Bill’s casino stabbed up out of the tan dirt desert floor. In a nod to the family fun theme of it all, they have a roller coaster running five stories up above the place. Come on down and bring the kiddies, let them ride the whopper while mom and dad get hammered and spend the rent check. Oh yeah, that has family fun written all over it. I pulled in to fill the tank. Standing in line to pay, the ping and ching of slots clattering around me in the service station, I looked out the window to the welcoming face of the casino across the road. I had a roll of cash, hell a couple lucky hands and I would be square with Bob the bookie and maybe with just a little more luck I could put my ex-wife finally behind me. Just a few quick hands and then back on the road, no one would ever know I had stopped.
“That’s right where it happened.” I turned to see a greasy haired clerk watching me. “I saw you staring, we
