The Lot

The vacant parking lot welcomed her in the dark. The dead leave blew around her feet and sounded like anxiously chattering children. The lot lights blinked and buzzed randomly and the headlights of all the parked cars seemed to watch her like silent, hulking guardians.

She stopped, feeling the cold pavement through her thin slippers. Should she call out or would he just know she was waiting? It was funny, she didn’t feel frightened now, at least much less frightened then she’d been moments before in her bed. It had been hours and hours of ceaseless tossing and turning before she’d finally made her tormented decision and slipped softly out into the darkness. On her way down to the lot her head had cleared, her lungs had filled with the crisp air and she’d begun to feel instantly better. This was meant to be after all, wasn't it?

Her thoughts dropped off suddenly. She’d heard a noise coming toward her very fast from the right. Panic bolted her feet to the ground and terror cut off her breath and steeled her limbs. Two small deer crashed out from the brush in front of her and passed so closely by that she could feel their heat. They jumped, crashing into the woods on the other side of the lot. Her next breath came as a loud and painful wheeze.

The cold was beginning to seep through her nightclothes and the pale cotton was growing damp under her arms and between her thighs. She looked up at the sky. It was a resilient midnight blue. Was he also taking the time now to notice how lovely the sky was tonight? She sought familiar constellations, desperately trying to ward off the growing anxiety and nagging doubts tugging at her stomach.

There was another noise. This time not a deer but the certain sound of heavy soles on pavement, not rushing of course, but steadily coming closer. The anticipation had a remarkable effect on her, an almost sexual response. Her hardened nipples brushed up against cold cotton each time she moved and a deep trembling shake moved down inside her most intimate places.

He’d been watching her for over an hour and had finally come to the impossible conclusion that she was there for him. The absurdity of it nearly made him laugh out loud. He hadn’t even felt particularly hungry tonight but the longer he watched her, the more her silent vulnerability enticed and provoked him. He couldn’t tell from this distance if she was pretty but then it really didn’t matter, her sudden accessibility made her flawlessly beautiful. Standing there, so still in the soft glow of the lot lights, her little pink slippers looked like pearls. Her hair was tugged back in a messy ponytail that twitched as she shifted from foot to foot. As he watched her, the sweat ran down between his shoulder blades and the need drove him more urgently forward.

She felt him coming toward her now, faster. If she looked hard enough into the inky blackness she could almost certainly see him. She knew she didn’t want to look. She didn’t want to watch him advancing on her. She wasn’t so sure she wanted to be here anymore at all. If she thought she’d stand a chance, she would certainly bolt back to the safety of her dorm. She knew now, she would not make it. The fear finally solidified in her stomach.

He paused for a moment. What was this? He had picked up on a change. She was afraid. He sensed she wanted to run. He was disappointed. He had hoped this once would be different; after all she had come to him. She had seduced him.
Disheartened, he sank to his haunches and prepared to leap. Perhaps, at least, this little one would not be so loud…

Reflections on a Family Veteran

My grandfather fought in WWII. By the time I was a teenager, we had only ever heard one or two stories from his time in the service. He never spoke about those years even though we always suspected they featured predominately in the landscape of his life. He would have his old war buddies over or meet them at the local Mcdonalds. On those rare occasions when I would tag along or get roped into delivering a tray of ice tea to the picnic table in the back yard, the conversation always stalled in my presence. The animated banter simply dropped off until I'd retreated to a safer distance. I was in high school when an old boyfriend, a history buff and military collector, convinced my Grandfather to do a video-tapped interview on the war for a project. It was only then that my grandfather opened up about his years in the service and his feelings about a war that took such a devastating toll on his generation.

I remember now how he had looked uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed, sitting side by side with Roland, his best friend and fellow veteran. My boyfriend Alan had some scripted questions about specific events and dates but the most revealing answers came when the men were prompted to simply talk about their most memorable moments and feelings. My Grandfather spoke quietly, sometimes becoming emotional especially as he described being marched through a town where buildings and homes were on fire. A woman had run out into the street, her body engulfed in flames, and fallen practically at his feet. His eyes teared up as he described being ordered to "keep going, not to pay her any mind." My Grandfather seemed to stare a few moments into the space in front of him, swallowing and shaking his head slightly, lost in that memory.

The two men spent about an hour swapping stories that were representative of the best and worst of human nature. They spoke about camaraderie and of forging friendships and bonds that extended beyond the trenches, evidenced by the way they often finished each others thoughts or smiled fondly at memories of fellow soldiers and inside jokes. They spoke of the brutality of war, the corruption of their youth in battles fought on foreign soil for causes that at times, they had felt remarkable removed from. The most tragic revelation was realizing while the war had ended, it had left them and hundreds of thousands like them, forever marked and wounded in a way that would never heal. Suddenly my grandfather's midnight dreaming and ranting seemed to have a root cause. I discovered a new well of patience and understanding for a man that could so often be grumpy, aloof and very difficult. Only a few years later, my grandfather took his own life, with the very same weapon he had shouldered as a young infantry shoulder. The revealing and intimate portrait preserved on that videotape seemed to go at least part of the way toward explaining his tragic final action.

Memorial Day is a time to remember and to honor the sacrifices men and woman have made over and over again to protect our precious freedoms. I appreciate all our veterans but I have a special connection to those WWII veterans who are disappearing rapidly from our population. I see my grandfather in every aging veteran selling paper poppies outside the supermarket. I always stop. I make sure to thank them after they hand me my poppy flower. I note their shaking hands, their military dress hats and medals worn proudly despite the obvious age and wear. These were once the same young men who may have fought side by side with my grandfather. They may have had the same dreams. They may suffer the same kinds of nightmares. They certainly share the same pride and devotion to country and they deserve to be remembered, this day and all others.